cappyandpashy4ever

It has been approximately five hundred and sixty four days since the death of Mary Watson, and three hundred and seventy two days since Doctor John Watson moved back in with Sherlock Holmes in his apartment on Baker Street. Eight weeks ago, Watson began dating again, having to this point attended some twenty seven meetings with some fifteen women, only three of which Watson liked enough to invite home for tea. Not that Sherlock Holmes is counting. The detective hears voices coming up the staircase and immediately seats himself in his favorite armchair, careful to open the paper to somewhere in the middle, as if he has been reading for a lon

hummingbirds don't fly in the rain precipitation pelts them like pebbles pigment in feather-soft wings runs like ink clashing colors, leveling hues mixing together like an artist's palette hummingbirds don't fly at night snippets of sound drowned in shadow delicate pieces carefully constructed their shine vanishes in lacquer-thick twilight shading rendered redundant black eyes grow blacker still hummingbirds won't fly at dawn timing tiny chirps instead when beds become light brief glimpses given only to the chosen information imparted onto prophets the rhythmic rapture of wings the shrill sharpness of beaks and beady eyes hu