#c17h21no4

[chaotichoschi]

are there black curtains?

[thomaseskiturk-blog]

DJ Spider & Marshallito - C17H21NO4 (The Trilogy Tapes)

Thomas Eskiturk's Track Of The Day - 00048

Sun 25th Jan 2015

[jqnfyz]

[everymessxgeisforyou]

[chriskes]

C17H21NO4 ✔ I’m fucking crazy!

[roleplayifconvenient]

The Aftermath; The Discovery.

Sherlock had taken the breakup badly, to put it lightly. After leaving the Trevor residence, he'd not returned to Cambridge, instead staying out all night, wandering. He'd fallen asleep in the early hours, wrapped in the jacket he'd worn to dinner, wishing desperately for something warmer. At least it wasn't winter, at least.

*** He went back to Cambridge the following day, careful not to see anyone or to let himself be seen. Sherlock grabbed the most necessary items in his possession, leaving the rest to be collected later. A few changes of clothes, his violin. The books and papers he left behind, and the miscellaneous nicknacks he'd collected over the years. To be collected later, he told himself again, knowing that he'd just as likely leave it all behind. He'd never cared much for material abundance anyhow. It only served to encourage sense memory.

*** Within four days, he'd found accommodation for himself in a dingy single room flat, in a less than preferable area of town. Close enough to the city that he'd be able to amuse himself, but cheap enough that he could afford it, in the short term at least. He'd squirrelled away as much cash as he could, well aware that his finances would be likely cut off as soon as Mother (or more likely Mycroft) got word that he'd stopped attending university. Still, a few thousand pounds should get him through for a while. He never called back to officially withdraw from his course, assuming his lack of attendance would make things clear enough. Sherlock also failed to arrange to have his things collected; there was no-one at university he wished to see again, and no-one he knew outside of it whose help he wanted. They were only belongings, anyway, he thought, leaning against the wall his new 'home', old pastel orange paint peeling onto his jacket. He could count the number of things he owned now on his fingers. Still. He'd never cared much for possessions. Or at least that's what he told himself. *** It was a full week before the torturous silence and endless emptiness seeped into his brain, infesting every cell of his body with unrest and disillusionment. The discordant shambles of his own thoughts crashed down on him, rendering him almost immobile for hours at a time. *** It was another two days before he crashed out the other side, practically clawing at his skin to have something to occupy himself with, something, anything to take it away, to make the loops and cycles in his head just stop, lift, just leave so he could either rest or function, both options being so far away as to be lost across the horizon days ago. *** It was one day later, that he stumbled, literally, across a solution. On one of his infrequent trips to the outside world, most of his time being spent leaning against that wall, most paint flaking off each and every time he moved, he was (intentionally) bumped into by a man on the street. Slightly older than Sherlock, wiry, a sideways smirk on his lips as he began to speak. *** It was two hours later when Sherlock realised he had discovered the cure for all his problems. "See seventeen, aitch twenty-one, en oh four…" He laughed softly, letting his eyes close as his blood blossomed in his veins, the first intake of air into his lungs filling him with light, strength, clarity. Everything was going to be fine.