Well, you're trying. Thank you for that. I should tell you that still came across as incredibly callous.

[The things people will put up with when their only close friend for so long is empathy-deficient... Honestly, he probably would have just made him mad if he'd been anyone else. But no, Lucifel might have done something similar, himself.

...Oh, it's so hard to think of him. He just can't do it. He'll type a description and be so overcome he can't send it.

He realizes he'll have to commit parts of the description to the network before his pain gets the better of him. Type and submit, get it out there before he can take it back.

Sherlock gets a series of short, clipped messages.]

I can't do it all at once. It hurts too much to think of.

There was a hole in his chest

It didn't bleed

Sometimes it was filled with distortion

His eyes were, too

But sometimes they bled instead

His spine was broken

His top half was weighed down

By his head and wings

Also broken, his wings

You could see the bone at the ends

I'm sorry

I can't go on yet