AN- Nimphidelle, I give up. Read it, go ahead. I surrender. *waves white flag in surrender*
We all fall eventually. We turn to ashes, dust, little bits and tiny pieces. Leaving behind a small reminder of ourselves in the form of a stone, in a field of stones, where it seems to never end.
(To be honest, Lestrade had not picked a good day to visit Sherlock and John, the stones seemed to stretch for miles in the fog, and the rain made everything muddy and wet.)
We all find out what really happens, whether theres a heaven, or nothing, or an eternal sleep where you just, cease to exist.
(He hadn't wanted them to be alone on christmas.)
A field of reminders, all bearing small traces of people who used to be.
(Goodbye, boys, we all miss you, even Anderson.)
All lined up in a row. Like little toy soldiers, waiting for orders.
(I hope Sherlocks not bored, wherever you are, that's a nice way to spend eternity, with a bored Sherlock Holmes.)
No one left.
(Good luck, John.)
AN- what the hell me? why did i write this? i write depressing poems cause i'm sad, and then by writing them i make myself sadder.