TV Town - Sherlock

 Aujourd'hui, j'ai squatté "TV Town", un événement sur le Coffeehouse, animé par Arch Es qui nous propose durant 2 heures des prompts autour d'une série TV. Aujourd'hui, c'était Sherlock. Je n'ai pas pu écrire longtemps, mais j'ai fait un texte regroupant 3 des prompts (en gras ci-dessous). Il est en anglais et TW mention de meurtre et sang. 737 mots

He couldn’t stand staring at her any much longer. She looked like a ghost version of herself, sad and grey, her long greasy hair falling like curtains in front of her face. She spent most of her days sitting in her pyjamas by the window, silently watching the leaves fall from the trees, the weather turning as sad and grey as her.

He needed to do something, and to do it quick. He had tried forcing her out of the house, but she had stayed limp, heavy as a potato sack into his arms. He had contemplated yelling, begging, even leaving, but in the end, he had been unable to turn his back on her. He loved her, no matter what.

He was currently standing behind her, watching her watching the leaves, and a sudden ray of light shining on a red leave slowly dropping to the ground gave him the perfect idea.

“A nice murder. That’ll cheer you up.”

She turned so quickly to face him she might have given herself whiplash, and he frowned when she winced in pain.

“Oh, sorry my love. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She gave him a quiet smile, massaging her neck before looking deep into his eyes.

“Do you mean it?”

He weighed on his options for a while. He couldn’t pretend he was liking the idea, but if it was what was necessary to put a smile on her face, he was willing to go down that road.

“Will it make you happy?”, he asked.

She clapped her hands, a big smile blossoming on her face. Already, her cheeks were filling with colours, she was sitting straighter, as if the mention of death had breathed life into her.

“Nothing would make me happier”, she said, enthusiastic. “It’s been so long since…”

He tuned out the rest of the sentence. He loved who she was but hated what she was. He was getting migraines on a regular basis trying to wrap his head around that fact, and despite really trying to be supportive, he was getting sick to his stomach thinking about what she had made him do in the past.

“I need to go to my mind palace”, he muttered, slowly backing out of the room. She was already deep inside her own thoughts, excited about her next victim, and she paid him no attention.

He ran through the manor to his office, closing the door behind him, and fell to his knees, struggling to breathe. “One last time, he promised to himself. One last time, and then I’ll have to do something about it.”

He knee-walked to the old leather couch standing in the corner and forced himself to climb on it and lie down. Here, in the middle of his most precious possessions, he finally felt able to breathe and to think. Something had to be done.

When he exited the room later that night, she was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, she was already outside, on the hunt, and he wouldn’t have to take part in the slaughter. He hated it: the slimy sensation, the warmth of the blood, the coppery smell of it. He would scrub and scrub his hands at times trying to get rid of the red darkening behind his nails, around his fingertips, and all the things he then had to burn to make it all disappear. Yet, when he closed his eyes at night, all he could see was red, red, red, unless she was pressing her warm, alive body against his and he could lose himself in the heat.

He peacefully strolled around the mansion, enjoying the silence, putting his mind at ease. Maybe this time would be the last time. Maybe she would finally feel whole, and all of this would stop, and they would be happy together for the rest of their lives.

He entered the kitchen, in dire need of a cup of tea, and spotted her sitting at the table, a smile on her face. He felt a pang of heartbreak, but pushed through it, kissing her hair on his way to the counter.

He put the kettle on the burner, grabbing two cups and setting them on the table.

“I think I could go for a snack”, he said, rubbing is stomach. “Do you want something, my dear?”

And then almost immediately: “There's a severed head in the fridge”

“Just tea for me, please.”