#fireloom

ah bless you for a small number, i managed to nearly double it! 

Actual Word Count: 93

He drops the body. It hits the floor and lies still for a moment. Then it shudders and rises, but something isn’t right. The gunshot wounds are clearly fatal, blood spilled across the front of the man’s shirt. He stumbles forward like he’s unused to his legs before he gets his balance. He twists his head and grins, wide and wrong, and Chloe knows in that moment. 

Warm tones of sunset bathe over the pair walking the beaches of Malibu. A man and a young girl. Gentle breezes dance over them, chilly night air warning of it's coming. Rosie kicks her feet in the sand as Sherlock simply enjoys the feeling of it under his feet. He holds her hand. The beach is lovely at this time. dusk on a Tuesday evening in a residential part of the coast is quiet of people.

Rosie drops his hand and trots up to the water edge. Apparently investigating a fallen sandcastle. Sherlock patiently waits for her return. But It seems she has no intention to. Instead, he wanders to where the sand meets a raised boulevard and sits. He watches her playing in her own world. A smile tugs at his cheeks. The little girl has brought Sherlock more joy than he even expected. As Sherlock nears his fiftieth year, and Rosie her eleventh, he considers her and her father more than a blood family can be.

A little boy, around eight, wanders up to her. He holds his hand out with a shell of some kind in his palm. A decoration for the revived sandcastle. Rosie takes it and plants it on the tallest part of the castle. They're friends now. Rosie does so well at making friends. far better than Sherlock did at her age. The children begin to dig a moat around the castle, efforts joined. Sherlock admires how open a child's mind is.

"You're daughter?" Comes a male voice from behind Sherlock.

"Step-daughter," Sherlock corrects, still watching the kids. He can sense the other man watching them fondly as well. They run now, the sandcastle finished. playing a game of chase through the lapping water. But the boy falls over. He cries out to his dad in a whining tone. The man behind Sherlock utters worry and runs down to help him. Once the boy is righted, Rosie hugs him.

"You're married, then?"

Sherlock's breath stills in shock. He hasn't heard that velveteen voice in a decade. It's different now, in age and motherhood, but still so familiar to him. "Yes, two days ago." he begins, presenting the ring on his finger back to her. "Came here to make it official. He makes a good husband."

Irene joins him on the edge of the boulevard. "As does mine." Sherlock believes it. The man she has taken as a partner is well suited to family life. He now runs around with the children.

"You're son?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes. I fell pregnant soon after our last meeting." Her voice contains regret. Sherlock remembers that night. The damage they did to each other was irreparable.

"You've done well," Sherlock offers in subtle apology for their past mistakes. Irene smiles melancholic at the horizon.

"I have." Her eyes portray her sorries and forgiveness's. The pair let a moment pass, nurturing the gentle silence. They used to share it like this. Rosie and the boy pile sand over Irene's husband's legs, a huge smile planed on his lips.

"What is your girl's name?" Irene asks.

"Rosie. After her mother." Irene mods solemnly. She knows about Mary and her misfortune. "And your boy?"

"William Scott." Sherlock turns his head to face her with surprise. Irene smiles at his reaction, her eyes still facing forward. She lingers a moment before she turns to him with a soft expression on her face.

“Ode to another life.” Sherlock warms. They share a moment of understanding for each other, and for their situation before their eyes settle back on the playing trio. Sherlock speaks,

By: Fireloom A moment of peace. It’s all they wanted. Their lives being torn to shreds in front of their eyes was all it took to bring them back to each other; clawing like animals at the other’s door, begging to be taken in and away from the harsh cold of a world they no longer understood.

His life was gone, and with it, every inkling of normality. Things change. They always said that, didn’t they? He lived by the statement but never really believed it. To him, he would always be the same. The same consulting detective, the same little brother, the same high functioning sociopath, the same person... Months of living this new life went past before he realised he didn’t even know that person anymore. And as those harsh days drew on, he no longer recognised the man he knew he should be.

Stability was lost, completely and thoroughly. He no longer had his older brother to bail him out of a tough spot, or his helpmate to have his back. It was only him. A solitary life. He always thought he had one but he learnt the hard way what one of those really meant for him. Days went past where he didn't say a word. Nights creeped on as he talked the walls of his hotels’ ears off. People say you go stir crazy in loneliness. He had only just begun to understand what that meant.

Maybe that’s why he first did it. The loneliness become overbearing to the point where he craved anything from another person. Just one bit of kindness that he didn't have to pay something for. He needed someone to fill the gaping hole that had torn itself into his chest.

He tried many things before then; pushing through the depression and just getting on with his mission, seeking out those little thrills with his first love; the stinging bite of the needle, but both of these ended in a regime that became too harmful. He needed something else...

He needed a moment away from the torment, from the addiction and the exhaustion. He knew he could never find a place where this moment existed on his own. He belonged nowhere now. He wasn't accepted to feel ok in the darkened world. At least before he had his apartment. His little, pokey, comfortable apartment. A place to call home.

