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Literature by A7x215

BBC Sherlock by agitodemongirl


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Submitted on
March 17
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It's three A.M,
And I don't know,
    Where you are.

I stare at the ceiling,
So blank, so endless,
    And I cry.

Your voice,
It seeps into my mind,
Like a vice.

I want to take a hold of it,
And never let it go.


I dream that you are still here,
Speaking to me in that rough voice,
    That I have come to love,
Over time.

It's three A.M,
And I don't know what to do.

The bottle in my hand,
It keeps returning to my lips,
    Empty.

I go get a new bottle.

The silence is breaking me,
The ticking of the clock,
    Choking me,
         Burning me,
              Killing me.

Tick, tock,
Tick, tock,
    Tick...
         Tock.


I choke on my own fear,
My pain, knowing you are here,
But still so far away.

Alive, you are, Sherlock?
    I know.

But I don't know why.

I want you to come home.
I don't know where you are.
I want you to comfort me,
And tell me that everything is okay,
    So I don't have to drink my pain away.

I'm so disgusted,
With myself.

What have I come to?

I sit here,
At 3 A.M,
Wondering,
Who I am,
Who you are,
Where you are,
Knowing,
That I still need you,
Here.

I ponder,
What I have done,
To make you leave me,
    By killing yourself.

I contemplate,
What I have done wrong.

Maybe,
It was complaining,
For you to buy milk.

Maybe,
It was my dependence,
On you.

Maybe,
It was the sentiment,
That I have begun to feel.

However I know,
That none of it matters,
Right now.

Because it is three A.M,
And I am sitting here,
    Drinking the pain away.
I do like this one. xD For some reason, I like these more than the descriptive poems I have; they're short and to the point. Kind of sincere, and cut-throat, y'know? xD 






Anyway, here's a little bit I'm just whipping up because sometimes I feel like making a scene to my poems:

John Watson sat and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like forever. The bottle in his hand, an old bottle of whiskey that he had stashed away since his army days, dangled limp from his fingers, painstakingly empty. Wetness fell from his eyes in a torrent of sentiment, and the little droplets of salt water burned all the way down his cheeks and eventually onto his shirt.

The only thing the blonde could do was stare. Nothing else seemed to matter, for there was nothing to particularly care for at the moment. John wanted to...he wanted to do so much more than cry - he wanted to scream and panic and yell and throw
that bloody clock against a wall because the sound seeped and curled into his ears and reminded him that he was very much still in the real world.

John knew Sherlock was alive. He did. Knowing that, though...knowing that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, doing something that he had no idea about - well, that hurt even more than any death could possibly ever do. John didn't know what he had done. What drove Sherlock away?

Was it his nightmares? His feelings? His life? His routine? 

Or was Sherlock...bored of him?

The blonde glanced down at the bottle with a sob, finally deciding to chuck it in the opposite direction from which he was sitting. It hit the wall and shattered with the most beautiful sound John had heard in days. 

Sherlock had told him he would eventually get bored of him. He should have been prepared. He should have known this would happen. But, when it came to Sherlock, he was always sucked in and pulled into a million different directions, making his head spin in that wonderful way that only occurred with the detective himself. Sherlock was a savant man, and John had no qualms about his past with the man. Nor his feelings.

However, John couldn't help but miss the beautiful, obvious, meticulous wanker of a friend because in the end, John always came back to Sherlock; he
lived for Sherlock. And since the sole person he had lived for happened to disappear on him, he obviously didn't have anything else to keep him down on planet earth. 

It was three A.M, and John Hamish Watson drank all the pain away. 
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:iconwinxhelina:
Winxhelina Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014  Hobbyist Filmographer
POor John. That was very dark, but good too. 
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:iconageofdarkness413:
AgeOfDarkness413 Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you sooooo much x3 And yes, poor John D: 
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:iconwinxhelina:
Winxhelina Featured By Owner Mar 19, 2014  Hobbyist Filmographer
You're welcome :)
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:icongermanyismybaby:
GermanyIsMyBaby Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Are those tears? Oh my, yes they are. I am crying. Holy shit.


This is absolutely amazing.
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:iconageofdarkness413:
AgeOfDarkness413 Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the fav and comment x3 

Oh no, please dun cry D: I'm really glad you thought it was emotional, though, I was trying to tug at them while writing. x3 I really appreciate it! 
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:icongermanyismybaby:
GermanyIsMyBaby Featured By Owner Mar 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime, I always support my fellow writers!
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