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Hey guys. Sorry if I haven't gotten around to some of your messages or notes. I'll be back up and running (fully) soon--promise! 
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(Contains: violence/gore)
I wish I would have known how it was all going to end beforehand.

Or at least maybe predicted it. If I would have obtained knowledge regarding the ultimate demise prior to its occurence, I believe, without a doubt, that I would have been capable of ensuring the safety, and ultimately--lives of those whom I shared company with that calamitous day.

Calamitous. How calamitous it truly was. The impetus of the whole situation was--

No. Never mind. I shall not discuss that issue. It'd be lengthy, lofty, irate, and to some--irrelevant.

Those who believe that have no belonging place on this here Earth. They disgust me.

I wish I would have known how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality".

I would not have lost those whom I cared for, and as much as I despise this reluctant admittance--those that I loved.

I could have protected them--for God's sake--I would have been able to carry on my heroic reputation as I had for so many years prior to this hellacious incident!

It's perplexing, nearly mind-blowing, how something so simple, something with an occurence so measurably short in length of time, can cause something built up for such a long period of time to collapse on itself entirely.

It's horrible.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most.

Life'd be better if only I'd known--if I could have somehow figured out, in this brilliant mind of mine that I hold dear--precisely what was going to happen. 

Now, the glorious land has turned to ashes. The sky to toxic fogs. The sun's power to one of a flashlight with weakened, near-death experiencing batteries. The flowers to dust. The buildings to pollution. The people to dirt.

My heart to stone.

How I continue to live on this way remains a mystery to me. How I continue to breathe in the air of the smoky billows that once existed of different substances, how I continue to walk on the land which was once one of such luxury and opulence--now refuse and detritus, how I continue to exist, all remains an enigma to me.

Perhaps it always will.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself.

I'd beg. I'd plead. I'd commit whatever act I had to reclaim the life I had before.

If only it'd work.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me.

If I'd only have known the plans of the opposition, I would not have committed some of the actions that I did.

I'd have had a better strategy, a stronger and fitter plan, a healthier defense.

Or, shall I say, offense.

I had neither.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure.

I could have a bountiful amount of riches, even moreso than before.

But I don't.

Can I testify that greed was my motivator throughout the whole of this? Was it greed that killed so many in so little time?

I now believe so.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted.

Why am I paining myself to continue to live on? I have no will. I am now sure that this must be my form of self punishment for all of the wrong I have committed not only against myself but to those who trusted me with their lives and I loved in return.

I wish death upon myself.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted. I should be dead, and I pray for death to be thrusted upon me.

I take the blame. Who else would, but me? I am a lone survivor, there is no one else to testify and plead my innocence. Though, I am not claiming that I would testify my false innocence. That would be demeaning to those who died fighting for my cause.

I witnessed it all. I witnessed the bludgeon of Jake's semi-unconscious body, the slicing of Belsie's head, the rippling gunshots that killed Martha, Nade, Thomas, and countless others, the mass stabbings of the innocent, including Hector, and the final bombing of the land that I once had such fondness and endearment for.

Now, I feel nothing but regret.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted. I should be dead, and I pray for death to be thrust upon me. I am a lone survivor. I witnessed the deaths of those I love along with countless others. I regret being the only one to survive.

Do forgive me, those whose precious lives have been lost at my expense. I now wallow in pain and grievance as I will do for the rest of my days.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted. I should be dead, and I pray for death to be thrust upon me. I am sorry. Please forgive me.

I despise this feeling, this life I continue to live, this body that I roam in, and these lungs that I breathe with.

Most of all, I loathe this once greed-stricken turned stone heart.

I will continue to, forever.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted. I should be dead, and I pray for death to be thrust upon me. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I despise my life.

Things would be better if I never lived, never existed. Things would have turned out in an entirely different manner. However, if I could have prevented all of this trouble, I wouldn't have such a feeling, but I didn't, and now, I do.

Death is the best answer.

One final act, one final act of self-sacrifice, to even out the odds.

One more.

Toxins prove fatal if digested or directly inhaled.

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand. I could have prevented the violence, the injuries, the death--all which umbrella under the term "brutality". I wouldn't have lost my reigning reputation, and most of all, those I love the most. For, if I had, I would not be surviving would not be a method of self-torture and punishment against myself. However, there is nothing in my power that I can do to reclaim it, and that saddens me. My proposal was a failure. Greed is a vice, it's never been a virtue, which contributes to this ultimate demise, leaving me to be faulted. I should be dead, and I pray for death to be thrust upon me. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I despise my life. I will now die.

