Journal of Sherlock Holmes [entry 12 up!]

[Starthorn]

A nice long disclaimer:
I know this has been done. As in, published books about this.
Before anyone accuses me of copying, I HAVE NOT READ THEM, although I plan to at some point. I HAVE read Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle's books, and yes, they are amazing. This is based on the new (ish) series on the BBC. The one with Sherlock minus a pipe. You probably know this if you are reading this, because you probably opened this because you are a fan. Then again, I am not Sherlock, so I probably got that wrong. Anyways... I'm very sorry if I mess up your long loved characters. I am not a very good writer, and will very likely do this. It is as faithful to my view of things at least, and I know the facts, even if my interpretation of the characters is wrong. I will try my best for you all (and myself XD).
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Enjoy (if it is possible to enjoy something that I've written). Comments and crits welcome(and needed D:), but no spamming guys!!!!

Table of contents:
• Contents and entry 1-3
• Entry 4
• Entry 5
• Entry 6
• Entry 7
• Entry 8
• Entry 9
• Entries 10 and 11
• Entry 12

Other stories that I support:
• The first part of Alanar’s Quest: Ever Burn- by DragonWolf234
• If you want to see your story's name here,
please PM me!

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ＪＯＵＲＮＡＬ

of

Sherlock Holmes

Entry 1
1/1 22:00
So here I am. Being stupid and wrong. I hate being stupid and wrong. I do not know why I am writing in this diary. I do not know why I am bothering. I don't like writing. It is stupid. But here I am anyway, so I might as well write. I hate to admit it, but I need someone to talk to. So my writing in here is stupid because I cannot talk to pieces of dead tree and skin from a dead cow. If you are reading this, you are probably stupid, so I will explain. Paper=pieces of dead tree. Leather Cover= skin from a dead cow. I will not explain why you are stupid. I cannot be bothered. To tell you the true, I am bored. I needed to borrow a microscope from one of the biology classrooms in school. Mycroft came to visit, and saw me with it. Confounded thing. Stupid brother. I had taken the school tag code off it earlier, but he still put two and two together. It's not like I took it off school property anyway. And now I'm here, locked in the caretaker's office, writing in this journal, being very stupid and wrong like everybody else. That is why I am writing, because I don't want to be like everybody else. I hate them. Every one of them. From Mycroft to the headmaster. From Ben Dobson's little sister to his oldest ancestor. I hate them all. I hate mankind. I hate that I am one of them. I hate it. I HATE IT ALL. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I hate myself because right now I can't think of a stronger word than hate. Thank you for existing so that I can write this. I will not write in here again.

Entry 2
5/1 19:00
That lasted a long time then. Here I am again. I felt slightly less- I can't really describe it- If I have nothing to do, nothing to- solve, workout- I cannot live with myself. My mind can't be doing nothing because then I begin to think about things. About problems that- never mind. But after I wrote in here last, I felt different. Like I had got something out of my system.I will not say how much I hate everything again. I have done that, so there is no point. Look, before I write anything else, this is for me. I do not believe that I am talking to some mystic soul. You are paper, card and leather, unwritten in before I wrote in you, owned by a man who was once rich, with great foresight and organisation, but then fell on hard times, taken over, probably by drink in his despair. He owned a small carnivorous mammal-
I called this piece of paper you.
Sherlock you are an idiot. Stop being an idiot. Stop writing things that you already know. Stop being an idiot.

