a continuation to my previous story since I felt I owed it to you all for accidentally marking complete
The pen pressed deep into the paper as his hands shook with unnatural instability. The light in the bedroom downstairs, he noted, had gone out long ago as the clock displayed 3am in glaring digitals.
A note, was that not too normal? People left suicide notes all the time, dying in small, unidentified corners where coroners would only find their rotting corpses. He began to catalogue each method of death, from bleach to piano strings…each method seemed easy, and he slowly calculated the methods by which he could cheat death and make it convincing.
Fifteen methods quickly formed in his mind, as he slid across the floor of the ballroom of the Buckingham Palace, skirting the hallways, scuffing his shoe slightly, each plan…each individual plan, running through it.
He stopped, at the very knocker of his flat, 221B Baker Street. No, he told himself, hurrying along the streets of London, hopping onto the Tube, running along the side alleyways, climbing the staircases, across the skylights. He ended at the foot of St. Bart's.
He looked up, tugging hard on the rope on his waist, looking around at the streets, smeared in red blood, and a darkness looming in the sky.
At his feet was a bloodied body and he held a black suitcase, hard and cold.
Containing his studies.
Months and months of experimentation and human studies had enabled him to craft a human like latex mask to mirror the human skin, feeling and breathing like human skin. Each crease was perfect, perfect to the very millimeter.
Sherlock cradled the case like it was his child, a fragile being, the contact lens' bottle shattering as he breathed, winded, falling into Alice's hole, the paper still in his hands, back in his bed, back in at 3.15am in the morning.
hee
hee reichenbachfeels