Shelter
Okay soz it took so long to get out, you know, stuck with ideas and I just got back to school and the teachers thought it would be fun to drown us in essays and HWK… =P
So here it is…. The next chapter. Enjoy =D
Sherlock
He sat under the old window, light flooding in over him… making his face look pale, silvery, his eyes, deep black holes with silver iris'.
I find shelter in this way, under cover, hide away…
Sighing he took his gun out of his pocket, placing it on the floor beside him. It was making him un-comfortable.
He reached a hand out to the dresser beside him. The bottom draw. And slid it open,
Where is it? Where? Whe- there!
He rolled it in his fingers, tempting himself before searching the draw again for the lighter.
He placed the cigarette in his mouth, shielding the flame as he lit the end, and taking a long, relaxing drag.
Looking up at the cracking ceiling, old, yellowing... Mycroft's cleaners had missed a smudge of dark red blood…
He broke down completely.
Tears streamed down his silver face, sobs shook his long frame and the cigarette burned a hole in his trouser leg as he drew his knees up to his chest, stinging the side of his leg.
Freak, freak, freak, FREAK!
Echoing in his head, turning his insides, scorching his brain…
He dropped the cigarette all together, it spat sparks up as it hit the floor, but he didn't see. He ran his hands up his temples, digging his nails into the back of his head his; he needed something stronger than a cigarette, or he was going to crack completely…
His mind mapped its way to the needle, in the top of the chest-of-draws…
John
The taxi was going slow… so, so slow!
It seemed like HOURS before it pulled up in front of the huge oak door of the Holmes House.
"Thanks" john said to the driver as he handed him the money.
Running up the concrete stairs his body shuddered to a halt as it reached the door.
He didn't have a key.
He should knock. No, Sherlock… Sherlock won't open the door for him. Should he call for him? No, he'll hide if he knows I'm here… right, it's the window then.
There was a window to the left of the door, it wasn't locked.
-Mycroft
He could hear laughter. Sherlock wasn't in a good state. Had he learned nothing?
Mycroft Holmes put a hand up to his younger brother's ajar door. The papers that had been pinned to the door (far longer than they should have been) fluttered in the breeze that was dancing out of the room. It was a cold breeze, which meant that the window was open.
Sherlock was sitting sideways on the window sill. Looking out into the dark night, the icy breeze tugging at his hair and making the curtains dance in front of him occasionally, Mycroft would see Sherlock, then his silhouette, Sherlock, silhouette, Sherlock…
"Don't" Mycroft said quietly, Sherlock sighed he looked down, the wind tugged from underneath him, trying to pull him down, out of the window, to the dark, concrete floor below him. The ground that seemed to call to him, promising to soothe his pained head, heart… At least three stories down…
Sherlock…silhouette… Sherlock… silhouette… Sherlock… silhouette…sher- nothing…Nothing!
He was gone, no-one sat on the windowsill, there was no-one there, Mycroft let out a soft "no" before dropping his umbrella, rushing swiftly towards the open window, cool air mixing with the tear that had escaped and stinging his face, the curtains brushed in front of his face, trying to cover his eyes from the sight outside the window, his brother-
Sighing, and brushing away the sweat, the fear that was stroking his brow, he pushed open his brother's door; it swung open lightly, creaking slightly. He stepped in.