It's not as if you understand him or those things you keep getting popping into your thoughts at the most inappropriate moments, when the two of you laugh at something or there's just another loud and clear word of approval from John. Things happen only because of logical causes, like money, twisted emotions, unfinished things, deeds or, less surprisingly than it used to be to you, sex. The latter, you'll fairly sure, is one of the most common motives and yet, you still haven't got the slightest idea why. Sure, blokes can look good, ladies just as well, but It's just a term to you. An adjective others use to describe other others. And w
Chapter IX
false names
The interview she makes with him is surprisingly quick and yet thorough. She asks him for the relationship they have (of course they're friends, who would dare to think otherwise?), Moriarty's family status or any relatives living close (he's an orphan and Sherlock is the only one close to him, it's simple as that), any drug or food related allergies and finally names of the two. Sherlock looks at her dully, he's mind already racing, thinking out a good solution.
"We went to a bar when all of this happened" the lie goes silkily past his lips, he's eyes full of doubtless sadness. "He caught himself in the middle of one
braid me alive VII, part two by Amarum, literature
Literature
braid me alive VII, part two
Chapter VII, part two
"breath"
The road is bumpy and light flickers onto Sherlock's shut closed eyes, his head swaying back and forth to the rhythm of Moriarty's muffled and strained breath. It's cold in the ambulance, the high pitch of the sirens echoing against the metal doors dully, whispers of each member of the staff blending into one another, misting his head slightly. The sweater is damply heavy in his arms and Sherlock doesn't even dare to move so not to fall further down this awful path of ice like void he's been feeling build up in his chest. Even though it does sound childish and petty at best, he feels just
Chapter eight
"chlorine"
The darkness overwhelms him and it's too frightening to open the eyes on the spot when nothing but grey after-taste of it is everything that remains. Colours are flashing blindly through his closed eyelids, whispers just above his head misting his thoughts over, blending into the dull echo of the siren or some breath, metres if not miles away from his grasp. There's something cool being pressed against the side of his chest, sticky and smelly in its fluffy roughness. Sherlock isn't sure where his body begins and where cold hands of the paramedics end. Everything is liquid in action, one second he hears a c
Chapter III
"messages"
Winter this year is awful and Sherlock is soon shivering, soaking wet under his paper-thick coat when he runs out from the ghostly warehouse. Snow melts onto his flushed face quickly, its crystals constantly getting caught up between his eyelashes. It's mid-afternoon, street lanterns already drawing circles of fierce orange, blue and gray across his eyelids, puddles as deep as an ocean catching one of his feet from time to time into their depths. Sherlock stumbles, lack of nicotine going up to his head. He didn't have time to buy new patches, he didn't have time to sleep, to eat, to think out his actions thoroughly. It
Chapter II
"masks"
Masks are so colourful on the shelves when Sherlock finally finds the damned place and comes in rushing. Some are those Venetian ones John told him once about, with mysterious hollow eyes and lips pressed into a fine line, an expression full of emptiness and yet a bit of hope. Because if you can't foresee the next action, it still can be either good or bad there is some place for the choice. He slams the door and some of them fall onto the floor, glitter clinging to his coat, plastic breaking under his boots.
Where are they, where are they, where...
He keeps running though corridors full of dusty unused costumes,
Sometimes, it feels as if nothing could possibly keep him down here any longer. Then there are her eyes, so beautifully pleading him to freeze in time, to be like those plastic flowers in his dad's backyard - while staying all the same for an eternity, be able to cast charms on people with their beauty, to make them think they are real, not just copies of someone else's happiness. Their love's been always like this, so fragile, colourful, mistaken.
He wants so much to be away from all of the lies they've been telling each other to just make the other stay and not do anything they really wanted. But he can't.
Because they won't live throug
Awww, a new doc to accompany me in my misery. How sweet
How old are you?
Me? I... I watched cartoons back in the 80's. It was so fun, you know! I'd get up every Saturday at 8 am and run towards the TV. We used to watch those cartoons together, freshly made sandwiches squeaky in our hands, smiles plastered to faces. Mommy didn't like that. She'd always say that we're just wasting time. That I ought to clean the house and repair the car instead of gawking like a fish onto the screen. She used to push me around when I pretended not to hear. I never let her touch him though. He was precious. Precious things can't hurt. They're too important...
Dearest Dorian,
Oh, Dorian. Merely drawing out your name on my lips creates this gorgeous image of perfection in my mind's eye, even now. This deep admiration has driven me through so many dark days as I conjured up your beautiful features upon a blank canvas, despite the very nature of the admiration itself being something that made me hide away from the prejudiced eyes of society.
I have heard so many people tell of the "corruption" of your soul but I have always stood by the image I carved into my imagination long ago, before you began to change. I can admit that now, that you are not the boy I remember the one who still smiles sweetly f