Entry 3
5/1 19:30
I have to write. Anything. I have to write or die. It is like an addiction. My life is worthless. I am worthless. Write Sherlock. Write. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am 14 years old. I live at Eastgate High private boarding school for boys in London. My parents are dead. My only known relative is my brother Mycroft Holmes. He is 21 years old. I hate him. I do not know if he hates me. I do not know him at all. My parents left no money. I got in on a scholarship. I do not Hate Maths, Biology, Physics, Chemistry or IT. I share a dormitory with Ben Dodson, Charles Wynne and Winston Muers. Ben is slow and stupid. He eats food, he sleeps. Winston does his homework for him. I watch. Charles is stupid. His parents are the 17th richest family in the UK. He is stuck up like his parents. When he joined, he asked to move out of my dormitory, because I only came in on a scholarship. He was moved, but was bullied in the dorm he was sent to, so came back. He is annoying, but doesn't tease me all of the time any more. I can live with him. Just. Winston is quiet and intelligent. He parents are rich, but he could have probably entered on a scholarship had he needed to. He is especially good at Maths. I do not do friends. None of these boys are my friend.
This morning, my alarm clock woke me up at 2:00. I got up and dressed. I used a magnet to unlock to door. Oh yes. That. I replaced our dormitory lock with a magnetic metal lock. It can still be locked and unlocked as normal, but also with a magnet. That is how I get out of my room in the morning. I go down to chemistry 4. The motion sensors do not cover the expanse of the route there, so as always, I arrived undetected. And so continued my experiment. Ms. Lockhart makes a call on our dorm at 7:00. By that time, I am back in bed. Those are the facts. Now I must right something funny. Maybe something about what one of my chums said to me last Saturday down at the boating lake. Lies.I have no 'chums'. If I went to the boating lake it would be by myself. I would be annoyed if anyone else came. I would be thinking. Now, my dearest diary, you realise how little you want to know about me after all. My life is a boring drone. Good day to you.
Note to self: Stop treating diary like a human. Idiot.
Note to self: New sensor to be fitted in corridor. North wing, Biology 1- Biology 3.
Note to self: Stop making notes to self.
Note to self: Shoot me now.
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I can do longer, and I can do funny, but Sherlock is new to this concept of talking to no-one. He may warm to his journal later, and write longer and more humane accounts of his life Will continue if there is enough interest ^^ Don't want to clog up the forums!

[Starthorn]

Will clog up forums anyways DX (jokes jokes jokes would never dream of doing this )
Here's entry 4...
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Entry 4
6/1 13:30

Hello myself. I am sitting on a wall. Well, not quite on a wall... on a path next to a wall. Better explain- to myself? what I mean. Eastgate High is based around an old Norman fortress, with a great stone wall around to defend it from any Saxons who were not too keen on their new ruler. It has, or rather had, a sort of stone walk way around it, so that intruders could be seen over the top of the wall. Most of it's run down now, and people rarely visit what's left, especially in dreary weather like this. I come up here most days. It gives me somewhere to think, away from all the noise that everybody else makes. So, I am sitting here now, writing a pointless journal to myself, and eating a raisin and cinnamon bagel that I have not long since bought from the dining hall. I'm not so sure that I like cooked raisins though. The skin breaks under the heat, and the inside turns to mush. I'm eating it anyway, as I suppose it's the last thing I'll have to eat until dinner at seven. Not only is this place away from people, but it gives me a good view of the city. I can sit up hear and watch all of the tiny insignificant people rushing around and worrying about their tiny insignificant lives. I had art this morning, then maths, history and Chemistry. Not too bad a morning really. You should see Thursday. Drama, double English and then another hour of art. Given that each subject lasts an hour, double English is not much fun. Silly expression that. Not much fun. I don't think anything is 'much fun' to be honest. Art is a complete waste of time. Our teacher, Mr. Quigley is completely out of his mind. He has a 'Tibetan gong' that he hits with a size 20 paintbrush when he wants to get our attention. His classroom is a mess, as he forgets to make anybody tidy up. Ben spilt a whole tin of paint down his blazer a few weeks ago, and instead of giving him detention, Mr. Quigley hung up his blazer on the wall and gave him an A* for the most creative piece of artwork. It means we don't have to do much though. As long as you can explain how you have constucted and cried over the layout and fine tuning of your work, and write a page or two about all the depths of emotion that you forced into it with your skilled hand, you'll get a good mark. Even if it's just a splodge of paint. That drives me up the wall. I hate doing nothing, and making up complete lies. I swear that I'll write no more than a line next time, and see what he makes of it. "Sherlock my boy, this is an exemplary piece of artwork! The sheer simplicity... is beyond expression! Marvellous! Miraculous! Magnificent! I will give you a bang on my beautiful Tibetan gong as a reward!" Erh. I can almost hear him saying that.
There's a blue ford galaxy car coming up the drive way. It's probably Miss. Rushworth.She went on holiday to Majorca for a few weeks, and she has that type of car. And yes, that's her number plate; T56 Y19X.It's look like her style of driving too. If she's not careful, she's going to go-
Too late.
Into that thorn bush. I'm surprised she didn't get stuck. I'm not sure from up here, but I think there's someone else sitting in the back of the car. A child I think. Maybe a relative of her's, or a new boy starting at the school. It won't be a child of her's... she's not married and has never been pregnant as far as I know. And there was nothing on the registers about a new pupil... besides, it looks like a girl. A relative... she doesn't have any that I know of. Maybe an adopted child? A friend's child? Writing things down slows my brain. I should have worked this out by now. I have to find out who this new person is, or I will have nothing else to do with my life, and die of stupidity. Or perhaps I'll live, and end up hanging upside down for the rest of my life, trying to let nothingness drain out of my ears. And the bell will ring in...5,4,3,2,1
And yes it rung. I am not going to form. I am going to find this person. I am not going to write a good bye note as I am writing to myself and I am not going away from myself. I am writing to myself, not a diary. MYSELF.
Got that Sherlock?

