I’ve said this before a while back but I just gotta explain again… where I live in sussex there’s this house at the very top of a hill you walk up to head towards the downs, and it’s this lovely cottage with a really cute garden and there’s a swish black car in the drive with the number plate SSH and there’s a 60 yr old man who I see sometimes with a mustache and a hat who walks down the hill to go to the shops and I’m not kidding you he is exactly how you would picture Watson. I’m not saying that retired Sherlock and John live in that house on the hill but, I am saying that retired Sherlock and John live in that house on the hill.
the rain has kept up its howling, beating against our house on top the hill, and i've started to hear a wailing voice through the wind; a sobbing violent scream, a scream for someone to come back, to come out of the house on the hill and embrace the elements again, love them again. as i listened to these cries, my heart began to feel heavy, and i felt like i was missing a piece of myself. like i was meant to, i walked out of the house and into the rain, holding the spirits there. all felt right.