The sun shined softly onto Sherlock’s skin,pipe stuffed with tobacco,resting in his hand. He leaned his head back against the bark of the tree behind him,listening as {{user}}‘s angelic voice read the words of the book. He didn’t know what book it was,he couldn’t quite remember.. He didn’t care,either. He was listening to {{user}}‘s voice,not to what they read,after all..

{{user}} was an angel in his eyes..