[Starthorn]

Thank you c o m e d y for your awesomesauce niceness over PMs. Made my day
Sorry that the following is a bit failed. I messed up rather badly. Inferences are especially terrible. Sorry for and gramatical/ spelling errors. I have an head ache
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Entry 5
6/1 23:30
It was Miss. Rushworth. It was a girl. The girl's name is Madeline Forster. She has brown hair and has been around the world, or has at least according to her suitcase. She is a careful, intelligent person, but has very little or no money. She doesn't wear make-up, and has short, flaking nails. Miss. Rushworth probably picked her up somewhere along the west coast in Devon, which is strange because Miss. Rushworth was intending to disembark at Heathrow airport, which is certainly not in Devon. No, I am not showing off. Anyone with any powers of deduction will realise this. Now I will explain. For the sake of God knows who. If God exists. Which you cannot prove or disprove, because the whole concept is so utterly inexplicable. The car was parked outside the entrance building. I tore a page out of the back of this book, and wrote a fake letter from the headmaster. Yes. I know. Stupid. But I've had some good views of his writing in the past, so it wasn't exactly difficult to replicate. I gave it to the porter, and said it was from the headmaster for Miss. Rushworth. He is not very bright and hurried outside to give it to the woman who was unloading the baggage from the car. I couldn't see the second person, but among the luggage was a small battered suitcase, which she would never have taken. Mark you, she would have taken something battered, but is a biology teacher, and does not like old things. She read the note and hurried inside. I assumed the girl had already gone in, so I waited until Miss. Rushworth had gone into the building, and then went to inspect the case. It was a tatty leather thing, covered in stickers from around the world. I could see Paris, New York, and Sydney, almost lost under the layers of many others. The name was not that difficult.There was a thin slip of paper tied to the handle, and on it was written 'Madeline Forster' in a swooping elaborate hand. I recognized the old way of writing the e and the f, and assumed that it wasn't the child's hand writing. Some strands of brown hair, about 30cm long had been caught in the metal clasp. This also did not take much brain power.Although the case was dented and scratched, all of it's injures were dark and worn, indicating that this had belonged to someone before her. On closer inspection, I realised that there were no new ones, which seemed incredible as it had clearly been much used. So, she must careful of her belongings. This also suggested that she did not own much, and as she had not bought a new one, unless it had some sentimental value, indicated that she had little money. Intelligent? There was a unique iron lock on the case, with what looked like a sort of code. Rather like a Chinese puzzle lock, but home made almost. I examined it closely, but couldn't work out what you were supposed to do with it. Which is not very like me. I suddenly realised that I had been standing in the open for almost 10 minutes, and Miss. Rushworth, however clumsy she was, would realise that the letter was a fake.
I shot into the thick mesh of bushes at the side of the road, and took the long route back to my dorm, in case someone was following me. No, I am not paranoid. Just cautious.
So I sat on the floor in the bathroom with my violin, and played and thought and played and thought. Playing does not help me think. I can think on my own thank you very much. It allows me to organise my thoughts in my head, and sort them into to an order that makes sense. I can associate each one with a note or cord, and can find them again. Almost an hour had past, when Winston came back from the final lesson, to get changed out of his uniform. He accidently opened the door on me, which I had forgotten to lock. It was a slightly awkward moment. I stopped playing, and stared at him. The room is sound proofed by the way. That's why he couldn't hear me.
"Oh- Sorry Sherlock-I-I didn't think..." he trailed off. Talking is certainly not his forte. I picked up my violin case, and stood up.
"Don't worry. I forgot to lock the door." I walked out of the room, wondering why one earth I'd told him that I hadn't locked the door, as it was quite obvious that I hadn't. To Winston as well. It's not as if he's an idiot like most people.
I heard the resounding click of the lock behind me, and sat down on my bed, staring out of the window. The sky was dark and dead, coated with thick grey clouds. I looked as though it was about to rain. And then it did. Heavy bullets of water hit hard against the window, echoing through out the room. Maybe I should be a weather forecaster. I would certainly do a better job than some of those buffoons. I hoped that the case wasn't still outside. It would wash that mud off it. I started kicking the wall. Kicking the wall is a very beneficial pass time if you cannot play a violin. Thud thud thud. That plaster on the piece that I was kicking is now beginning to fleck away as I write this by torchlight. If I don't stop this habit soon, Ms. Lockhart will notice something. I am going to go to sleep now. Goodnight book myself.

