Dear Sherlock,
Please get out of my mind.
You distract me,
Like sparkles in the wine.
When I want to sleep,
You shout in my head- "Boring!".
Even when I am doing my favourite subject,
After each question I correctly solve,
You whisper in your deepest voice-
"The game is on."
I keep myself away from the laptop screen,
But do you have any theory to avoid you in my brain?
If yes, ugh! Please do tell this teen.

Maybe I should develop this 'mind palace',
And assign a separate room to you.
And during my busy hours,
I swear, Sherlock,
On it, I'll put a heavy lock.
I need to do my work,
But on the desk in my head,
You always seem to lurk.
Now please go away from me,
Or I'll call John and then you see!

~~~~~Spoilers Ahead~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Didn’t know SH was so amazing,
A second degree mind palace,
He was keeping.
What we watched in an hour,
And were perplexed by, for days,
Had taken place in his mind,
In mere 300 seconds!

Baffled with the news of return of Moriarty,
He decides to solve a similar case,
That had occurred 120 years ago.
He recreates his whole life,
Complete,
With *Irene’s photograph,
In his pocket watch.
Fits all the pieces in 1895,
All,
Including John’s witty wife,

Then enters the ‘cleverer one’,
And fatter this time,
Having already made a theory,
He asks Sherlock to do the leg-work,
Because Mycroft himself is busy,
Trying to beat his little brother.
The game is afoot again,
All in Sherlock’s complex brain,
He exposes the truth,
Of Mrs. Ricoletti’s death,
Just as he was about to know about Moriarty’s,
He’s is woken by his friend.

But he goes back again,
To complete the story.
To solve the mystery,
He goes to the Falls,
To again finish the problem,
The final problem.
But this time John interrupts,
In 1895,
And kicks Moriarty off the cliff,
To let Mr. Holmes happily, alone,
Complete the fall.
Now he returns to the present,
With a smile conveying I-know-it-all,
And he does know all about the villain,
His death, his plans,
*And the rest.

The feels rack me
Fits of squealing
In the dark so no one will see
Tumblr plans the wedding,
Look! My otp!
I ship it so hard
It actually pains to read fanfics
The ****,
The fluff,
We read it all
Just
To get more
Of those
Life giving feels.
Arms flap,
The cuteness makes us skip meals
One more episode.
When's sherlock season 3?

I long for change
but refuse to do the leg work
to get there
I'll walk down the sidewalk
avoiding the same glares
I never acknowledged the ordinary faces
which could alter my local reality, so

No, I resign to be a stranger
My sober brother won't stop
moving on a day-off adventure
but just as I got outta bed to see what was up
The spot on the driveway was empty
nothing but a power steering fluid puddle, left
It's hard to turn, but he's gone

Anyhow
now I sit here resigned to make some armchair change
it's better than the bed
and instead of organizing this squalor
I work in it
My disgust calmed
by good use of my possessions
I found a scrap of rotting meat
only to find
it was the pit of a plum I ate
New growth from death
with nothing but an investigative mindset

Folds, fur, creases and greases on your clothes
Have you had a nice breakfast?
No, no, it doesn't seem so.
You've had a bad day since you've risen from your bed.
Your hands are shaking and don't even notice it,
Probably because of the nicotine hidden in the left pocket of your jacket.
Ahh! Shut up! You were thinking! It's annoying!
Get out! Get out! I need to go to my mind palace!
Also, if you think that I'm a psychopath,
I'm just a high-functioning sociopath.
With your number! -smiles-

Oh, John Watson? You've got a limp from your last war from Afghanistan.
Your hand stays steady when you're suspicious or feel like you're being threatened.
Hmm, you like the battlefield, don't you, John?
Ahh, you can be my colleague! Come on, John!
Wait, what? Who are you?
The name's Sherlock Holmes and I live on 221B Baker Street.
And, I'm a consulting detective who uses,
*The Science of Deductions

If you look in the dictionary,
Home is defined as; a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household.
I’m usually one that goes by the books but, in this case, the book is wrong
A home is much more than a place that you live.
Home is the peaceful sound of classical music blasting through the apartment we shared.
Home is the smell of earl gray tea and chocolate chip cookies early in the morning.
Home is headlights shining through our window as we sat in the living room talking quietly about anything and everything.
Home is the layer of dust that covers the windowsill of our old bedroom.
Home is an old worn down couch, faded in color but not in memory.
Home is the arguments we got in when we talked about politics.
Home is boxes of countless memories: pictures of him, the ashtray from the palace, his scarf.
Home is the love I feel for him and the love he hid from me.

