This is my first ever story for Sherlock (It's terrible, isn't it? Keeping you away from homework and other aspects of life... not that I'm guilty of neglecting such things of course...), if you can call it that, so please leave CC and please refrain from flaming. Anyways I had this idea one day while I was texting my cousin about poetry. I wrote a fragment of this then, and yesterday I took it out during class (It was study hall! Though I was supposed to be working on something else...oops.) and it became this! By "this" I mean Mycroft's point of view on the reason why John has a tremor in his hand. Now that that's out of the way, I now present, "Why?".
Why?
Death beckons with a sly, knowing grin
injecting walls into your blood
till the only escape is Deaths now smiling face
Memories race
through your blood
till the only way out
Is once again,
Deaths s g face
m n
i i
l
Begs the question,
Tell me John,
do you cringe away
from the memories of
Killing
of the blood
flowing like a river
The adrenaline
racing through your veins
nearly as fast Sherlock's brain?
Or do you miss it?
The scent of blood
as it slithers into your nose?
Helping a brother go back home?
Or straight back to that
Hellhole?
Risking your life
day after day
hour after hour
minute after minute?
Why must I give you this truth?
You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it.
Why?