Genre: Angst, Poetry
Series: Sherlock
Rating: M
Word Count: 251
Length: One-Shot
Warning: Please read at your own discretion.
Note: My first shot at poetry for this site, and my second for Sherlock in general. Goodness.
sitting in the long-empty flat, he found he would sew
scarves of every imaginable color showed
his heart – withered, dull and sore
more weary than when he'd returned from war
dust and memories inside every corner
he was distressed; he'd become a mourner
not for his own broken, tired soul
but for the one of the man he used to know
steel cerulean eyes and soft, cold, rosy cheeks
the image stuck in his mind for more than just weeks
and soon that very image turned to disaster
his porcelain face stained by blood shortly after
sleep was unbearable, lonely and rare
he was haunted by constant, recurring nightmares
not of battle – no, not any longer
but of love, which with every disturbing dream grew just that much stronger
he refused Miss Hudson's own homemade fruit tarts
and never again did he find the strength to return to Bart's
he'd leave Baker Street, apartment 221B
as soon as he'd find himself turning to sea
although in the beginning his thoughts were angry – confused
he now felt numb, tearducts dry from unuse
he sat in one spot inside Sherlock's room by night and by day
a single gunshout rang out, expressing what he had left to say