If you ask my sister, she’ll tell you love doesn’t exist, it’s a waste of time.
I learned a long time ago not to listen to her, her heart was broken since she was young.
I know that love exists, I knew it existed the moment I met him
From the day, I got cold chills when he grabbed my hand as we ran away from the crime scene.
From the morning, I woke up from a night of nightmares and the smell of bacon and eggs greeted me, he never cooked, for anybody.
From the moment he first cried in front of me, he woke up from a nightmare alone and cried out my name, he never did tell me what it was about.

If you asked the public, they’ll tell you he was emotionless, a machine disguised as a person.
They didn’t see the side of him I had the pleasure of seeing.
The childish side of him when he was eating a bagel drenched with honey.
The sleepy side when the mongrels woke us up with their obnoxious barking.
The calm side of him as he composed music, notes flowing easily from his mind onto paper and then the violin.
The quiet side of him when I cleaned his wounds, ashamed of himself but too proud to say it out loud.
The scarred side of him when he learned that there was a shooting at my work.

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that normal days are the ones you want to remember.
They’re the ones that you’ll miss the most when you’re alone.
They’re the ones I remember the best.
The day we picked up a hitchhiker for the hell of it, despite the smell of oil and tobacco coming off of him.
The day we walked through the park, the only sound was the crunch of leaves under our boots as we walked the many paths through the woods, getting away from all the noise and hustle of the city.
The day we sat on the bridge the crisp morning air causing us to sit close together,  with tea and biscuits,  watching as the fog danced across the Thames river, talking about what to do with the rest of our day.
The day his brother came to visit, his stern and angry voice being overthrown by my loud laughter at his attempts to scare me away.
Didn’t he know that there isn’t anything he could say or do to make me stop loving his brother?

Loving him was the best decision I ever made.
To this day, I haven’t regretted a moment of the time we spent together.
He tried to drive me away, thinking I would run as fast as hell the first chance I got.
He tried everything he could think of, almost beheaded me with his sudden interest with medieval torture tools.
The loud thuds of god knows what all throughout the nights, waking me from dreams of the culprit.
Going missing for days on end without a single call, only to come back hungover and grumpy.

Through all of this I stayed by his side and slowly he came to realize that I wasn’t going anywhere.
Once he came to that conclusion he began to open up to me more.
Letting me see behind the mask he wore for everyone else.
And I slowly fell more and more in love with the man everyone else hated.
The taste of I love you on my tongue every day, almost slipping a couple of times.
Now I wish I let it slip into conversation.
Two years ago was when he fell.
Two years ago was when my love was ripped from me so suddenly, I couldn’t believe it.
Two years of pain and heartache.
Two years of missing my best friend, my only friend, really.
But even after two years, I still love him, I still want him here with me.

So listen to me when I tell you this.
Home is not just a place, it’s a feeling.
Love is not just a feeling, it’s a person.
People are not just people, they’re memories.
Memories are not just the big ones, they’re the normal days that seem like nothing.
Take my advice and live every day like it’s your last.
Confess your love to the one you love.
Follow your dreams, even if they seem impossible.
Because life is unpredictable and fate is a cruel thing.

I am from Home.

I am from hot baths in the summer and winter alike.
I am from a silver ring decked with a ruby.
I am from laughing faces and weeping hearts.

From Pilaf and Tabuleh.
From the lonely, and the love.
I am from music loud in my ears so I don't have to listen to anyone.
I am from late-night arguments and early-morning apologies.

I am from cousins and children
Staying in my home despite
Their heritage.
I am from Untitled Documents.
I am from Marisa and Ben. My namesake and her lover.

I am from hand-washing dishes.
From Mrs. Laird and Mrs. Tans.
From Eagle Crest.

I am from Volleyball.
From late practices
And broken limbs.

I am from the world.
From crushing decisions that don't matter.
From school-induced insomnia.

I am from the wind
In my hair.
Stars above my head.
Children in my classroom.

I am from England-so far away, and yet so near.
I am from Doctor Who and Sherlock.
My inspirations.

I am from Sobahn.
My friend I have never seen.

I am from swinging into the lake from a tire swing and a zip-line.
Dogs.
Stray cats.
Army games.

I am from fake battles and singing hymns in the shade of the hot summer day.
I am from Christian and Kira.
From red paint on the pavement-lying to me, telling me it is blood.

I am from my childhood.
I wish I could go back there.

I am from home.

~Rose, don't go Rose! You promised not to let go! You promised!~

All I wanna do is cuddle and watch Sherlock with you.