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I don't know about you, but I feel sorry for that wall

[Starthorn]

Sorry for the wait... to anyone that's waiting Will try and get new entries up more often I had a terrifying dream about Mycroft last night; I dream't that he shot me D: But I was ok I just nearly died, because he thought that I was going to destroy the British Economy (Not that it's exactly not destroyed right now) Anyways... Here you go!
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Entry 6
7/1 05:00
Mycroft is coming today. If I had bad days, then the days that he comes to visit would be bad days. They give you lessons off, ‘so that you can spend more time with your families’ and also so that Mycroft can kill me. Not really kill me. You know what I mean. Of course I know what I mean. This is stupid. I am stupid. The only problem is, my older brother is not. You won’t believe how many times I’ve tried to avoid seeing him. Yes I will, because it’s me that's been avoiding him- This is starting to become even more stupid. Oh, how I hate myself.
Today, I resort to desperate measures. I am going to hide. In a rather obvious place. But that’s the beauty of it. I don't think he'll look for me somewhere like that. But Mycroft is very unpredictable and unreadable.
I’d received a letter a few days before, telling me that he was coming, here:

Sherlock,

I'm coming the seventh of February at 8 O’clock. Meet me in the East Wing reception area. If you’re not there, I'll have you put into detention for a week.

Mycroft.

Short, and to the point. Fail to turn up, and you can’t go out into the labs at night, because you’ll be locked in the detention block, where they have no magnetic door locks fitted. I will have to do something about this at some point. And the thing is, Mycroft really can do all of this to me. He was here before me, and apparently, all of the teachers loved him. He was the ideal. The role model student. It's always 'Why can't you be like your brother Sherlock?' 'Mycroft was the most talented pupil that I've ever had. It's a terrible shame that you don't take after him.' Why can't they just leave it? I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE MY BROTHER. I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE ANY STUPID HUMAN ON THIS GODFORSAKEN PLANET.
Mycroft: Junior prefect, Monitor, Prefect, Senior prefect, head boy. School council 6 years running. Mummy's ickle babykins. Daddy's perfect son.
Sherlock: Worthless idiot.
He came here, fully paid for by my parents, all rights, luxuries and holidays included. Then they decided to get themselves killed. 'I know! Let's leave Mycroft to become the great person that he was always going to be, and let's leave Sherlock to rot.' I only got in here because Mycroft made me. I hate Mycroft. I don't want to be here. I want to run away from everyone and everything and build a rocket and die in space. No-one would ever find my body. No-one would even care. And that's how I want it. I want to be on my own. I don't need anything, or anyone. I don't have to live with something that I hate.

