mustbethetruth | Behold I dream a dream of good

Entry tags:

Behold I dream a dream of good

Holmes is not dead, but that seems a mere technicality. It’s only because the world thinks he’s dead now—that Moran thinks he’s dead—that he can even begin to consider himself alive. Even still, even with the tentative new grasp on himself, even with the aftershocks of having been so close, so very close to tipping over into actual oblivion, he doesn’t feel alive. His heart beats, and his lungs expand and contract, and he moves from Tibet to France to London, but it’s all just movement, just technicalities that propel a man who is but a technicality himself.

Holmes does not feel alive until he’s dressed as an ancient bookseller, and he has a pain in his back and his neck from stooping, and he smells of spirit gum and makeup, and he sees his soul from across the street.

He could hardly be blamed for nearly forgetting himself, forgetting all of this, and crying out to Watson. What else would a body do, when it sees its soul, ripped from him for far too long?

Maybe that’s overly sentimental, but he’s nearly faded away to his own death in an opium den, and spent the next several months under the careful care of monks, themselves prone to sentimentality and metaphor. He’s allowed.

And besides, it’s true.

The purpose of his mission is to guarantee that Watson is not being tailed, that Moran has not noticed Holmes’s technical state of being, that Moran has not decided to give in and kill where his loyalty has so far stayed his hand. Very shortly, nothing seems more important than cataloging everything about Watson; what weight he’s gained or lost, what new items of clothing he’s bought, what needs to be replaced, where he’s been walking, how much sleep he’s been getting, the emotions that flicker over his face (annoyance at the man who walks far too slowly in front of him, fondness for a boy who might’ve been an Irregular).

He only barely remembers that he has more to do today than drink in Watson’s presence, but suddenly the prospect of reuniting with Watson seems far too real, far too frightening. He’s been dead for so long, to himself as much as anyone, and coming back to life is daunting, like emerging from a cave and finding himself entirely unaccustomed to the light of day.

He allows himself this: he crosses their paths, he bumps into him on the sidewalk, he spills his armful of books, and he flees before they sew themselves together again, as they must inevitably do.

~

Mrs. Hudson faints when a bookseller transforms into the specter of Sherlock Holmes in her entryway.

Holmes revives her in her kitchen, and she cries in little bursts, and she clings to Holmes’s neck, and Holmes hugs her back because she doesn’t smell any different, not in the least, and her hair’s the same, but her apron is new. A present from Watson. When she confirms the deduction, Holmes has to stop himself from fingering it, from imagining Watson lingering in a shop and choosing this for her for her birthday.

Everything is arranged, she says; Mycroft’s package is here, and she hasn’t touched it, like he asked. She fixes her hair and blots her face and hugs Holmes again, arms tight around his back, before she pushes him upstairs. She promises tea, promises composure, and disappears into the kitchen.

There is danger. There will come a time when Moran must know, when Moran will step back into the hunt, and his target will be very different. His target will be far more precious. If Holmes slips, if he fails, the story of Sherlock Holmes will be over; his body, the corpse that still breathes, will complete its decomposition, and maybe the darkness will take him.

But he won’t fail. Before he was but a ghost; soon he will be resurrected.

In their sitting room, he is the bookseller. Sherlock Holmes is not alive still; he is not yet complete, but he will be soon. He sips his tea, and he waits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Holmes gives him a challenging smile back, though he probably wouldn't have, had he not been in disguise, had he not been acting. He does indeed lead the way, and he takes them on a twisting journey through London backstreets and side alleys. It's hardly the lush tour that his last journey with Watson had been; instead of wide expanses of scenery, now there are grimy walls and trash littering the path, and unpleasant smells. It's London, at its rotting core, and it's not romantic in the least.

Holmes is, nonetheless, invigorated. It isn't just the running that sets his blood rushing, his heart pumping; it's having Watson at his side and adventure in the space between them. He'd take Watson's hand if there weren't other people to see, and he wouldn't even think about whether or not Watson would protest.

Once they get to that empty house, once they get inside, he decides to hell with it; there's no one to see in here, and it's dark, besides. He takes Watson's hand and leads him through the house, half feeling his way and half letting his adrenaline lead him.

They get to the necessary room, and Holmes draws Watson in close, sets his lips to his ear. Several things dart through his mind -- Watson's smell, the interference of the makeup and the beer notwithstanding; the fact that if Watson turned his head, they could kiss -- but he ignores them all for the moment, focusing solely on the game.

