Here the story begins with a woman who believed her life was defined by Kurt Vonnegut novels. So it goes.
Her vision was blurred and her knees in the snow. Frost. Cold. Numb. She could not think. She could not even shiver. Her lips were purple and wide open, cracked, bleeding into an expanse of white. It was beautiful.
"I was there," read the note she had left in the snow. A gloved finger reached out to caress her chestnut hair from her brows. The hooded figure knelt down and kissed her tenderly on her frozen cheeks.
"Too many corpses to bury," a female voice. "But I won't burn your body. It'd be a shame to lose such a pretty face." Her hand cupped her cheek again and lingered for a little, and then backed away.
"More of a shame to lose those talents of hers," a male voice interrupted. "She was interesting while she lasted."
"Better to die interesting," she breathed, pulling her jacket closer around her and taking his outreached arm. She shivered, her bones craving warmth. "You can drop me off in London."
"Back to your ordinary lifestyle?"
"Life's never ordinary with you watching my every move," she blinked heavily, attempting to rid of the frost that was collecting on her eyelashes. "Jim, dear brother."
"It's because I worry about you," he cackled. "Constantly."
I haven't written anything but original stories lately, so I decided to write something based on BBC Sherlock. This story is here mostly for my personal satisfaction and sense of accomplishment; it is not nearly as well-written as I'd like it to be, and most of the writing is scribbled between classes. Eventually, probably, I'll return to refine it. The good thing is that there's already about 11,000 words written, so you won't have to wait too long for me to update.
Annoyingly enough, my introduction here might be longer than the actual Prologue, but I can't really do anything about that, can I- I am here to warn you that there are graphic dark scenes in this, stuff that I do not condone nor want to give the impression that I glorify. There will be rape and incest; abuse and addiction. This is not a happy story, and although there are pairings and casual mentions of relationships, this is first and foremost a story about my character and how she functions in her world.
Some disclaimers now: I don't like Sherlock BBC as much as you guys probably think I do, and I write it for the sole reason that I can. It's a world I can manipulate and I can ignore the problematic as long as I know that it's there. Either way, I don't own the show either, nor do I own Slaughterhouse Five, which is probably mentioned only because I read the book a day before starting this fic. I do own my writing and most of my character Saoirse because if you've noticed, she's a Moriarty, and I don't own that- however, if you do end up posting my fic elsewhere and claiming it's yours, I can only express pity because there are probably better fics and less passive people to piss off.
Passive as I am, I am fuelled by reviews and even petty comments about typos because I hate reading what I write, so if you have an opinion that isn't unwarranted and offensive hatred, then please leave it in the review section.