London
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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Mar 24, 2018
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Fanfic
Sherlock
Tagslondon
"I cry over it. I break things. I hate it here. It's a lovely place, but I guess nothing can replace what I had. I guess I'm attached to it because I'm not really form there. It's my home. It's changed me. I've lived there for as long as I can remember. It's changed me, it has. And now I'm not there anymore. Such an attachment it is. I miss it. I miss everything about it. Not just the people, I can live without them. I miss the places. I miss the weather. I miss the traffic. I miss Tesco. I miss the busyness. I miss the bridges. I miss the river. I miss the Underground, the Overground and the DLR. I miss London." You're so homesick about London. You hate it in Zug*. You've been living there for a year now and you're starting to get over it. Then, after late nights with overexessive doses of Sherlock BBC, you miss it all over again. The knot in your stomach and hole in your heart remains. Wounds reopen. The only thing you have so that you truly feel "London" again is a battered old Tube Map. You decide, at least one more trip to London. Just to make you complete again. Only you're not prepared just HOW complete it'll actually make you. *A city in Switzerland ******************************* I'm only 11, so please excuse my writing skills, they are not exactly /ripe/ yet. Also, if any grammatical errors or found, or if you have any suggestions in general, or any criticism, DO NOT HESITATE TO COMMENT. This story depicts exactly how I feel since leaving London to come to Zug, but of course what happens on that trip isn't, or else I'd be the happiest person in the whole wide world. :)
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Simply exhausted of all colour. Wasted. I didn't lie down. I didn't blink. I just sat there, staring into nothingness, waiting for something to materialise into my vision. Something. Anything. I had kept Sherlock away. Kept him away from his death, for so long. So long. Little did I know, all he needed was a little jump from a rooftop. It wouldn't take me long either, would it? I wasn't going to die. I needed relief. I needed disconnection. Disorientation. Oblivion. Ignorance. Because ignorance is bliss. It was in my hand, now. Like vengeance disguised in forgiveness. Breathe. Steady. Hold. Control. . . . Now. Pain shot through my arms and my palms, like my nails were being pulled out. It spread like fire, like ice cold fire, still burning like coals. My limbs were numb. I fell onto the bed, my mouth pressed into the sheet at an odd angle. I was too fatigued to change it. Too drowned to change it. Drowned too deep. To change anything. I'd never done this. Was I going to die? It'd be better if I died. What would that feel like? Flying? Better that this I suppose. Don't you think, Sherlock? [TW: IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH PTSD SCHIZOPHRENIA DEPRESSION ANXIETY PANIC DISORDERS DRUGS OR ARE TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING ELSE PLEASE PROCEED WITH DISCRETION. GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NEAR- SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND VIOLENCE AND ZERO CLOSURE LIKE LITERALLY NO CLOSURE]

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