"Do you know where we are?" he asks, still breathless.

"Surely that's Baker Street," Watson breathed. Part of him wanted to wrench his hand away Holmes, but at the same time... the urge was not strong. This entire evening had been peculiar, full of too-strong emotions and unclear motivations, but all that faded into the background when compared to this situation. It was dark, dangerous, and possibly the most fun Watson had had in years.

And it certainly was Baker street. He couldn't have named the maze of streets they had taken to get here, but he knew that view. That view was home. "You mentioned laying a trap." He was very still, listening intently to any sound other than themselves.

"And it has been set." He relinquishes his hold on Watson's hand only to instead set his arm against his back, and he draws him closer -- but not too close -- to the window. "Look in the window to our sitting room, and tell me what you see."

He doesn't even entirely notice that he's called it that aloud, and maybe it isn't really a big deal. It's habit; it just slips out to call the sitting room theirs because it never stopped being theirs to him, not for a single day in these three years, but he'd neglected to consider that for Watson... It's ceased to be theirs. For Holmes, his life with Watson has been frozen in time, suspended, and he realizes now that he'd been thinking about this all the wrong way. Things cannot simply jump into motion now that he's come back.

Theirs. It was better not to dwell on that, to think too hard about what was and was not shared between them any longer. He let that pass, if only for the reason that there were more important things to deal with -- more important, even, than the fact that Holmes's hand on his back was far more intimate than their hands clasped together.

It was an effort not to lean into that touch, familiar and missed and precious.

"It's... it's me." Watson was astonished, and he glanced at Holmes, then back to the window. "How did you manage that?"

"By hiring someone skilled in the production of wax models," he says, a teasing glint in his eye. The thrill of all this -- and the dark of the room, which obscures Watson's face -- is doing much for his nerves; he can almost pretend there's nothing wrong here, can almost pretend that they are as they were. Watson's astonishment is a welcome sound, and he revels in it.

"Convincing, isn't it? I confess it was a bit complicated, considering we couldn't get an exact mold of you without alerting you to something strange. My brother is a odd man, but if he'd come asking to have a bust made of you, I imagine you would be a little curious as to why."

He turns back to Watson and realizes he's still touching his back. He can't regret it; in this moment, he can't regret anything so wonderful as touching Watson's back again. He even presses his palm flatter against him before he draws it away.

"Would you like to be rid of that makeup now?" he asks, voice more gentle than it had been, without the edge of his excitement.

It was strangely difficult to tear his gaze away from his double in the window, nor to dwell too much upon the now-absent touch at his back. He had the strong feeling by this point that to welcome Holmes back into his life, back into his old role, would be to abandon any pretence at self-respect he had ever had. What would it say about him if he was so easily coerced into returning to the way things were, after everything that had happened? At the same time, the urge to kiss him now, for the first time in what felt a lifetime, was very strong.

He wondered if he ought to suspect Holmes of trying to seduce him, and wondered if that was, in fact, redundant.

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, though he felt vulnerable at the very idea. "I have to say, though, the way I look now doesn't speak very highly for your sailor's taste in men."

He stops on his way to the water he'd placed there earlier -- who knows how long they will be here, after all -- and he laughs, startled by the statement, on edge from his adrenaline and proximity to Watson. He isn't sure where to cast his thoughts; to think about Moran is to feel ready to be sick, to worry that his plan will fail, to consider that Watson might die. To think about Watson is to feel dizzy with the desire to gather him up in his arms, to touch him or kiss him or breathe in his smell.

"That's the thing about sailors. They aren't commonly very picky."

He wets a cloth and passes it to Watson before wetting one for himself.

"I apologize we can't use proper remover, but the smell would linger. This ought to do well enough for now."

He scrubs his face, grateful for the opportunity to hide his eyes; he tries to turn the act into something symbolic, scrubbing himself clean of his confusing array of emotions, but he isn't sure that he's very successful.

"Now, Watson, we wait." He glances out the window to spot the officers Lestrade sent; his surprise at recognizing them is a bit overshadowed by his consciousness of Watson being near. He doesn't see Lestrade, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it?

It was good to be able to scrub the makeup off his face; Watson wasn't used to wearing makeup, and he wasn't fond of the way it felt -- never mind the self-consciousness that came of not being able to touch his face for fear of smearing it. He scrubbed, but without a mirror, or light, and with nothing more than water, he had to suspect it was an uneven cleaning job. It would do.

