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Alas, Poor Yorick

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The tall man stood by the fire-mantle, his cloak draping elegantly. The flickering light of the fire alit on his face, dancing across his high cheekbones and making play of his cupid’s-bow mouth. Underneath the dark hair falling over his forehead, his eyes were mournful and glittered with unshed tears. For a few moments, nothing but the almost inaudible sound of the fire crackling could be heard. A particularly loud snap of wood seemed to alert the man.

He drifted forward slightly, lifting the human skull from the stone without thought. He was enraptured in the melancholy. The thin man’s expression of disbelief fell to regret, and he unconsciously descended to his knees. The firelight illuminated the gleaming skull, and it cast into sharp definition the cravasses and empty hollows of bone. A near sob escaped the dark-haired man, and the skull was tremblingly lifted aloft.

“Alas, poor Yorick,” The man spoke at last, his voice quiet and tinged with sorrow. “I knew him, Horatio.” He lowered the skull slightly, his eyes bright with the welling of tears.

A fellow of infinite jest,” said the man. “Of most excellent fancy; he hath-”

From the back of the room, the lamenting man’s companion snorted in most undignified amusement.

“Don’t quit your dayjob, Sherlock,” said John.