holmes
He used to be a merchant of death. Following in his father's footsteps, making weapons better, faster, deadlier. He doesn't do that anymore, but he remembers it clear as day. Knows how it feels, to be guilty for so much.
Everyone says he puts up walls. Never lets anyone in. And he has to agree. There are plenty of walls, of varying heights and depths and thicknesses. But some, some he argues are only fences. And if you really tried, you could get over them with ease.
No one tries.
This is possibly the worst coffee he's ever tasted. Actually, it's worse than that - it doesn't even taste like anything. But he drinks it anyway, the taste inconsequential. As long as it has caffeine, it's doing its job, and that's all he cares about.
He wipes his hands on his shirt before he even realizes what he's doing, and in an instant streaks of grease mar his otherwise pristine white shirt. This is why he should change before working on the car, he thinks with a sigh.
The blood sticks to his hands like glue. No matter how hard he tries, he can't rub it off. There's no water anywhere around, and all he wants is for the blood to be gone, to stop staining him like this.