I legit started to write a post-rapture/post-apocalypse type story with a few men of Sherlock. Like I don’t think it’s bad writing..it’s just pointless. I will never do anything with it. I should try to make it into an original thing really because i have an idea of what I want to happen in it….
Sometimes I think I’m not really a writer and maybe I’ll never be a successful writer but I write a lot…just because it’s there in my head…and I think that’s a writer. At least to me.
Blah de blah….here it is…
TOM HIDDLESTON DOESNT GET RAPTURED IN MY MIND BUT AMANDA ABBINGTON DOES…..
And the skies turned dark. The shadows on the ground from the men standing there began their slow bend and ebb as they too were lost in the darkness. One man hands a flask to the other. The other happily drinks it down. Their journey is yet to begin even as the other is over.
“Did you bloody ever think fucking….this?” Martin says. He waves a hand at the scene in front of them. The others turn to look down and see the town below them ablaze. Stood on this hill so very far away from the fiery devastation it almost seems like a scene from a film. One of them could have been shooting a scene there.
“Never,” Mark says. “Though I suppose one could assume when –” Mark turns away. It’s too distasteful to keep looking.
“Shall we gentlemen?” Benedict says. “We few. We happy…”
“Shut the hell up, Cumberbatch,” Tom says then gives a soft smile.
Benedict smiles in return and starts to walk. With Martin in lead and Benedict in rear Tom and Mark were hanging their heads. A few years ago it could have, would have been so different for them all to be together like this.
“It’s a shame you know,” Mark said. “We’ll never know what happens next.”
“I suppose that’s the way it is for everyone isn’t it though?” Tom says. He claps a hand on Mark’s shoulder as they walk further.
They walk down the hill that was overlooking the glory of Hollywood. Once they’re on the street it’s Martin who seems to take lead next. There are lots of cars abandoned in the streets, parked askew, and so many slammed into the next.
“Suppose that’s what happens when people just float away,” Martin says.
“No one floated,” Mark says.
“Fine poofed away. Left, gone, abandoned the rest of us poor schmucks to this…this,” Martin shakes his head looks away, blinks back a tear and rolls his eyes and himself. His hatred for this situation is written all over his face along with a jagged scar across his forehead. No ones asked where it came from, but Martin most likely had it worse than the rest. At one point Amanda and his kids were here. The next she wasn’t. Mark lost Ian. Benedict lost Sophie. No man asked the other about these people. It was all understood. No one gave theories. No one wanted to discuss it further. Not yet. There would be time later.
“What were you saying earlier, Martin?” Benedict asked Martin, giving him an out, a focus point. It was a kindness and everyone knew it, even Martin.
“We need to find a way around right?” Martin said.
“Right,” Benedict said.