I left by my usual route. Winston was awake when I left. He knows how I get out. There have often been mornings when he's watched me leave, but with every passing week, it has been more and more frequent. He clearly hasn't slept. Bags under his eyes, he's slower that usual. He even dropped 3 marks in our last Physics test. He's never done that before. His hair is unwashed, his cloths creased and dirty. Sometimes when I go to bed, He is just sitting there on his own bed opposite me, staring out of the window. His eyes red from crying. His father is in the army. My initial thought was that his father was missing. This has happened several times before, but he's never been apparently distressed for more than a a day or two. It's been almost a week now. I'm going to check his post tomorrow morning. Maybe I'll find an answer there. It was easy enough to climb out of the common room window. There is a line of dormitory window ledges, and a handy chestnut tree at the corner of the building. The curtains of the rooms are always shut this early in the morning, so it is not particularly difficult to work my way along the ledge. The foliage of trees, too spindly to climb down, yet bushy enough to provide cover, offer perfect protection, especially on a cloudless night. They would also break my fall. I'm fifteen metres up; third floor.I was soon on the ground, and in the leafy cover of the bushes. The temperature was around -5 degrees, but my trench coat, though rather worn, is of good quality and saw to that. I shifted my back pack across my shoulders. The heavy coil of rope was digging in uncomfortably. I crept around the building, bent low behind the bushes, my side pressed hard against the cold stone wall, counting the windows above me. I occurred to me again that this was a very stupid idea. I glanced upwards. I could see the light on in the bathrooms. It doesn't have blinds, and the cleaners come in about this time. I checked my digital watch. The numbers flashed in the darkness. 3:45. This was the time that they took their break. All I had to do was to wait for one of them to open the window. They always do this before they leave. They're not allowed the heating on, and so they use any night time breeze to dry it. The latch clacked above me, followed by footsteps, and the crashing of the bathroom door as it shut. I waited. It takes two minutes for the motion sensor to turn out the lights. I stood there, back against the wall, watching the square of light that the open window cast through the trees. Any second now...
A twig snapped somewhere behind me. I froze, then spun round. The ridiculous fear that it was Mycroft coursed through my veins. But too late. The light flickered off. I could here footsteps, fading into the distance. If it hadn't been for the faint crackling of the bracken beneath their feet, I would not have known that they had been there at all. Even Mycroft could not thread that lightly. It had to be someone small, slight. None of the boys could have managed it. That was when it hit me. Madeline Forster. The girl that Miss. Rushworth brought back. If someone had broken onto the school property, which is very unlikely as it is, I would have known. It had to be her. Fighting the instinctive urge to trace her,I turned my thought back to the task at hand. I retrieved the rope from my bag, and made sure that the rope was secured to the metal hook that I had made from twisted tin cans. Weak by themselves, but together, as strong as I needed them to be. I'd used eiderdown from the inside of my blanket so that it didn't clash against the wall if I missed. I needn't have worried. My aim was true, and the hook and rope flew through the open window, and bounced soundlessly on the floor at the other side. I pulled the rope next to me, testing it's strength. Hoisting my rucksack on again, I began to climb. I pulled my self in through the second floor window, and pulled the rope up after me. The bathroom would now be automatically locked from the outside until 9:30. All I had to do was hide the rope in the storage cupboard. The only people that checked in there were the cleaners, and they had finished for the night. This was the only safe hiding place in the room. All I had to do was tell Mycroft that I needed the toilet. I'd done this before, and run off out of the building. When he found me later, I told him that I'd been going to the toilets in the gallery building. He of course, didn't believe me, and now always makes sure that I use the one that I'm in now. The toilets above the East wing reception area. This shouldn't be a problem today. And now all I do Is wait. I made Winston promise that he'd come and unlock the door. And he's pulling the rope back in for me, and re hiding it. Cheating really, but it doesn't matter. He can't come down until half six, so I've got a, or rather had a bit of a wait.I can hear him coming down the passageway now.
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Only a small part of Sherlock's day... His meeting with his brother will be in the next entry. This was a bit long winded. I'll try and make it more concise next time
Any Comments+crits much appreciated ^^ Please?? Anyone

[Betta132]

Haha! This is really funny! Please write more!

[Starthorn]

Haha! This is really funny! Please write more!

Thank you! It's really good of you to comment^^ I will post another entry later today

[lioness99a]

I love it!! Keep going (and I don't mind if it is longwinded!)

[Starthorn]

