A week later and another case closed, Sherlock sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. His knees were drawn up slightly and his heavy drawing pad was lying against his thighs. He stared at the stark white paper as his mind raced through the details of the crime scene he had initially been called to.
He touched the tips of his fingers to the paper and drew them down its length. The texture was rough under his skin, but familiar and encouraging. Sherlock looked up and reached forward, his fingers ghosting over the assortment of charcoal, carbon, and graphite pencils on the coffee table before him. He plucked up the graphite pencil and began his preliminary sketch. Nothing too complicated, just lines of gesture and contour to set the scene down on paper before he began the task of detailing it in carbon and charcoal. The body was the focal point of the sketch of course, and he was there knelt next to it, examining the evidence.
Sherlock sat back to regard his sketch. A displeased frown tugged at the corners of his lips. This sketch felt just as incomplete as all of his sketches had been lately. Speaking from his recollection, there was nothing wrong with the scene. He had drawn it out just as he remembered it.
There was a bit of negative space on the left side of the page (to the right of the Sherlock in the picture). It made the composition feel unbalanced. Perhaps he ought to add something, but what? He did not add things as a general rule. He stuck to the true details as actually as he could recall them.
He tapped the butt of his pencil against the paper and sighed. This entire exercise was becoming tedious. He began doodling in the negative space, not really caring anymore about the picture. Maybe he would give up the whole ‘drawing to stave off boredom’ idea and return to more tried and true methods.
With a sigh he tossed the pencil onto the coffee table. It clattered against the charcoal pencils and rolled away to settle against his teacup with a clink. He took one last look down at his drawing before pushing himself up, but paused mid motion. He settled down again and tilted his head a bit to one side.
He had been doodling in Lestrade, just for the hell of it, but Lestrade wasn’t the person looking down at the body with his sketch drawing counterpart. The face was too round, and the proportions were all wrong. Sherlock settled back down and grabbed a carbon pencil from the table to begin detailing the picture.
Some time later the picture was finished and Sherlock was smiling. It was rare that he added anyone else to his pictures. Sometimes he would add Lestrade, but never any of the other members of the New Scotland Yard. They were all hostile toward him and weren’t worth the effort. Even Lestrade was generally reluctant and only accepted Sherlock’s aid, and by proxy Sherlock himself, as a final alternative. It was nice then, the idea that this picture now presented him with, of having a colleague at a crime scene instead bunch of resentful, ignorant, halfwits.
He signed his name at the bottom of the image and stood up. One long arm reached out and snatched up the can of fixative from the far edge of the coffee table. He uncapped the can and propped the pad up against the sofa before beginning to spray. This was a drawing he was definitely keeping.
Chiarascuro - 1b/1
A week later and another case closed, Sherlock sat on the floor with his back against the sofa. His knees were drawn up slightly and his heavy drawing pad was lying against his thighs. He stared at the stark white paper as his mind raced through the details of the crime scene he had initially been called to.
He touched the tips of his fingers to the paper and drew them down its length. The texture was rough under his skin, but familiar and encouraging. Sherlock looked up and reached forward, his fingers ghosting over the assortment of charcoal, carbon, and graphite pencils on the coffee table before him. He plucked up the graphite pencil and began his preliminary sketch. Nothing too complicated, just lines of gesture and contour to set the scene down on paper before he began the task of detailing it in carbon and charcoal. The body was the focal point of the sketch of course, and he was there knelt next to it, examining the evidence.
Sherlock sat back to regard his sketch. A displeased frown tugged at the corners of his lips. This sketch felt just as incomplete as all of his sketches had been lately. Speaking from his recollection, there was nothing wrong with the scene. He had drawn it out just as he remembered it.
There was a bit of negative space on the left side of the page (to the right of the Sherlock in the picture). It made the composition feel unbalanced. Perhaps he ought to add something, but what? He did not add things as a general rule. He stuck to the true details as actually as he could recall them.
He tapped the butt of his pencil against the paper and sighed. This entire exercise was becoming tedious. He began doodling in the negative space, not really caring anymore about the picture. Maybe he would give up the whole ‘drawing to stave off boredom’ idea and return to more tried and true methods.
With a sigh he tossed the pencil onto the coffee table. It clattered against the charcoal pencils and rolled away to settle against his teacup with a clink. He took one last look down at his drawing before pushing himself up, but paused mid motion. He settled down again and tilted his head a bit to one side.
He had been doodling in Lestrade, just for the hell of it, but Lestrade wasn’t the person looking down at the body with his sketch drawing counterpart. The face was too round, and the proportions were all wrong. Sherlock settled back down and grabbed a carbon pencil from the table to begin detailing the picture.
Some time later the picture was finished and Sherlock was smiling. It was rare that he added anyone else to his pictures. Sometimes he would add Lestrade, but never any of the other members of the New Scotland Yard. They were all hostile toward him and weren’t worth the effort. Even Lestrade was generally reluctant and only accepted Sherlock’s aid, and by proxy Sherlock himself, as a final alternative. It was nice then, the idea that this picture now presented him with, of having a colleague at a crime scene instead bunch of resentful, ignorant, halfwits.
He signed his name at the bottom of the image and stood up. One long arm reached out and snatched up the can of fixative from the far edge of the coffee table. He uncapped the can and propped the pad up against the sofa before beginning to spray. This was a drawing he was definitely keeping.
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