But he didn’t even have that anymore.

It was chatter on the streets, as it always was, that set him on his venture. The streets were hot and smoggy, tarmac melting beneath his feat. locals scurried around him on their scooters or on foot. He already tried to find that moment of peace here. He failed in his mission. What started as a peaceful looking scenario ended with him hurling and retching into the ocean, chasing a member of the island mafia down, and having his passport stolen. He quickly gave up looking for that moment here... until he heard about a cottage on the far side of the island, tucked away in the rocks and creavases of a beachside cliff. Moreso, until he heard about the occupant of that cottage.

He knew this little cottage would be where he found that moment of sweet peace. When he knew what it meant, he felt what he’d come to know as hope. A hope that maybe things will be a bit easier afterward. And he was right. The world was still unfamiliar and callous to him, but just one night was all it took to get him through.

A buzz of sensation hit him when he approached the cottage. It was a relief to feel something again. All that he was was a dull numbness. Even when his life was threatened day after day, all he felt was the absence of everything. He didn’t even care anymore. But that moment was different. And as he knocked on the door he knew he was so close to finding a slither of peace.

She answered, as he knew she would. She didn’t ask but she didn’t have to. She knew why he was there. She took him into her home, gave him food and a place to rest. He needed the release of sustenance but moreso, her company was what gave back to him a life he had lost. They hardly spoke, in words that is. But nothing need be said. She understood what he was going through, what he wanted. She wanted it too. Just a little moment of peace.

The noon turned into evening and then night as they stayed there in that little cottage. She offered him a drink and he accepted. A smile crept onto his face at the bottle. Cobra Whisky. The drink was good, even though a few scales got caught between his teeth and the preserved snake kept giving him a beady glare. It was a delicacy that he enjoyed, just like the woman who gave it to him.

It wasn’t until the bottle was empty did he finally reach for the thing he always denied himself. He kissed her, and she kissed him back... The slither of emotion he felt before was but the buzz of a fly compared to the ocean of sensation he was drowning in. It was never ok before, but now that everything else had changed in its entirety, this one value might aswell too. He gave in.

He left the next day, when the moment was over and he had to return to the world that despised him. But he wasn’t alone after that. She had given him something, a piece of her heart. It was intangible, but he didn't need to see it, hear it, or feel it to know it was there. He left something intangible with her too, though some would say she took it from him. He says he gave it to her.  

After that day, the world seemed just a little brighter.

But it didn’t last long. The afterglow of that moment of peace wore off after the sixth or seventh near death experience and at least eighteen more notches on his belt. Life had taken it’s toll and he couldn’t see why he was doing it any more. So many times had he had to come to terms with his possible death that the threat of such no longer held weight. Not even from himself. His own death he had gotten into the habit of planning. He said that if somehow the hordes of criminals didn't get to him, he would do it himself. He didn't care. Didn't care if he got to end of his journey, didn’t care if he returned to London a hero or a broken man. The latter being more likely. They were safe, his family back home. Probably even more safe without him being there. So he toyed with the idea, dreamt of the day he would inject just a little too much cocaine, deliberately slipped up in a dangerous situation, or even participate in the more old fashioned ways. He'd taken the knife to his wrists more times than once.

But he never did it. Somehow, something was gripping onto him, pulling him away from going through with his suicide. Eventually he realised what it was. A tiny shattering of a broken woman's heart... She was the only one who would care anymore. So every time he felt her heart reminding him that someone still knew him, he put the knife away, put the needle down, stayed hidden until the right time. He kept himself alive for the glimmer of something that could have been.

Things got better eventually. He kept moving countries, changing names, doing his job. He got used to the new life he had become to accept as his own. The road to giving up on being that same person he always thought he was, was not as hard a he thought it would be. Not as hard as it felt. He stopped taking knives to his skin but he still jabbed needles in his arm. Less often, to his credit. He could feel that the end was near. That he would return to his old life soon enough. It took over him like a spring breeze, signalling the coming of energy and wonder again.

The nearing of his return home left a bittersweet taste in his mouth though. He knew that he would be giving one life for another. He would gladly throw this one away, stomp on it and light it on fire if he could. But one thing kept him holding onto it. He wouldn't see her again. The last time was easy. He had long since lost contact with Mycroft when he heard about her little cottage, and the only people who would even care that they were together have been dead for months. When he gets back home though... It will difficult, nearing impossible to attempt to see her again.

That’s why he was beyond glad the next time he met her. He didn't ask, but he didn't have to. He already knew why she was there. He took her into his home, gave her food and a place to rest. She needed the release of sustenance but moreso, his company was what gave back to her a life she had lost. They hardly spoke, in words that is. But nothing need be said. He understood what she was going through, what she wanted. He wanted it too.

Can reblog? It's super good

omg youre a really awesome artist!