my-room-smells

8

TB!

Went to go check on my moms and she was going through a bunch of old pictures (caribbean mothers aka hoarders) and she handed me these. Oh high school days, shit I looked pretty ok. But skins over here @teiganrgreen LMAOO. She was so annoying. It was like having another younger sister. Had all ha shit in my room, smelling like mad cucumber body spray and shit. Good ole days.

Side note: I HATED those fucking shorts. She had em in every color B!

Casual reminder to follow your dreams, kiddos. Spoiler alert I was shaking and cried

I did a thing and I'm sorry

A beep. A noise. A smell.
Where am I?
Can’t move. A room. Which room? My room? No, unfamiliar smell. Another room. Another beep. Yes, of course. Stupid. A hospital. Obviously.
But why? Why here, why now? What happened.
Oh. A feeling. A hand. Whom’s hand?
Long fingers, short nails, a hint of dry skin. Warm. A man, yes a man.
Obviously a man Sherlock. And you know exactly who it is, don’t you. Don’t be stupid, brother mine.
Mycroft?
Another hand. One on top, one below.
Warm, safe, home. Obviously, John’s hands. Stupid.
“Sherlock?”
John.
Can’t move.
“I’m here”
Don’t go.

Light. Bright. Very bright light. Blinding.
A thumb. A caress. A feeling. Home.
John.
One eye, other eye. Blinking, twice.
Another beep.
“Sherlock? You’re awake?”
Yes, yes!
Or am I? I’m not sure. What happened.
Oh, yes of course. A needle, a pinch, a relief, a blood stain.
“Why again, Sherlock.” Sad voice. Sad John.
Sorry.
Can I say something? Trying, only muffled sounds. Guess the answer is no, how annoying.
“I’m sorry Sherlock. I should have been there.”
You are here.
Eyes still open, blinking.
New feeling. Hand, in hair. My hair.
John’s hand in my hair. Gentle, reasuring.
Please more. Something, anything.
I see his face for the first time, though my eyes have been open for long.
Hair, eyes, nose, lips. Sad lips. A shy smile? His lips, I long for. Please.
Eyes: Blue, red? Vains visible. Crying.
Don’t cry.
“John.” It only comes out as a whisper.
“Sherlock? I’m here now. It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”
Lips, on mine. Please. But no.
“Is he awake?” Another voice, a female.
Blonde, blue eyes. Short hair, Conclusion: wife.
Hand dissapir from my hair - No home.
Come back.
“Maybe you should let him rest, John.”
The female, the blonde, the wife. A liar.
Suddenly lips on lips. Not my lips, her lips. That wife.
John please.
Foot steps. One, two, three. Fading.
Don’t go.
Please.
Door closing.
Come back.
Alone, afraid, awake.
“John”

A men’s shirt was accidentally in the women’s section of Goodwill and I could get it without my parents being suspicious.

This trip is the worst and honestly I’m tired of gross port cities and fighting people for a stray wifi signal.

(If you need me, best idea is probably to tag me in posts because that means email alerts and I can usually get Gmail to open.)

“Dear the gods, what is that–” -cough cough cough- “It reeks of burning peppers!” -cough cough cough, covering nose-

“’Tis no good for my senses…”

“My apologies Thancred and Y’shtola. Yet again have failed to make ourselves dinner again…”