"We wait," Watson repeated. He glanced out the window again, at his doppleganger. He hadn't expected anything else, but it was still a little discouraging to hear. Having to wait for the climactic conclusion after an evening that was already eventful and overwhelming was a little frustrating.

There was some furniture, abandoned and under sheets to protect it from dust; rather gingerly, he sat down, his eyes on Holmes.

Holmes takes the opportunity to let his concerns for the case take over, rather than continue on a conversation with Watson that would no doubt be distracting and possibly a little heartbreaking. He focuses intently on the street instead, looking out the window and watching impatiently for Moran to reveal himself. He still isn't exactly sure how he'll react upon seeing Moran. Logic dictates that he ought to be enraged, or that he ought to at least be able to keep a level head, but after weeks, months of not quite being killed, of seeing his face suddenly when Holmes had had no idea he'd been followed... Moran rattles him.

He hopes Watson's presence will bolster him, and he's very grateful Moran is not as observant as Mycroft, or Moriarty, even. He doesn't want it to be read that he and Watson aren't exactly getting along swimmingly.

His fingers stop their impatient tapping on the windowsill when he sees him. There was never any chance that Holmes wouldn't see him immediately when Moran walked into his line of sight. His blood runs cold, but he keeps a grip on himself, and he backs away from the window. Reaching out, he snatches Watson's wrist and pulls him swiftly into the darkest corner. With his free hand, he presses his finger to Watson's lips to indicate the need for silence.

His other hand doesn't release Watson's wrist. Maybe he and Watson aren't quite able to go back to their romantic relationship, but he thinks Watson, even now, wouldn't begrudge Holmes the comfort that this tight grip is obviously seeking.

Watson followed, far too used to these sorts of situations, even after a span of three years. There was a difference, though, one that felt incredibly awkward and wrong to him. He shifted his hand slightly, enough to entwine his fingers with Holmes's properly. To do otherwise was unthinkable; it was necessary to communicate reassurance, comfort, and safety far more clearly than Holmes's fingertips along were able to.

He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.

He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.

When he'd been alerted to Holmes's return to London, he knows he should have been frustrated. He should have been irritated, angered that he'd been tricked, that Holmes had wriggled away from him and managed to arrange this comeback. He isn't frustrated, though; he isn't frustrated at all because how boring would it have been for Holmes to fade away in an opium den? How unsatisfying?

This is far better. This is thrilling.

Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.

He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy him.

It will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that.

His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)

Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.

He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.

If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)

He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.

Holmes counts his heartbeats too as he waits for Moran to pull the trigger. Seeing him here in person, in all his fierce excitement, in all his vigor and delight in killing Watson, chills Holmes. He'd been quivering in nervous anticipation, but the shudder that comes when Moran steps into the room is from something entirely different. He's grateful that Watson holds his hand like this, comforts Holmes back, for he could really use the reminder that he isn't alone just now.

When he hears the tinkle of glass across the street is when he makes his move.

Fighting is nothing new to Holmes, but it's nothing new to Moran either. Though he prefers long-range combat, he's definitely a skilled fighter, and he's fueled by rage and the leftover adrenaline from having (he thinks) just shot Watson. And Holmes... Holmes looks into Moran's fierce eyes and remembers the Falls, remembers dodging Moran's bullets, and his focus isn't as steady as it should be.

Moran overpowers him, knocks him to the ground, closes his hands around Holmes's throat and leans in close to hiss in his face.

"Today's the day, Mr. Holmes. So glad you didn't die in that den; this is far more satisfying."

His breath stinks, and Holmes claws at his hands, attempting to fight him off, and attempting desperately not to look beyond Moran to Watson.

Watson acted quickly; he was a man made for action, after all. When Holmes was in peril, too, he didn't have to think. There was only one thing he could possibly have done, after all.

His hand was already on his revolver, and in a heartbeat he had rushed out with it at the read. Even in the heat of the moment, even after witnessing the man assassinate his double across the road, he couldn't quite bring himself to shoot the man in cold blood. There was no way to do such a thing safely, either, not with him struggling with Holmes. He would sooner cut off his own hand than risk injuring Holmes.

So, before he could have consciously thought any of this, Watson rushed up behind Holmes and Moran, struggling on the ground, and brought the butt of his revolver down upon Moran's head, hard.

