Palatable, this one time in his life when he cared, was death. An end of an era
Lacking fulfillment, a void, where there was no one in the stead of John
A bubbling sound came from the large kettle on the stove, this time, no tea
Cerebral threads coming apart, flesh boiling off the skull
Each bubble inhaled deep by Sherlock as if to preserve, to hold, to have
Old, one could say, memories of times he could've touched, could've shown
For all his heart's content how much he cared Iloved/I so passionately…within.
In the kettle lolled the head Sherlock had acquired after some negotiation.
Neither Lestrade or Molly had been acquiescent to give it away, but Sherlock's insistence
Sheer demand, a law, had shut them up and done his will for the sake of pretended science.
And here it were, now cooling off to be peeled, to be carved, to be caressed
Now, lifeless, yet not forgotten, yet not unloved, gently…. Sheet after sheet of skin
Itinerary through the layers, slowly….so slow, the tongue was cut off. Eyes. Gone. Too Gone.
The eyes which had seen, now unseeing and ripe, unnatural, looking through Sherlock.
Yes. Finally, under all the boiled flesh and skin. A friend. This time forever.