Goodbye, world. It is my fault all of this trouble and all of these deaths have taken place. I will not be missed, for there is no one left to miss me.

Being a lone survivor is not always the most promising pathway.

Again, I say:

I wish I would have know how it all was going to end beforehand.

If only I had.
The Cry of a War Leader
Hey guys! :squee: Lipstick here. :la: This was a random thing I wrote a while back in a five minute challenge. Seeing that it was a 'five minute' challenge, without modifications, it may not be the best work, but, hey--it was just lingering around as a file, so I figured "why not post it"? 

Anyways, the filters are on because, though there's not much violence AT ALL, only brief mentions of it, I don't want to risk getting in trouble with staff at all.

Otherwise, enjoy! :squee:

:kiss: ~Lipstick~ :pringles:
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Nothing could have possibly prepared you for what you saw when you entered that room.

You suddenly felt faint, head spinning and ears ringing, as you wondered: How could John Watson have been so strong? You were the one well-known for being strong despite the circumstance (as was John, except for the fact that he tended to show more emotion then you ever had).

Sherlock, your Sherlock, looked practically tapered to his sterilized hospital bed. You made a few mental notes of all that seemed wrong with Sherlock's external appearance: pale skin, unresponsive (of course), skinny as ever, ill, and most of all, dead. You suddenly felt as if you weighed a million tons, and you feet could not move themselves to part from the floor. Sherlock's forehead was covered with sweat, and his once perfect (and actually, after a quick revision, still perfect) brown curls stuck to the sweat and plastered themselves to his forehead.

"Sher--" you allowed the partial name to escape from your throat before you nearly collapsed next to his bed. As your body nearly hit the floor you gasped a bit, pulled a chair (thankfully in arm's reach) over to Sherlock's bedside and weakly, with a molasses-resembling speed slid yourself into it. Ensuring that you would not fall again, you grabbed onto the railing connected to Sherlock's bed and held on to it with a ever-growing steady hand.

"My Sherlock," you managed to choke out, in a tear-suppressed whisper. "Oh my God."

Sherlock's medical chart, not in it's belonging space--for it should have been hanging on the wall-hook made specifically for the patient's chart--instead laid on the nightstand containing very few of Sherlock's belongings. You figured John had looked it over and placed it there, forgetting to place it back in it's respectable area due to all of the pressure and stress he'd been going through since Sherlock's demis--

No. You dared yourself not to think of this injury as Sherlock's demise, but rather a few injuries, and a learning experience. Yes, that was better fitted for this situation. It calmed you down a bit more.

The chart stared at you, begging you, pleading with you to pick it up and indulgently read through its descriptive words--the ones that described the injuries of Sherlock Holmes.

You were afraid.

You did not want to read them.

After about a few minutes of side-eyeing the chart with an evil glare, as if it could physically harm you in some way, you snatched it up, for the temptation of reading it had won out against your unwillingness to discover the truth about the harm done to Sherlock.

Looking down at the first sheet of paper lying on the clipboard, you began to read:

28 shots in total.

You breathing hitched as your eyes moved beyond those words, only to find a diagram of the human body, with arrows, marks, and a few written notes indicating all of Sherlock's wound wherever they were located on the body. Below, there was a complete written transcription of the diagram. It read: Two bullet wounds in abdomen, three bullet wounds in upper chest area, bullet-grazing on left side of neck, eight bullet wounds in right leg, six bullet wounds in left leg, two bullet wounds in left arm, and-- you gasped when you read the last phrase of the transcription: one slight bullet wound in left side of cranium.

'Oh no',
you thought, helplessly allowing the chart to fall from your hands and go crashing to the floor. On the other pages of the chart, there were more in-depth explanations of each wound, but you could not bring yourself to read them. Ever. You dropped your head in your hands. It was only seconds before that action that you noticed the blood-infused bandage covering most of Sherlock's head.

'Oh no', you thought once more. How blind could you have been not to have noticed all of these things when you'd first entered the room? To your knowledge, from what you'd briefly skimmed over on the chart, all of Sherlock's wounds had been operated on, so for the most part, you didn't really have to worry about them suddenly whisking him away for some type of surgery.

Unless something went horribly wrong.

Unless something went horribly wrong.

No, no, no
, you would definitely not allow yourself to think that way. Sherlock would be fine, perfectly fine. He would resume his life at Baker Street, the way it was prior to the way it was before the shooting. He would return to solving crimes, John would once again be by his side, you--

You.

