This is nothing but late-night poetry ramblings. Seriously. I wrote this at 4:40 a.m.
I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters; they belong to the BBC and ACD.
Death, and the surroundings fade into a point
Everything else grey and unimportant
The body in front of you black and brilliant
A million little star pieces clicked together in an effortless pattern.
They hear but they don't listen,
They see but they can't observe
And your blood sings through you with its all-consuming fire,
Hums to the flutter-beating of your heart.
Fear turns to laughter
Uncontrolled, hysterical, a little frightening
(Considering the circumstances)
But you've never cared what they thought of you.
If this is what you call beautiful and perfect
What is it to them?
