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On Your Mind.I quickened my pace to keep up with Sherlock, who never really seemed to pay attention to the fact that I was almost exhausted by the time we came home. Of course, I'd never say anything about that, because there will, undoubtedly, be coming a mordant remark my way. I was quite a bit smaller than him, as he had very long legs and, well, he was tall. His long, black, familiar coat danced around his legs. We were walking back home from the crime scene of our last case, and since we didn't have money on us, neither of us, we decided to walk home. It was quite a long walk.
"Come on, John. You're a bit slow today. What's on your mind?" He called out to me, never slowing down. Well, I guess it can't hurt to say that he should slow down. I'll survive the attack of remarks. I took a deep breath and before I had spoken a word, he said.
"Am I going too fast? Does it bother you? I could slow down a bit, after all. I know we're not the same size."
That's new. He's never said anything like that bef
72. Insomnia - JohnlockJohn lay awake in bed, an all too familiar violin screeching downstairs. Of course, it wasn't actually screeching, but at three in the morning it might as well be. Now if it had been in the afternoon or sometime that wasn't in the middle of the night, the violin would be quite pleasant.
He squeezed his eyes shut and held his pillow up against his ears. The action was futile, he knew from doing so several times before. Upon realizing that it still wouldn't work he let go of the pillow and opened his eyes with a sigh. He kicked off the blankets and stood up, walking over to the door of his room. He opened it up just enough to poke his head out and yelled, "Would you keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep!" He tried his best to sound threatening and angry but it only came out as tired and groggy and not intimidating at all. The sound of the violin paused for a moment and John thought that he finally got through to him. Unfortunately he didn't and the screeching continued. John sigh
Mondays"God, I hate Mondays." John said, gripping his head, hoping that the pain would subside.
"I've told you time and time again, that if you drank more water on Sunday that this wouldn't happen."
"How much am I supposed to drink, Sherlock? The whole bloody Pacific?" He roared at his flatmate. Pain and patience did not go hand-in-hand.
"Of course not, John." He stared at him with a gravely serious expression. "It's saltwater for one thing. It would be completely ineffective in hydrating you."
John clapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation and immediately regretted it, shutting his eyes when the dull and aching pain in his skull grew. He gave a deep sigh and tried not to shout this time.
"Look…" He paused. "If you can't say anything helpful, will you kindly shut up?"
"Would you like a massage?"
This was such a random and surprising question that John's eyes flew open. For a minute he couldn't respond, instead he just stared at Sherlock with his brow furrowed, unsure if he had hea
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More