“Oh, stop whining! It hurts now, but it’ll get better.”
John stopped washing the sting site with soap and water, and thought about what he’d just said when they were together in a bathroom behind a closed door.
He groaned. Sherlock arched an eyebrow as John resumed his task of cleaning the sting, making sure there was no part of the stinger left in it.
“Nothing. Just, without context…”
“Nevermind,” John smiled, amused. Sherlock wasn’t only childish, but also very childlike sometimes. His candour and tactless bluntness were actually rather refreshing, he mused. “Here we go. You just have to take your antihistamine.” He handed him the glass, and his lips curved up at Sherlock’s grimace as he drank.
“See? You’re all fine now. “
“You mean except for the fact that I look utterly ridiculous?”
A short movie by Pierpaolo Zoffoli. Editing, FX: Riccardo Deserti. Backstage: Stefano Pelloni. Music: Evgeny Grinko. Characters: Matteo Emiliani. Giulia Tarantola, Michela Zoffoli, Liana Zoffoli, Giuseppe Emiliani.
Pierpaolo Zoffoli, uno degli autori di ’Ravenna, finalmente!’ oltre che presidente dell'associazione di improvvisazione teatrale 05quartoatto, si diletta anche come regista cinematografico. Landing Lights è uno splendido cortometraggio che mostra pienamente un connubio di arte e maestranza di mestiere.
Pierpaolo Zoffoli, one of the authors of ’Ravenna, finalmente!’ as well as president of theatrical improvisation association 05quartoatto, also delights as a film director. Landing Lights is a wonderful short film that shows a full marriage of art and craft of skilled workers.
Sherlock’s fascinated and utterly terrified eyes were fixated on his flatmate, colleague, friend, John. All the labels were disintegrating in the flow of the man’s movements. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, but his grip was tight around the handgun.
He was holding it. That power of life and death the cabby had gloated at. John had given it to him.
Before long John felt that the thrusting of his hips and tapping of the foot weren’t enough to beat time and express the intensity of the frustration and shame and hopelessness he had experienced upon his return from the war, and that still threatened to overthrow him sometimes (mostly at night – and how he hated being so vulnerable against the nightmares). His right shoulder began to jerk, and soon his whole torso, and the space felt too crowded so he started moving his feet as well, as if he were spreading his rage and fear and sheer energy around him. He realized he was almost jumping up and down to the beat now, marking time with each step, back and forth and to the side, feeling the wood of the parquet under his soles. A groan escaped his throat.
Both of his hands were in his hair at this point and he ran them down his neck and onto his chest and abdomen, lower and lower, getting desperate. He was perspiring under his jumper and felt the urge to get rid of it – he couldn’t believe he was doing this in front of Sherlock of all people. But had there ever been anyone else?
The groan clearly turned into a moan as he ran his hands under his jumper over his skin, feeling the muscles and the scarred flesh, still dancing in a tortured and jerky way, throwing his head back or to the side, pushing his own arm away and letting it come back to his heart nonetheless, creeping under the jumper or gripping the fabric, and it was as if he were fighting with his own shadow or somebody’s ghost, fighting and dancing all at once, pushing back and pulling closer, throwing away and holding fast, ripping and grabbing, and soon his hair and clothes were a complete mess, damp with perspiration.
With a jerk of the head he threw himself back and spun his body around in a vigorous circular movement, then froze on the spot, right leg slightly stretched to the side, arms wrapped around his torso. For about five seconds he remained still and listened to Sherlock’s ragged breath filling the room, echoing his own raspy exhalations. Then he shifted his weight from the left to the right, rolled his hips once and resumed the rhythmic thrusts but not as violently as before – now they only seemed to accompany the undulating movements of the legs as he very slowly started to pull his jumper up his back, inch by inch.
Then he pulled it back down and smirked as a frustrated and poorly contained growl reached his ears. It shouldn’t please him so much, really. After all, he was perfectly aware that Sherlock wasn’t exactly going through a sweet torture – no, he was probably torn between shame and desire, and nowhere near prepared to deal with such ambivalent sentiments. Oh well. Too bad. John worked on the buckle of his belt and took it off at an agonizingly slow pace, finally holding one end in his left hand and letting the rest of it slide from his coccyx, tracing the buttock line of his jeans and hang between his fairly spread legs. Never stopping his bucking to keep the tempo and the vibration of his legs and torso, adding a movement of his shoulders going up one after the other, he shook his head rhythmically and threw his right arm in the air, then bent abruptly as if he were bowing.
Only then did he open his eyes and look straight into Sherlock’s. Even from upside down John could see his partner trembling and squirming on the chair, looking both panicked and aroused. Those two states seemed closely linked in him. Sherlock was desperately holding onto the gun – the fact that his hand was shaking didn’t lessen the death grip to the least: the weapon was just quivering along with the arm. His lips were bloodied and he was still biting them nervously, but when their eyes locked he let them go and tried to pull a blank face. John’s gaze hardened and the anguish in Sherlock’s came back full force. John smiled reassuringly. It’s okay to be scared. It’s fine, Sherlock, all fine. Just let go.
He took the other end of the belt and stretched his back nonchalantly, thus sliding it between his legs with just the right pressure until it was so taut he could feel his crotch throb against the leather. He resumed the thrusts he had stopped upon bending down, left hand still on his coccyx, right hand by the nape of his neck, and as he arched he wasn’t sure from whose mouth the moan he heard had escaped.
Can you imagine knocking down a wall to renovate your basement…and discovering an intact Mithraeum?
In 1963, a Mr. Zoffoli was enlarging his wine-cellar in Marino, a village about 13km/8 miles south of Rome, and discovered 13.25 x 8m entrance hall, behind which was a 29.20 x 3.10m grotto dedicated to Mithras. This Mithraeum dates to 160-200 C.E. The most important find was that many spectacular paintings adorn the walls.