D
Dreamer-
Guest
(I didn't feel like the name 'Sherlock' had to be changed to anything more feminine, so kept it the same. Feel free the change Johns name if you like.)
Blue, black, and different tones of grey swirl in the darkness behind the backs of her eye lids. It was an interesting activity, trying to follow the colors around as the strain on the eye muscles made it painful after a while. And it did little to chase away the thoughts racing threw her mind, which cause a throbbing in her frontal lobe like a white-hot poker. So Sherlock took another long drag from her cigarette that was held between the tips of her long pale fingers. Jesus Christ was this day ever to end? Though its not like the night held any relief; she stayed up, wide awake and tuning her violin till 3 o'clock in the morning.
No... there was to be no remedy to the boredom that consumed Sherlock body and soul. The only good thing that was happening was the possibility of suffocation with the cigarette smoke to oxygen ratio in the room. Well, truthfully it was only enough to make her pass out, but the headache when Sherlock was awoken would be worth it. Earlier, before sprawling her long limbs over the sofa, she had closed up all of the windows and shut the curtains. All doors were closed and the only fresh air able to get threw was from the cracks under the front door and the vents. But because it had been hours since Sherlock had started this activity, the vents were clogged with nothing but grey haze.
A twitch of a smirk spreads across the women's lips as she let her hand fall limp back to her side, hanging off of the couch and flicking cigarette ash on the floor. The swirl of colors just continued on when she opened her eyes. Only these were tones of muddy grey and black, nothing remotely remarkable. All except for the way the ash moves... A person could tell the brand and type of leafs in a cigarette just from the ash in the air, or tin. Which ever one preferred... Then again, the color was important. Even these grey shades swirling around. The small details were always important. For instance the thickness and tint of this smog made it clear there wasn't a filter on the cigarette and it was high in tar. Prefect for ruining the lungs but delightful to inhale and cover the taste buds with.
Another good aspect was there was no one to bug her about this vice of hers. The good doctor was out at the clinic, spending her time looking over the insignificant patients she loved so much. Why, Sherlock had no idea. There was no point in caring for any of those people. It's not like they had a connection or relationship with the doctor outside of hours. She always spends so much time there... Why? When I'm here and clearly so much more interesting. Sherlock shakes her head sharply, a deep and disgusted frown darkening her features. Damn in, she did it again. How is it that that women is always popping into her mind? Its becoming more frequent that's for sure, and increasingly annoying. Sherlock didn't have the power to stop the racing thoughts on subjects like work, or cases with serial killer and murders. But that was fine... it was normal. And she had adjusted to it... But these random thoughts about Watson were disconcerting to say the least. They were friends and Sherlock cared about the other women. That was something she had begrudgingly come to terms with, but this was something new and strange. Emotions were always messy and something to stay away from, they clouded thoughts and reasonable judgment. That's why they were called emotions.
Sherlock lets out a long and tired sigh, letting escape the smoke that had been locked inside her lungs. This stream quickly blended in with the large cloud that consumed the entire room. With her free hand she brushes her bangs out of her eyes, feeling the curly black hair frame her face. Maybe it was time for a hair cut?. . . No. When the mats grew unmanageable then she'd cut it all off. Like last time, and the time before that. It was customary for Sherlock to wait till her hair was unnecessarily long and then crop it short. Though it didn't matter much anyway, it was just hair.
Blue, black, and different tones of grey swirl in the darkness behind the backs of her eye lids. It was an interesting activity, trying to follow the colors around as the strain on the eye muscles made it painful after a while. And it did little to chase away the thoughts racing threw her mind, which cause a throbbing in her frontal lobe like a white-hot poker. So Sherlock took another long drag from her cigarette that was held between the tips of her long pale fingers. Jesus Christ was this day ever to end? Though its not like the night held any relief; she stayed up, wide awake and tuning her violin till 3 o'clock in the morning.
No... there was to be no remedy to the boredom that consumed Sherlock body and soul. The only good thing that was happening was the possibility of suffocation with the cigarette smoke to oxygen ratio in the room. Well, truthfully it was only enough to make her pass out, but the headache when Sherlock was awoken would be worth it. Earlier, before sprawling her long limbs over the sofa, she had closed up all of the windows and shut the curtains. All doors were closed and the only fresh air able to get threw was from the cracks under the front door and the vents. But because it had been hours since Sherlock had started this activity, the vents were clogged with nothing but grey haze.
A twitch of a smirk spreads across the women's lips as she let her hand fall limp back to her side, hanging off of the couch and flicking cigarette ash on the floor. The swirl of colors just continued on when she opened her eyes. Only these were tones of muddy grey and black, nothing remotely remarkable. All except for the way the ash moves... A person could tell the brand and type of leafs in a cigarette just from the ash in the air, or tin. Which ever one preferred... Then again, the color was important. Even these grey shades swirling around. The small details were always important. For instance the thickness and tint of this smog made it clear there wasn't a filter on the cigarette and it was high in tar. Prefect for ruining the lungs but delightful to inhale and cover the taste buds with.
Another good aspect was there was no one to bug her about this vice of hers. The good doctor was out at the clinic, spending her time looking over the insignificant patients she loved so much. Why, Sherlock had no idea. There was no point in caring for any of those people. It's not like they had a connection or relationship with the doctor outside of hours. She always spends so much time there... Why? When I'm here and clearly so much more interesting. Sherlock shakes her head sharply, a deep and disgusted frown darkening her features. Damn in, she did it again. How is it that that women is always popping into her mind? Its becoming more frequent that's for sure, and increasingly annoying. Sherlock didn't have the power to stop the racing thoughts on subjects like work, or cases with serial killer and murders. But that was fine... it was normal. And she had adjusted to it... But these random thoughts about Watson were disconcerting to say the least. They were friends and Sherlock cared about the other women. That was something she had begrudgingly come to terms with, but this was something new and strange. Emotions were always messy and something to stay away from, they clouded thoughts and reasonable judgment. That's why they were called emotions.
Sherlock lets out a long and tired sigh, letting escape the smoke that had been locked inside her lungs. This stream quickly blended in with the large cloud that consumed the entire room. With her free hand she brushes her bangs out of her eyes, feeling the curly black hair frame her face. Maybe it was time for a hair cut?. . . No. When the mats grew unmanageable then she'd cut it all off. Like last time, and the time before that. It was customary for Sherlock to wait till her hair was unnecessarily long and then crop it short. Though it didn't matter much anyway, it was just hair.