Holmes coughs when Moran's weight falls on him; the man went from crushing his throat to crushing his chest, but at least the latter is far less dangerous, and Holmes pushes him aside. He gets to his feet quickly, unwilling to be such an easy target on the floor for much longer, should Moran come to too soon. He's still coughing when straightens, and he rubs absently at his throat, watching Moran, but it seems he's out cold.

He looks to Watson then because it's safe, because he wants to, because he may have just saved Holmes's life and Holmes is breathless (not just from nearly being choked) and his body is thrumming with victory and excitement. And Watson is right there, Watson saved him. There aren't even any bitter or confused feelings in this. He's exhilarated , and he loves Watson, and he wants, instinctually, desperately, to kiss him.

This is victory. This is the three worst years of Holmes's life over.

There is no thought in Holmes's mind, no doubt, as he strides across the short distance between himself and Watson. He lays one hand on his waist and the other against his shoulder, hand fisting in the material, and he pulls Watson against him. He kisses Watson with all the enthusiasm of a man who's just been handed his life back to him -- because that's what just happened, and really, Watson is the life that's been ripped away from him.

Maybe Watson doesn't agree, but there's no room for that in Holmes's mind right now.

It was an icy sort of shock; Watson's mind was still full of anger, vengeance, the thrill of battle. How dare this man stand between he and Holmes, how dare he come in here now, with his airgun, and attempt to make the separation more permanent.

He raised his hand with the intention of pushing Holmes away, of warding him off (with force, if necessary), but after so long without being kissed his resolve failed him. He would have even if it hadn't been such a desperate, longing, hungry sort of kiss. Watson melted into it, his fingers clenching into Holmes's hair, for the moment forgetting all thought of how angry he was with Holmes, how hurt. There was just the two of them, finally joined after so very long.

And then Moran gave a sort of moan, beneath them, and Watson pulled back in alarm, startled out of his mindless joy. There was still a very dangerous man on the ground with them, and he was still not sure how angry he was with Holmes.

Holmes starts and looks down at Moran, but it doesn't seem likely that he'll do much more than moan just now. Still, they need to hurry, and maybe it's good that they can't talk about what just happened. Holmes tries to read Watson's reaction as he (a little uncertainly) takes his hands off Watson's body and steps away from him completely.

It's an effort -- even through the situation's urgency -- to draw away from Watson and blow on the police whistle. The men Lestrade sent (and Lestrade?) will be here shortly, and as much as he'd like to be alone with Watson, maybe the forced aversion of what just happened would be good for them.

Watson had kissed back. He should be deliriously happy about that, but it had been an adrenaline-rich moment; Watson might regret it later.

He's glad to hear the officers stomping noisily up the steps, so he doesn't have time to say anything to Watson.

At the signal, Lestrade brings his boys into the house. The shot had worried him, but then they'd all known that was going to happen. Not that Holmes had told him, but the irritating man had probably known he'd stop by to talk to Mrs. Hudson and find out that way. He's glad to hear the whistle, though, to rush in now, as much to put in darbies the man that would try to kill Watson as to see...

Sherlock Holmes. Alive.

Lestrade has the good grace to come in the room and step to the side as his boys rush around the man on the floor and start restraining him. They're twisting around to stare too, though, because this is Sherlock Holmes. It's hard to see in the poor light that comes in from the window, but it's definitely him.

Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek so as to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing onto him, just to make sure he's real.

"That you, Lestrade?" Holmes asks, and Lestrade almost smirks to himself that he isn't the only one who needs a little verification here.

"It's me alright, Holmes. You think I'd send anyone else?"

Though Holmes being back is something to be marveled at, Lestrade has his head about him. He turns his focus on Watson, wonders how he's handling this, and when he asks, "You alright?" it's as much about the man on the floor as it is about everything else.

He wasn't sure if he was all right or not, to be perfectly honest. He couldn't have really answered that question, and he was still feeling more than a little jumbled.

"Oh, I'm fine." Watson looked rather curiously at the revolver in his hand, as though seeing it for the first time. He was certainly thankful he'd brought it, even if he'd used it for a rather more non-lethal use. He still felt strange about it, and had to wonder why he didn't feel more of an urge to kill the man than he did. Some sort of sympathy, perhaps, for having one's lover forcibly removed from one's life. "I'm not entirely sure he realised I was here, to be quite honest. He was rather intent on Holmes."