What would you do after Sherlock's recovery? Would you live in 221B Baker Street like you once had? No, you would give John and Sherlock their space. Would you visit 221B Baker Street? Maybe, if Sherlock accepted your presence. Or would he? Would he reject your presence? Would he not want you there at all? Would he just perceive you as a an object of the long ago past, and just--

No. This was not time to think about yourself, this was time to think about Sherlock's wellness. You immediately chided yourself for being so selfish and turned all of your attention back to the broken Sherlock that lay before you.

Broken? No. Sherlock was well, perfectly well, right?

He had to be.

If he wouldn't, you...you'd...

No. That was enough. You had to be there for poor Sherlock in that moment, and what was else would occur after was to be dealt with then, and only then.

Slowly, like molasses, you reached out to rest your fingertips on the portion of Sherlock's forehead in which the blood-soaked bandage did not cover. In soft, yet steady motions, you gently stroked the slowly beading sweat from off of his forehead. You stroked his curls in a direction away from the sweat. You stroked away a small fragment of dirt that lay in Sherlock's hairline.

You imagined yourself as stroking away the pain. For you, Sherlock, or the both of you? You had no clue yourself.

Gently, with your other hand, you touched Sherlock's heart. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat correlated perfectly with the sounding heart monitor which resounded its sound off of the smooth hospital walls.

You looked at Sherlock's eyelids--stared at them--picturing them opening, allowing his piercing orbs, their color a mixture of the most beautiful blue and greens to have ever crossed your field of vision, to mirror your intense gaze (and then some), to stare deep into your soul, to read every part of your being whether it be from the present, past, or future. You mentally once more visualized his eyes fluttering open. As they would, you would speak to him, kiss his forehead softly, and tell him how much you cared for him.

Staring at his eyelids, intense and concentrated, you could only formulate one plausible thought in your mind:

Accompanied or not, you were going to kill whoever did this to Sherlock.

And that was a promise, a definite guarantee.
Ten Million Eternities Ch. 4 (Sherlock x Reader)
Hey guys! I know this took me like, forever to upload, and I do apologize for that. Life kinda got in the way. But here's Chapter 4! It's probably my least favorite chapter that I've written (and uploaded) so, I hurried and uploaded it before I could begin to hate it more than I already did by staring at it longer. :yawn:

Anyways, thanks for reading! Love you all! :hug:

:kiss: ~Lipstick~ :pringles:
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You arrived at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital at around 1:00 pm. Receiving Sherlock's room number (after providing identification, and falsely claiming to be his cousin-in-law after a short altercation with the receptionist), you were on your way.

Making your way to the fourth floor, the one Sherlock was residing in, you took a deep breath.

You'd see him soon. In critical condition, but soon.

Turning on the second corner to your left, seeing Sherlock's room number straightaway from a distance of about 100 meters, you saw a figure heading your way.

A figure who's face you hadn't seen in eleven years, nor had heard it's voice.

John Watson.

He spotted you about three seconds after you spotted him, his face breaking out in surprise and a huge, genuine smile, despite the current circumstances. "(Y/N)," he said, slowly walking towards you, arms outstretched. "Oh my God."

You let yourself grip onto John and fall into his comforting and welcoming embrace. "Oh my God." he repeated, his voice soft and sweet, barely above a whisper. "Oh my God. Eleven years, it's been, right? Dear God, I thought I'd never see you again." Tears were welling up in his crystal green eyes. "I've missed you. How've you been?" he asked, after gently releasing you. He straightened his clothes out, placing a a hand on either side of his body and sliding it down quickly.

"I've missed you too, John." you replied, wiping at the remaining tears (Oh dear, where had those come from?) that appeared on your face; you hadn't notice them prior to wiping your eyes. "I've been...well..alright, John." You gave him the fakest, yet weakest smile. It wasn't until this exact moment that you noticed how lonely you'd actually been. "I'm so glad to see you. I know, under these circumstances..." you trailed off, now feeling very awkward and unknowing of how to complete your sentence.

John nodded, understanding. "Same to you, of course." he replied, smiling, though his eyes were as wet as a combination of a million seas: gleaming. "So...erm..." he trailed off, as you had, and stared at his feet.

"Yeah," you said, gaining back the floor and giving John another brief smile as his eyes met yours once more. You slowly dropped your smile. "He's still...?" your voice wavered, knowing that John, being the wise and understanding sweetheart that he was, would understand.

