Singleness gives us light.
At immeasurable distance stands one single star at the zenith.
This star is the God and goal of humanity.
In this world one is Abraxas,
creater and destroyer of one's world.
If you love the Granada series starring Jeremy Brett, David Burke, and Edward Hardwicke as Conan Doyle’s consulting detective and faithful doctor, or if you’re new to the Granada ‘verse, reblog (or like) this post, and start checking out some of your fellow Granada Holmesians. Introduce yourselves, converse, flail, and bask in the Granada love. :)
Note: I wrote a Sherlock fic. I wanted a ship. The ship is called Major Hope. I apologise for the lack of proof-reading.
It was after the final court appearance and James stood on the steps, his face a-symmetrically taut and immobile in the sunshine; his arm was more immobile still. He was in a soft dark suit that felt at once both disrespectfully casual and prohibitively formal. The car waited, and the quiet solicitous driver stood at almost-but-not-quite attention, looking as if he were not sure whether he should feel guilty for failing to provide a parasol against the sun. The steps descended from where James stood in a straight line to the car with its open door.
Stand here. Walk here. Speak. Be silent. Nod. Shake hands. Step forward. Step back. Here is a car. He had been given assistance even with his tie. Everything was done correctly. Everything was in order. Their deference was palpable. He could read the nervousness in their eyes lest some mote or speck or ephemera of protocol had been forgotten, had escaped their relentless <i>organisation</i> of his day.
And he acquiesced. He acquiesced to everything.
It was not the same as it had been in Afghanistan. There was no actual imperative, just a traditional one. There were no actual lives to be saved, except his own, if the response to the media were any guide. (And what was his life now?) He did not consider, did not decide, did not lead. He was not responsible for others lives. He was barely responsible for his own. Responsible. He made the correct responses. He acquiesced.
He looked down the stairs and the open door seemed to lead to Hell - a Hell of silence and his home and servants and a complete absence of volition or reason for volition.
He walked down the stairs. “I’ll be along later.”
"But, my orders. But, my superiors. …Sir." The boy looked almost stricken with dread at this sudden dilemma.
James looked at him.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Now it was definitely attention, and a salute, warranted or not. It was not James’ to give orders now. James. No one called him ‘James’ any more.
"I’ll be along later."
"Yes, sir." The fear did not leave the young man’s eyes.