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LoathingThe rolls of black and seams of red
Burn softly through the dusky gloom
Shrivelled wounds and a mouth that bled
Painted her portrait in bloody womb
Dark her veins be from years of neglect
From the sharp tongue of a needle's kiss
Her soulless body does not decay yet
On her cool lips remain her dying wish
Oh! the breeze remembers her sweet song
Her lithe movement, her youthful flesh strong.
Rise from the earth tonight, my pale love
Rise from the cold ashes of your pyre
Slip on your cold shoes by the doorway
Dance with death, dance with her, dance with desire
Your hands one day will crumble in mine
Lonely kisses fresh on ashen skin
Blend in to me, the curve of red wine
Break brittle bones and rot the organs within
And thorns they brush her gentle face,
How beauty preserves her cold embrace.
I Was The One Who Cared After All
It was a calm evening at 221b, which came as a surprise to John. It had been weeks since their last case and the latter one had consisted of unruly experiments day and night that stretched from counting the number of times John breathed within an hour as he slept (from which he had been so rudely awakened, Sherlock's face mere inches from his) to Sherlock releasing a pack of mice in the apartment to trace their flight movements, and of course John had to clean up every single mess Sherlock left behind.
Lucky for John, Sherlock had decided instead tonight to focus on composing as John listened silently to the violin melodies, shrills, and soft notes that drifted up the stairs into his room. John sat at his desk having spent the last few hours focused on paperwork from the clinic. The music was relaxing and John almost let himself lapse into a since of calm as his lids began to close until, su
Johnlock Challenge - 15/100. ''Silence''If John wasn't currently in serious danger of having acid splashed onto him, he would have laughed at the sheer terror in Sherlock's eyes. For what John could imagine to be the first time in his life, Sherlock looked absolutely lost and afraid. Now, one would say that John was being harsh and possibly overly sadistic, but John found it so amusing because Sherlock could do nothing about it but try to keep that big god-damned mouth of his closed.
Yes, readership. Sherlock Always-has-to-have-the-last-word Holmes lost his bloody voice. Oh, it was Christmas!
John chuckled and yelped when a rather hard pillow was thrown into his face. "Jesus, okay! Sherlock, I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do for you but give you losangers. This is what you get for never shutting up oomph! Okay, yeah, I deserved that one too, kind of."
Sherlock huffed from where he was perched in his seat, looking away in annoyance. John had to stop himself from cooing at the pout adorning hi
Glass and Bandages
"Ow! John, that hurt!" Sherlock yelled and whined at John.
So this is what it had come to, Sherlock thought bitterly. The world's only consulting detective, and one of its most brilliant inhabitants, reduced to a whinging, screaming child, just because of a few injuries. Specifically, glass in his feet. He felt so pathetic and weak.
John eyed him at these words, slight amusement etched into his raised eyebrow and subtle grin as he pulled another shard of glass from his friend's right foot (luckily, his left one had gone unscathed). He had been doing this for nearly an hour, and it hadn't been a pleasant affair for either one of them, he could tell you that much. Let's just say that picking glass out of his friend's dirty and bloody foot was not exactly his idea of a satisfying Saturday morning. And as if doing this wasn't unpleasant enough, every time he had removed a piece, it had always either resulted in Sherlock clenching his teeth, fists, or jaw, crying out in pain, yelli
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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