LostInTheBlackParade

Cue the tears The date that sears Is here again Take a pen And spill yourself Onto a page Sad in rage How could they leave? You won't belive All the pain Emotions rain From head to toe When you woe That you'll be okay Upon this day There's no way Cue the tears Sadness and fears And nothing more Close the door And drown yourself Inside a sea Just like me

SHERLOCK X INSECURE READER Sherlock: Insecure "Are you almost ready (y/n)?" Sherlock asks knocking on the bathroom door. You didn't mean to keep him waiting. Sherlock always hated waiting. Patience wasn't in his nature, his mind was constantly going and there fore he need to be as well. You had gone into the washroom to put on some eye-liner and lip stick, but looking instead of seeing the knock out beauty you are you only saw every single flaw you possibly could. suddenly your eye brows seemed uneven and your pores are huge. The lip stick you've picked out makes your mouth seem too small and the way your hair is done only high-lights the w

NOTE/TRIGGER WARNING: Despite my best efforts to keep this story really simple it got more in depth than I expected. This one shot may be triggering for anyone who suffers from depression/ low mood or has suffered from depression/low mood in the past. This story may also contain unintentional triggers for anxiety or suicidal thoughts. Read at your own discretion. On a slightly unrelated note I hope Sherlock isn't too OOC. The room felt unusually cold and she decided she needed a blanket but didn't bother to get up and get one. Her body was frozen and it seemed impossible to move; a lot of things seemed impossible at the moment. There was a m

There was something about a gunshot that you found much less personal than any other form of attack. Knives required being up close and either surprising or overpowering your victim. Poison required sleight of hand or blind trust. Barehanded attacks required passion. Bombs required premeditation. But guns. Guns were easy. Long range, rapid fire, not impossible to get your hands on.  Impersonal. Ironically, your love life had begun to center around getting shot. Or avoiding it, as it were. When you met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, you were running. Not literally, at least not at the time, but running nonetheless. Three months ear