The scattered shreds of their tumultuous life
Lay about their feet
Yet hear the great brain sat
As if nothing strange had occurred
The soldier, perplexed
Looked to his friend in confusion
How could he see this as normal?
How was this just another day?
The windows were gone
Glass strewn about the floor
Yet here he sat
Plucking his violin
But then the game began
There was no more time
For boarded windows or cracked walls
They had things to do
23Sherlock blinked. He sat up, still mildly disorientated from the knockout gas. Looking around the room, he noticed that certain things were slightly off. The shelf was one inch too far to the left. The paint was a slightly different colour of green. The light from the window was slightly too yellow. He rubbed his head and looked out of the window. Instead of the typical view of London, he was greeted with a view of an idyllic village.
He left his bedroom to find that the rest of wherever he was had a rather retro décor. Round doors, lava lamps, clocks straight out of the 1960s. It was puzzling the great detective. He left the house and strode down to the massive chessboard where people were standing in for the pieces. Everywhere he looked, he saw traces of drugging or brainwashing. Everyone had strange numbered badges, which he only assumed were some
MatildaMatilda, a nebelung, was the pride of her human, Sherlock. He loved her dearly, and when things got tough for the twelve-year-old, he sometimes felt she was the only person he could turn to. Even though she was a cat.
When he failed his Geography of South America exam, she was there. When no one asked him to birthday parties or weekend get-togethers, he could sit in silence with Matilda. When his parents compared him to Mycroft, he could always talk to Matilda. He loved her and was convinced that she loved him.
It was all the worse when she vanished two days before his thirteenth birthday.
His parents had decided to throw him a birthday party, but Sherlock didn't really have any friends so it ended up that his parents' friends (plus, obviously, Mycroft) were the only people in attendance. Between the sickly sweet cake and the annoyingly bright decorations, it was certainly not the sort of party Sherlock would have wanted
Fever-questShe stood above him, smiling, naked. His dearest wife lay a kiss upon his brow, her radiantly golden locks falling over his face.
"My dear," she said softly, gently, reassuring and kind, "I must leave now."
"Don't go," he croaked, for his voice was not strong in the mornings.
"I must. But I shall come back to you." She arose from her bed, and in his fever-fog he registered the gown with which she clothed herself. The golden light of the sun and the silver glitter of the stars shone upon it as though she were Light itself. She looked sadly behind her to her husband and strode through the door of their green-wallpapered room.
"Don't go," he whispered, tears falling from his deep brown eyes. "Don't go "
He awoke to the touch of cloud-soft lips, cool and tender as a gentle rain. He could but moan as the weakness took him yet again, and the wallpaper darkened to his sight.
Three more times his beloved came to him as he lay in the g