After a heartbeat or two Sherlock rolls onto his back--and for the first time in a long time, none of the tiny signs of vulnerability in his expression and body language are feigned. For the first time in entirely too long he trusts his brother, albeit reluctantly, with his own confusion. Because nobody, nobody else understands what it's like in his head, how all the information flows together and sorts itself and gets tangled up at the wrong moments.
"You know, most of the time it's perfectly fine," he says. "It's just there: okay, another established fact, I can move on to something else. But then--sometimes, for no reason at all, it just..."
He looks very much as if he wants a cigarette. Or a stiff drink.
"It expands. I don't have the vocabulary for it. It's--it's like Rimsky-Korsakov, or Hawking, or... god, I don't know. It pushes everything else out. I can't think."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-06-10 11:55 pm (UTC)"You know, most of the time it's perfectly fine," he says. "It's just there: okay, another established fact, I can move on to something else. But then--sometimes, for no reason at all, it just..."
He looks very much as if he wants a cigarette. Or a stiff drink.
"It expands. I don't have the vocabulary for it. It's--it's like Rimsky-Korsakov, or Hawking, or... god, I don't know. It pushes everything else out. I can't think."