At the ring of the doorbell, the sound catches, hiccups -- the player heard it, can hear the doorbell over his own playing, and knows someone is there --
-- and then picks up again, as though nothing had interrupted: a musical no.
The notes, such as they are, say leave me alone, but there's a bizarre contradiction in it: the playing is an outlet for feelings he's not in the least inclined to discuss, and the violin-strings scream of anxiety, yes, but also loneliness. Nothing around him can be trusted to be real, and therefore, he does not know what to do with it. Has he been kidnapped to another plane, along with these strange others who claim to be of the future? Or is playing along a dangerous indulgence of his own madness? It's been days and his fever, if this is a fever, hasn't broken. He's still caught in the grip of this hallucination, and he's not sure which is worse: the prospect that he might not come back to himself, or the possibility that this is like the dark plains with their bursting stars and decayed planets, their icy plinths and stinking mounds of dead flesh, and that it is terribly, agonizingly real.
Big dramatics over here.
The door is locked, but Sherlock is playing in the living room, and the curtains are not completely drawn: if Teddy goes over to a window, it's possible to get a look at the musician, who is messy, unshaven, slumped on the couch in a bathrobe, and...
...and who has his chin on the wrong side of the instrument.
Either he's self taught to the exclusion of paying any attention to proper violin technique, or he's really distracted.
cw: unreality fears, allusions to gore, and me taking an ingame character model quirk too seriously
At the ring of the doorbell, the sound catches, hiccups -- the player heard it, can hear the doorbell over his own playing, and knows someone is there --
-- and then picks up again, as though nothing had interrupted: a musical no.
The notes, such as they are, say leave me alone, but there's a bizarre contradiction in it: the playing is an outlet for feelings he's not in the least inclined to discuss, and the violin-strings scream of anxiety, yes, but also loneliness. Nothing around him can be trusted to be real, and therefore, he does not know what to do with it. Has he been kidnapped to another plane, along with these strange others who claim to be of the future? Or is playing along a dangerous indulgence of his own madness? It's been days and his fever, if this is a fever, hasn't broken. He's still caught in the grip of this hallucination, and he's not sure which is worse: the prospect that he might not come back to himself, or the possibility that this is like the dark plains with their bursting stars and decayed planets, their icy plinths and stinking mounds of dead flesh, and that it is terribly, agonizingly real.
Big dramatics over here.
The door is locked, but Sherlock is playing in the living room, and the curtains are not completely drawn: if Teddy goes over to a window, it's possible to get a look at the musician, who is messy, unshaven, slumped on the couch in a bathrobe, and...
...and who has his chin on the wrong side of the instrument.
Either he's self taught to the exclusion of paying any attention to proper violin technique, or he's really distracted.