John hung his head. Of course, you had hit a soft spot, but hey, it had to be done. "Yeah, same condition, no improvement." he stated, his voice dropping a few octaves into all-seriousness and his eyes averting their gaze to the nearest corner of a wall. "I phoned Mary, a few hours ago. Though we divorced about eight years ago, she's still supporting me in this situation." His eyes averted their gaze once more, this time to the opposite corner. "I appreciate her support, though. Her and her husband's."

"What?!" you questioned, in surprise. You hadn't a clue that John and Mary had gotten a divorce, let alone be alerted of the fact that Mary had remarried. You took a small step back, still taking in and processing your newly-discovered old information. Oh well, that's what you got for leaving all of your friends behind.

"Yeah." John said "And they have two children together." he added, noticing your semi-apparent surprise. You were attempting to keep you shock from being overt, but you were slowly but surely failing. "We divorced because there were just some issues that just couldn't be agreed upon, y'know?" He smoothed out his clothing from his torso once more as you nodded, remembering the past events (the issues that had occurred between John and Mary, etc.). You noticed (by his body language) that the subject of Mary was making John uncomfortable (though it was not you who brought her up as a subject in the first place), so you quickly changed it.

"I am allowed to visit Sher--Sherlock, right?" you asked, not knowing how choked up his name would make you before you'd said it. In fact, you hadn't spoke his name aloud in the past eleven years you'd been gone. Though you already knew you could visit Sherlock (you had already spoken-argued-with the receptionist at the desk about that issue. You reminded yourself that you had only changed the subject for John's sake.). 

"Yeah," he answered, yet another weak smile crossing his face as his glimmering eyes met you once more. He motioned his hand across the hallway in the direction that Sherlock's room was in. "You can go right ahead. I'm going to go get some tea and take a walk. I'll be back in about thirty minutes. Would you like anything?"

Knowing that John was only being polite--being the gentleman that he was--and probably wasn't even planning on getting those things for himself. You didn't want to make him do anything extra, or delay him any longer from his much-needed alone time. "No, thanks, John. I'm fine. I just ate, and I had some tea about an hour ago. Thank you, though." 

John nodded at you and smiled. "Of course. I'll be off then, be back soon."

"Alright." you replied, gifting him with a parting grin (which both of you, of course, knew was fake). John briskly began to walk back to the lobby, walking the way you'd always remembered he had (God, you'd missed him).

With John gone, you were again all alone. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to see Sherlock in the damning state he was in. You closed your eyes, let out a shuddering breath, and slowly paced down the hallway until you reached Sherlock's room door. 'This is it,' you thought to yourself. 'This is what I came all the way here for.'

You braced yourself, looking down and back up again, readying yourself.

You took a step in the room.

Nothing could have possibly prepared you for what you saw.
  • Playing: Everybody (cuz i'm a female playa like dat)
  • Drinking: Grape Juice (because I can)
Back again? Lipstick's back. Tell a friend.

Sorry, that song has been stuck in my head for a while now. But as it seems as I've been on a mini-hiatus, I'm back! :heart:

Surprise, friends. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

So, anyways, I'm going to attempt to make my page more active than before, by uploading more...stuff, y'know?

Anyways, just stopping by to say hi!

See ya! 

~Lipstick~ :pringles:

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I know that I've gotten off the habit of posting up artwork on the regular basis, and most of them are basic level, but the good thing is I am able to do a sort of 'more advanced' art that i sometimes display on other art websites. My REAL talent is writing. I've even had some of my poems published in books.

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:iconkhkeyblademaster2:
khkeyblademaster2 Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2014
happy birthday! party like its 1845! :dummy:
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:iconbytestream:
Bytestream Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
:wave:
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UnicornsInTheDryer Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2014  Student Writer
Cheers for the watch also!
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UnicornsInTheDryer Featured By Owner Edited Oct 20, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks for the faves :)
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:iconcleverfox101:
CleverFox101 Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2014  Student Digital Artist
THANKS FO THE WATCH
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:iconredlipstick444:
redlipstick444 Featured By Owner Oct 7, 2014  Professional Writer
OF COURSE c:
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:iconcandylama101:
candylama101 Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Student Artist
Thanks for the watch~
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:iconredlipstick444:
redlipstick444 Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Professional Writer
Of course! c: And same to you
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:iconcandylama101:
candylama101 Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Student Artist
np~ and your icon is beautiful
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:iconredlipstick444:
redlipstick444 Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you so much~

I put so much effort into making it I feel so honored that someone actually noticed it for once
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