Walking Encyclopedia of Weirdness

pineappledean:

Changing Channels intro

#TOWN TO TOWN #TWO LANE ROADS #FAMILY BIZ #TWO HUNTING BROS #LIVING A LIE #JUST TO GET BYYYYY #AS LONG AS WE’RE MOVING FOOOORWARD #THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN’T DOOOOOO#TOGETHER WE’LL FACE THE DAY #YOU AND I WON’T RUN AWAYYYYYYY #WHEN THE DEMONS COME OUT TO PLAAAAYYYY #TOGETHER WE’LL FACE THE DAYYYYYY!!!!

(Source: luciferrisingg)

xizbeth:

It was raining.

It was raining hard and heavy, fat drops coming down like oil drips from clouds that seemed too leaden to stay afloat. The sky it seemed was falling, settling onto the grey roof tops of London’s crowded buildings set upon one another like crowding teeth. The rain bounced up from the street, drops turning into fractal images of themselves, leaping hungrily and caustically at the unsuspecting calves of passersby.

And oh how John hated the rain.

It never bothered him before. Rain was simple, it was natural. It came and it went and at times it overstayed its welcome, like a grade school friend or a distant relative come upon financial troubles. It was gloomy, but oddly comforting; it was neutral. And just as well it gave rise to no bad blood since it rained so often in London. How would a man bear the resurgence of pain and misery each time the ground was damp?

Not well.

One could argue that a man couldn’t bear the feeling at all. One could argue that the almost constant pain would drive him mad. One could argue that one could hardly blame him.

And it was maddening.

The sound of it became the drumming of long slim fingers, arachnids not hands, dancing along surfaces, along cloth and skin and mantels and lab tables. It became the batting of short dark lashes, the flicker of blue green eyes as if through the slits of a zoetrope they danced, wandering through palatial halls. It became an erratic heartbeat caused by coursing adrenaline and lengths of almost religious fasting made to bring about genius and delirium. The rain carried with it the smell of his curls in an impossible role reversal. It pooled as once his lifeblood had, and beat into a mind unwilling his visage, his actions, his scurrying and worrying, his fiddling and twitching and lunatic bitching. It created a semblance of a man that clung to the raw and tender flesh of John’s heart.

It hurt.

And pain leads to madness. Leads to madness within its subject and leads its subject into madness.

It had been three months since that cloudy almost rainy day when the man brought back by the rain had been pronounced dead. And though the temptation had been to atrophy, to sit and to stare and to weep and claw at his chest until his heart could be exposed and disposed of, John Watson was not the kind to stay idle.

So he had found her.

Lisbeth Salander, the Sherlock Holmes of the digital underground.

She had not appreciated being found, and had wriggled away from him the many times he’d tracked her down in the depths of a half-dead never-updated forum at two in the morning.

And then came an email that explained curtly and informally her sudden change of heart.

if you still want to find your boyfriend i’ll be in london next month. find me if you can.

He had, with some difficulty. The search led him to a large, plain building with every window stuck shut and every curtain drawn tightly closed. He had been given no clue as to her flat number, and so had painfully dragged himself along the length and breadth of three floors, hindered by his painfully twinging leg. Leaning against the railing just below the fourth, he breathed deeply and wiped at the sweat on the back of his neck. He ran a hand along his aching leg, trying once again to simply turn off the pain.

‘Stop that,’ his internal voice said sternly, ‘there’s nothing wrong with my leg. It’s psychosomatic, it’s imaginary. Stop!’

He tapped the bottom of his cane on the step, the fraying rubber bouncing off of it with an eerie sound, like finger striking palm, a teasing golf clap. Psychosomatic, psychosomatic - it’s semantics because it hurts all the same.

Once on the fourth floor John could hear music playing, baseline oddly out of sync with the beating of the rain. It echoed slightly, making him hesitate; he edged left then right before deciding that his initial direction was correct. He reached the very end of the hall and stood in front of a door whose wood had splintered, whose handle had been recently replaced, whose number had been chipped off rather viciously with an object too blunt to do the trick. John lifted his cane, worrying a thumb over its handle before tossing it up gently, catching it toward the middle and raping thrice on a door as worse for wear as he was.

From within there came a scuffling, objects knocked over in the scuttle to turn the music off, light footsteps and the sound of palms hitting the doorway, supporting a lithe frame. John looked intently at the peep hole, hoping to make eye contact with the woman looking through the other side. He heard a soft scrape, as if she was drawing herself away from the door, perhaps towards an open window, into a back alley, out of his reach.

“Lisbeth?” he called, gripping his cane, shifting his weight. He dug past his nerves to find the assertiveness his time in the military had bred in him, “Lisbeth Salander? Doctor John Watson, you said you’d meet me.”

The palms returned with a more deliberate smack, to alert of her presence more than support her weight. The door knob half turned, slowly, as if it were simultaneously being pulled shut.

There was a moment of silence between the two parties, their separation so curiously like confession. “I need your help,” John said, his voice catching slightly, his guard lowering, “please. Please, I - I need your help”

The door opened at his plea, creaking as it swung in its arch. Lisbeth clung to the edge, pressing herself to the wood to let John walk past, her eyes lingering on his cane, on how it pressed into his palm and into her floor. She shut the door and pressed herself against it, folding her arms defensively, protecting her chest, biting her lip, taking note of possible exits. She was uncomfortable with human contact, and this one wouldn’t stop staring at her.

John stood facing the girl, trying to compare her to what he’d pictured her to be. Her eyes were uncannily familiar. Light, blue-green, shifting, examining, lightly taping everything they skirted over as if to account for it, forever a trail of numbers and tick marks.

“What?” she said, pressing herself harder into the door, “What’re you looking at?”

She spat her words defensively, but crumpled them together as if she was too timid to be properly heard. Her eyes, echoes of another set, settled on John’s cane as if she wanted to ask about it, “What do you want?”

John swallowed, “I need your help finding someone.”

She choked out a short laugh, putting her head down to let her hair fall into her face. Her arms uncoiled and her spine curved, defenses dropped. She opened the door roughly and cocked her head out towards the hall. A voice echoed in John’s head at the sight,

Boring

He shifted his weight, “He was captured by Moriarty.”

Lisbeth stiffened at the name, looking back at her petitioner. Her fingers drummed on the door knob, counting off the thoughts that raced through her head, “Why should I help you?”

“Because he was my friend.”

(Source: freemanist)

(Source: ninadobrevs)