Oh. [brows shoot up along his forehead, Jim all scandalised (amused) surprise. oh. that's not to say that ultimate narcissism hadn't flickered briefly across his mind or that it won't again, but it is at least for now firmly buried in the discard pile - she's far too fascinating to waste on the carnal. the thought had been conceptual at best, lasted no more than a second, one of those corpse-floating-up-to-the-surface-and-disappearing-under-again moments. doesn't everyone have those? no? it's hardly odd to consider what it might be like to sleep with yourself, surely. but she's not him, so he hopes, and he's not her, and he's certain when the time comes to find out that there will be much more interesting things to do with a creature like Jamie Moriarty.] Well.
[the expression fades. this is much more interesting than playing the slandered housewife. leaning in, Jim rests his elbow on a table, settles his head into his hand and peers intently at Sherlock Holmes.]
No, he didn't. Did he tell you the story? I hope not. He's an awful storyteller.
video.
[the expression fades. this is much more interesting than playing the slandered housewife. leaning in, Jim rests his elbow on a table, settles his head into his hand and peers intently at Sherlock Holmes.]
No, he didn't. Did he tell you the story? I hope not. He's an awful storyteller.