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ihearthings_iiI know I've told at least ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adelate, that BBC Sherlock didn't make me want to write, but make graphics, but --- it seems I was lying.
I don't know what this is, exactly, or where it came from, but here it is.
BBC Sherlock, John, feathers, post Reichenbach, 258 words.
He sleeps, rarely. Restlessly. Regrettably. Remembers another time when sleep was sparse, and he dreamed of blood on his hands and sand in his shoes, young lives slipping between his fingers, fragments of bone and bullet shot splintering, shattering through his shoulder, inches from his heart. Recurring nightmares are nothing new but now he dreams of Sherlock, sun bright in his eyes and the sick sound of bone breaking; dreams of Sherlock there, on the edge of the everything, larger than life and fragile like a snapping branch, hollow-boned and ready for flight.
Three years gone, grim and grey, and he no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, no longer looks. At himself, at anything. For anything. He no longer dreams. The nightmares stopped a year in and, desperate, he finds himself yearning for them; finds himself yearning for cold sweat and shakes, stumbling around to stay awake, scared to fall back asleep. He would do it all again, every night for just another, a single, a brief ---- just one more glimpse of Sherlock.
Three years gone, and he remembers, remembers another time when his Browning was calling for him to stop, just stop it, be over, be gone. Remembers the only reason why he was saved from being just another poor sod bumping up a sad statistic.
Three years gone to the date, and in sleep he dreams of Sherlock, standing on the ledge, spreading his wings, falling, flying, floating, dying.
He wakes up in the grey predawn, hopeful heart and feathers falling from his lips.
adelate, that BBC Sherlock didn't make me want to write, but make graphics, but --- it seems I was lying. I don't know what this is, exactly, or where it came from, but here it is.
BBC Sherlock, John, feathers, post Reichenbach, 258 words.
He sleeps, rarely. Restlessly. Regrettably. Remembers another time when sleep was sparse, and he dreamed of blood on his hands and sand in his shoes, young lives slipping between his fingers, fragments of bone and bullet shot splintering, shattering through his shoulder, inches from his heart. Recurring nightmares are nothing new but now he dreams of Sherlock, sun bright in his eyes and the sick sound of bone breaking; dreams of Sherlock there, on the edge of the everything, larger than life and fragile like a snapping branch, hollow-boned and ready for flight.
Three years gone, grim and grey, and he no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, no longer looks. At himself, at anything. For anything. He no longer dreams. The nightmares stopped a year in and, desperate, he finds himself yearning for them; finds himself yearning for cold sweat and shakes, stumbling around to stay awake, scared to fall back asleep. He would do it all again, every night for just another, a single, a brief ---- just one more glimpse of Sherlock.
Three years gone, and he remembers, remembers another time when his Browning was calling for him to stop, just stop it, be over, be gone. Remembers the only reason why he was saved from being just another poor sod bumping up a sad statistic.
Three years gone to the date, and in sleep he dreams of Sherlock, standing on the ledge, spreading his wings, falling, flying, floating, dying.
He wakes up in the grey predawn, hopeful heart and feathers falling from his lips.
