I have a weird music choice while writing this
I just had to post on 1/11/11 at 11:11 yep that takes skill
oh ya I own nothing and no beta so ya
Sherlock Holmes looked at the page below him; people had often spoken of how he never knew what it was like to lose someone close to him. How much pain they felt, now he could understand, at least he hope so. Doctor John Watson had left him, well not that he could help it, and death was inevitable. Sherlock knew that, he completely understood, no, Sherlock Holmes wasn't angry at the man. The sleuth decided take this time to write out what he was feeling, so he could look upon it for future references and prove to those ignorant people that he had in fact lost someone dear to him.
The problem was he didn't know what to write. It was simple, the criminal had aimed for Sherlock and the Doctor placed himself as a human shield and died on the spot, after a few minutes of suffering, of course. Sherlock remembered everything about that day, the final look on John's face, the now dead criminal across the room, but mainly he remembered the silence. The silence of Holmes's shouting, begging, pleading, reasoning that it wasn't John's time. Now, here, he was determined to write how he was feeling.
On the 27th of November 2011, I, Sherlock Holmes, set out on a case for Miss Penelope Andrews, with my colleague, Doctor John Watso-
Holmes's writing was cut off as a drop of water landed on the page spearing 'case' and 'for' together. The sleuth automatically tried to brush away the mistake, only to ruin the page further. Grumbling foreign curses Homes crumpled the sheet and began on a fresh one. This time he managed to finish his friend's name before another water drop fell, and another after that.
The dark haired man mumbled under his breath as he glanced at the window across the room; instantly he rose to his feet and stormed over to slam it shut. "Damn rain," he muttered as the moon and stars shown on his turned back. Sherlock sat back in his chair and hunched over his desk and page, but yet again he destroyed the page and began on a new one. He scribbled furiously, wanting to quickly write before the rain could destroy it again. His script became more and more illegible as he wrote.
...my friend Doctor John Watson. We arrived at the warehouse of Mister Samuel Harris and as he confronted him he pulled his gun, aiming for myself. I had little time to move out of the way before the gun was discharged. John was much quick and he came between the bullet and me.
Homes stopped his writing as his hand began to shake. He threw down the pen and strode across the room; to light a fire, it was, after all, just the cold air that was making him shiver. Sherlock stood there for a moment just watching the fire crackle; he rubbed his stinging eyes, and cursed the fire's smoke for causing it. The fire did nothing for his shaking body though. A cigarette, he decided, just one wouldn't hurt. He dug though his stacks of paper and cigarette stubs from that day before finding a nerve calming stick. Setting it to his lips his hands struggled to light the match; he soon gave up with the infuriating things and stuck it in the fire place, and having gained a quick light he replaced it to his lips, breathing in deeply.
The fire place continued to burn and its bright light hurt Sherlock's eyes, making tears well up. He quickly blinked them away and walked back over to the paper. The detective reread the works, the damned smoke was making his eyes water; taking a deep breath he began coughing. The coughs deepened and his blue eyes stung as they filled with water. While he coughed he knew that it was from breathing too much smoke too soon, so he continued to hack and wheeze, knowing it would end soon. Yet his rough coughs soon morphed into uncontrolled sobs. The cold continued to make his boy shake, as the smoke made him snivel, but it was the rain that was the worst. He swore he had a cloud above him pouring down, that was the only reasonable explanation for the drops of water, Sherlock Holmes did not cry.
Picking himself up the best he could, he knew he could not remain on the ground; he sat back in his chair. The rain continued to fall on him with the smoke and cold now hurting him like he had never felt before; he looked back at his desk and decided he needed to finish the task at hand. Sherlock sat at his desk staring at the closed window that revealed the clear moonlit night. He needed to try and write how he felt; he wanted to examine these emotions later. Yet glancing down at the water spotted page he realized the rain wouldn't let him.
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