A mouse, a ponytail,
Scurrying along the edges of the spotlight,
Always there,
Even when you don't know it,
And even when you do and wish you didn't.
She catches tears in soft hands,
Has doe eyes that will cry for you when you can't.
There's quiet music hidden in her labcoat lapels,
Cherries on her jumpers
And on her lips.
Her head is a tiny nothing that can hold the weight of the world,
Lotus-petal ears catching the drip of your rainfall words.
Pink tea and sugary coffee,
Quavers and petri dishes and blood.
Nice. Very nice.
She's the epitome of nice,
A big cavern echoing of niceness,
Slipping in under the other sounds.
You
This is a nightmare.
No, it really is a nightmare. It's a dream. Right now, the pain he's inflicting and experiencing...it's all in his head.
But isn't that all that's really mattered to him? The inside of his own head?
He thinks there might be a way to trigger his physical self, the one in the world of Others, to awaken, but that thought isn't really clearly defined. Just because he knows that this is a dream doesn't mean he has the power to shape it.
How? How is this possible? The man of complete control, mental discipline, reduced to this? A nightmare! In his own carefully kept mind, the very idea is as abhorrent as being sliced right
First Impressions by the-improbable-ive, literature
Literature
First Impressions
I remember the first time I met Sherlock Holmes.
But then, so do most people. It's never an easy experience to forget.
It was my first day at Barts, and I was so nervous that I couldn't speak without stumbling all over the words. Thankfully, I hadn't really run into anyone yet: being new, I'd (of course)come far earlier than was really necessary. Still, I was excited. I couldn't believe I'd actually gotten the job.
My steps clicked against the shiny lino, and I tried not to look too lost as I worked my way towards the laboratory I'd been assigned.
There it was. I held up the key, then noticed something: the door was already slightly ajar.
Shocking how red blood looked against the starch white of the gurney's sheets. She supposed maybe it was because she was used to patients whose blood stopped pumping hours before she saw them. In any case, Molly Hooper's stomach knotted and lurched when she looked down at his blood-smeared head. At the way his already raven locks stuck together in murky blood-sludge. Darker and stringier than she would ever have liked to see.
Even the way the red stained the thin crest of his high cheekbone, the way his pale skin shone almost transparent. Almost as bleached as the sta
Guilty Pleasure. by CompanionToMrHolmes, literature
Literature
Guilty Pleasure.
We all have a truly guilty pleasure.
Some people are secretly kinky, others will read 50 Shades of Grey on the tube as an act of rebellion, some may even find their guilty pleasure when dipping chocolate into their tomato soup. But for most, it's as simple as a silly film, TV show, or a song (that's hardly classed as music).
For one Molly Hooper, whom despite appearances had an eclectic, fair and slightly beautiful taste in music (and men), enjoyed nothing more than dancing atrociously to a long remembered routine and singing (in perfect pitch I might add) along to 'Everybody (Backstreet's Back)' by The Backstreet Boys. Although she found t