He had to force himself to look at Holmes, was hoping his blush was invisible in the dim room. He almost wished Holmes hadn't kissed him. It would have made things so much more simple.

Perhaps the kiss had simplified things in its own way, to be honest, but he wasn't sure he wanted that simplicity, not yet.

"You're all right, aren't you? He didn't hurt you?"

"He'll have left his mark in the form of a few bruises," he says, forcing an airy tone to his voice; he waves his hand dismissively, which helps him feel a little more put-together. "No permanent damage, otherwise." Well, none inflicted today.

He turns his attention to Lestrade, still wary of his friend, still uncertain whether or not he should be expecting a punch to the other side of his face.

"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual -- that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

So, this is a weird scene all around, and he couldn't begin to guess what's going on between Holmes and Watson. He'll have to come by soon, maybe catch Watson alone and have a chat. For now, though, he can't do anything except deal with Holmes and all his hesitant greeting; even his insult lacks its usual punch, and he sounds so... so nervous.

He's had a lot of time to think about this after he left Mrs. Hudson, after he had a talk with Mary and loitered around on Baker street for the past few hours. It's the wax figure of Watson that seems to settle it for him; this all has something to do with Watson's safety, he's sure of it. That's not to say Holmes maybe was an enormous prat about it all, but still.

"That's sweet, Holmes," he says wryly, but then his smile turns more serious. "It's good to have you back in London. And I'm not talking about my arrest record, before you try that."

Moran fights through the cloud in his mind, and he comes up fighting too, pulling against the arms that restrain him. His hands are in cuffs too, and he pulls against them, not caring overmuch about the metal that digs into his skin. His vision's already adjusted to the dark, but the coppers that hold him uncover their lanterns and bathe the room in light. He sees them there -- not just Holmes, but Watson too, the man he just shot, and with a cry of rage he pulls at the men that hold him again.

"You -- !"

It clicks, what Holmes must've done, and he glares at him.

"You fiend. You clever, clever fiend."

This entire situation was strange, beyond strange. There was much that Lestrade would want to know, Watson had to assume, but no privacy or time to say it, even if Watson had no notion of what to say about any of what was going on. Now that the rush and adrenaline were over, what was he to do with Holmes now?

At the sound of a new voice, Watson tensed, and the glare he turned on Moran was close to murderous, defensive and angry. He had no urge to kill this man, but he was certainly angry, whatever else he might be. He had never killed in anger, though he had certainly killed for survival.

"You'd best keep him away from me, Inspector," Watson said, not taking his eyes off Moran. "The Colonel might find that I can be just as dangerous as he can be."

The thought of Moran setting himself up on Watson terrifies Holmes more than the thought of taking on Moran himself. It isn't that he doubts Watson's abilities; it's that Moran has snaked his way into Holmes's psyche to the point where he can't quite believe that he managed to capture the Colonel after all.

He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.

That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.

"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."

Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."

He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"

Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.

"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."

It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.

Edited 2012-01-30 02:44 (UTC)

Oh, the bastard. He thinks he's so clever, throwing Moran's habits in his face, and the thing is, he is clever. The thing that makes this terrible, unbearable, enough to make him spit nails is that Moriarty would have chastised him for getting caught in this way. So obvious. So expected.

He stops struggling, though his face is no less fierce, no less full of rage and murderous intent. He takes his eyes off Holmes only long enough to stare down this Lestrade. Maybe he should have gone after him, first. Shaken Holmes's defenses. Moriarty would have approved of that.

"Do I have to listen to this? If I am to be arrested, can we not get on with it? So far as I understand it, the law doesn't require me to put up with the infuriating ramblings of this man. But then, you are the experts."

"Right then," Lestrade says, glaring hard at Moran. "Right... No, we can move this arrest along, but just so you know, Colonel." Lestrade takes a step closer, trusting that his men have this man under control. Lestrade is much shorter than Moran, and he looks up at him, and Moran is fierce, oh yes; he looks like a hunter, or whatever he is according to Holmes, but Lestrade's used to staring down such men.

"The only thing keeping me from attempting to strangle you, sir, is my uniform, and some days that barrier feels thinner than others." He backs away and gives his own brand of a fierce smile. "Just keep that in mind, Colonel. Alright, boys, carry him away, for the attempted murder of Dr. Watson. Unless there's anything you'd like to add?" he asks, turning to Watson and Holmes.

Behold I dream a dream of good

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)