Thank you Betta132 for your comment^^ Much appreciated, and -comedy for your continued support ^^
Here it is!
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Entry 7
7/1 22:00
It didn’t work. I don’t think there is really another way of putting it. Winston came and let me out of the toilets. Reliable and silent as always. He looks exhausted, and his cloths were ironed into wonky folds and creases, which makes it obvious that he has slept in them again. He was doing up his tie when he came in. I pointed to the cupboard where I had hidden the rope. He simply nodded, and we left together. I wandered towards the main staircase in our dormitory block, and headed downstairs. I considered finding some breakfast, but wasn’t really hungry. We plodded down the wide carpeted staircase, as I ran my hand along the polished banister. If you hadn’t spent what felt like a life time in this building, you might think it posh, decorative. And you wouldn’t be far wrong. If you could smell wealth, this place would reek. But that’s a ridiculous notion. You can’t even always see it. We parted in the entrance hall, Winston heading towards the breakfast room, and me finding the least comfortable chair to wait for Mycroft. I needed one hard enough to keep me awake. Late nights don’t usually bother me, but I haven’t slept properly since I started writing this journal. Which is stupid.
And so my brother arrived, as the second hand struck the twelve: 9 O'clock. He stepped through the door, coat flying out behind him. He is never late, and the radio controlled clock above the reception desk had just decided to prove this. Again. He strode over to me, and I scrutinised him closely, but he was, as ever, unreadable. I scuffed my leather school shoes against the carpet, and averted my gaze to the floor. I had to. Look at Mycroft's eyes, and he'll see right through me. I hate him for it.
"Good morning Sherlock." his voice was bland and cold, as he stood towering above me. Mycroft, the complex, dominating ice berg. Nothing on the inside, just his cold , hard exterior. He doesn't really care about me. He never has. He's just doing it because he feels that it his duty to our parents. He feels no duty to anyone else. Only himself. I was about to ask if I could go to the toilet, when I stopped myself. I had to play it slow, or he would work it out straight away.
"Hullo." I replied instead, audibly, but without taking my eyes off the carpet.
"Well? Are you coming?" he asked, his crisp voice cutting through the air between us. I stood without a sound, and began to make my way towards the corridor that led to the family meeting rooms. But before I could walk more than a few steps, I felt his firm hand grasp my shoulder. He doesn't look it, but he's strong when he wants to be.
"We're not going there today." his voice was cold, and that's by Antarctica standards. He walked back towards the entrance. When I didn't follow, he turned to face me again, his eyebrows raised in a question.
"I- I need to go to the loo before-" I broke off, as he interrupted with
"The toilet Sherlock- The toilet"
"Yes- that's what I meant. I need to go... now-"
He gave a curt nod, but there was something uncannily familiar on his face. Suspicion.
I walked briskly back up the stairs, and broke into a run a soon as he was out of sight. Into the bathroom I flew, grabbing the rope and hook. I released the catch on the window, and attached the tin hook firmly over the ledge. Even if Winston didn't come and hide it again, it didn't matter who found it. Thoughts began to thunder through my mind. A whole day in the woodland area, down by the lakes. No school, no Mycroft. Freedom.
I climbed over the sinks, so that I was sitting on the window ledge. It was quite a long way down, but it didn't matter. Anyone can slide down the rope. Clutching it tightly between my shaking hands, I began to lower myself down. It turned out to be quite easy. Which of course I knew anyway. I done this is PE lessons many times before. I was soon on the ground, and making a dash for the trees. The curtains on this side of the building were still shut. No-one would see me. I ran for about 10 minutes. The grounds of the school are quite extensive; He'll never get me now. I came to one of my usual hiding places; a small hollow surrounded by tall oaks, and threw myself down in a bed of leaves. Free. It felt so good. And I know that feeling good is only a release of hormones in your body, a chemical reaction, but right then, I didn't care. There was no-one there. No-one I hate. Here, I was me. I shut my eyes, and drank in the warm scent of the fallen leaves. No-one I hate. If only I could stay here for ever. But that's silly. I never stay here long. I get bored. I have to have something to do. I wonder around the woodland, organising my mind. Walking helps. Plod plod plod plod. Steady beat, steady breathing, steady heart rate. I look up. The forest streches for miles around me. I must have walked a long way, because I've spanned every metre known to me, and yet I don't recognise where I am now. And someone else is here. I can hear them. The leaves crunching. I can smell them too. It's a sort of fresh, outside smell. Not a perfume, but a sort of- everything smell. Like they are the earth. I want to hit myself for thinking something so stupid, but for some reason I can't move. I am standing, rigid in a clearing that I don't know. I was not here ten seconds ago. I did not walk here.
Crash- something hits the back of my head. Pain- every inch of my body killing at once. Everything spins- but I am not turning my head. Someone is calling, shaking me. "Wake up- It hit you-the..."
My eyes snap open. I am in the hollow. A dream. Nothing but a dream. They is a oak branch lying next to me- as wide as my hand-span. And then the pain- my head. The moment of clarity bursts into a million spinning fragments.
And there is that smell. The earth smell- and someone kneeling next to me- a girl. In my confusion, I jump up, my muscles tense, writhing like a rapid hound- and then I am running, and the girl cries out. Something red is streaming in front of her.
"Wait!" she shouts, stumbling forwards-
But I keep running, running, running. I don't understand anything. There is nothing left.
"Sherlock!" a bodiless cry-
and I am running
"SHERLOCK!"
and I am running. I trip. I fall. Mycroft. Into his waiting arms-
"Sherlock..."
And then everything goes black.
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dun dun dun....
The dream transaction failed a bit. Basically- he falls asleep but doesn't realise he has. He is thinking about wandering through woodland, and then begins to dream that he actually is ^^
Hope you like!

[Starthorn]

I love it!! Keep going (and I don't mind if it is longwinded!)

Just read this- was writing the last entry. Glad you like it^^ Every comment means the world

[Study in Scarlet]

( c; still love it ♥ )