akutagawa is not a sadistic apathetic piece of shit but a misguided kid who didn’t have the chance to become something better and because of his obsession to prove his worth he is willing to do literally anything, even if it means taking someone’s life or losing his own – but he is not without emotion or a sense of morality, it is just severely warped
“You take things so hard” “
Your heart’s too big for your body” “
You don’t fucking care.” “
It’s not you, it’s them.” “
You’re one of a kind and no one understands.” “
Your heart’s too big for your body.” “I look at you and I see myself.” “I don’t fucking care.”
“We’ll be a perfect family.” “ Everyone thinks that we’re perfect.” “
Won’t you be a good sister/brother?” “
I see things that nobody else sees.” “
No one ever listens.” “
Places, places, get in your places.” “
Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces.” “Smile for the picture.”
“Blood still stains when the sheets are washed.” “Kids are still depressed when you dress them up.” “
He/She doesn’t think I’m that fucking dumb does he/she?” “
He’s/She’s still dead when you’re done with the bottle.” “If they give you a new pill then you will buy it.” “
If they say to kill yourself, then you will try it.” “
All the makeup in the world, won’t make you less insecure.” “
Sex don’t sleep when the lights are off.”
Will I catch up to love?” “I feel like I’m glued on tight to this carousel.” “
Oh, come, take my hand.” “It’s all fun and games ‘til somebody falls in love.” “Chasing after you is like a fairytale.” “We’re always this close,” “Right when I’m near, it’s like you dissapear.” “
Where’d you go?” “
Why did you steal my cotton candy heart?”
You’ll never catch me cry.” “
Fuck your degree.” “
I’m not a little kid now.” “
Are you smarter than me now?” “But you’re not my daddy and I’m not your dolly.” “”You think you’re smarter than me”
“Think I just remembered something.” “
I’m tired of being careful.” “
Let me under your skin.” “
I said too much.” “
Why do I always spill?” “
Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap.” “
God, I wish I never spoke.” “
Think I got myself in trouble.” “
I’m sick of all the games I have to play.”
I carry band-aids on me now for when your soft hands hit the jagged ground.” “
Promise I won’t push you straight to the dirt.” “
Love everything you do.” “
you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do.” “
It’s not like I’m asking to be your wife/husband.” “
I wanna make you mine, but that’s hard to say.” “
Is this coming off in a cheesy way?”
“Tell me what to do to make it all feel better.” “
Maybe it’s a cruel joke on me.” “
Just means there’s way more cake for me.” “
It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.” “
I wouldn’t have been trapped inside this hell that holds me.” “
I’ll cry until the candles burn down this place.” “It feels like I’m dying.” “
I’ll cry until my pity party’s in flames.”
Tag, You’re It
“I’ll cut you up and make you dinner.” “
You’ve reached the end, you are the winner” “
He chased me and he wouldn’t stop.” “
Can anybody hear me? I’m hidden under ground.”
“Tag, you’re it, tag, tag, you’re it.” “
I can taste your skin in my teeth.”
“I love it when I hear you breathing.” “
I hope to God you’re never leaving”
“Can anybody hear me? Am I talking to myself?” “
Your mother said to pick the very best girl/boy and I am.”
Milk and Cookies
“I’m done with this.” “
I’m fucking crazy, need my prescription filled.” “
Do you like my cookies? They’re made just for you.” “
Ashes, ashes, time to go down.” “
Do you want me now?” “Can’t take it anymore.” “
Sing you a lullaby where you die at the end.” “
Never want to see you again.” “Shit behind the curtain that I’m sick of sugarcoatin’.”
“Someone told me stay away from things that aren’t yours.” “
She’s getting on my nerves.” “
Stop lying with those words.”
Mrs. Potato Head
“Don’t be dramatic, it’s only some plastic.” “
No one will love you if you’re unattractive.” “
Is it true that pain is beauty?” “
Do you swear you’ll stay forever?” “
It’s such a waste.”
This dream, dream is a killer.” “
I really hate being safe.” “
The normals, they make me afraid.” “
The crazies, they make me feel sane.” “
I’m nuts, baby, I’m mad.” “
You think I’m psycho, you think I’m gone” “
So what if I’m crazy? The best people are.” “
Where is my prescription?”
“You can be Alice,I’ll be the mad hatter.” “
That’s probably the reason that we get along.”
Just me and you and you and me alone.” “
I don’t want to play no games.” “
I’m tired of always chasing, chasing after you.” “
I don’t give a fuck about you anyways.” “
Whoever said I gave a shit ‘bout you?” “
I wish I didn’t care all the time.” “
I never know what you need.” “
You know I give a fuck about you everyday.”
Gave you love, put my heart inside you.” “
I wasn’t scared.” “
Should I be scared?” “
How did love become so violent?” “
Everything was so sweet until you tried to kill me.” “
I didn’t outgrow you, I just didn’t know you.” “
I’m fucking scared.”
“ I feel like I’m just missing something whenever you leave.” “
We’ve got all the ingredients except you loving me.” “
I’m not a piece of cake.” “
So I’m taking back what’s mine.” “
You’re just a piece of meat to me.”
Angsty Sherlock headcanon coming your way: After the events of TFP Sherlock keeps on gaining more deleted memories from his childhood and starts to suffer from nightmares. Maybe one night John hears him screaming and goes to comfort him?
Er…so personally I think this is very bad, but I feel like you’ve waited long enough for your fill.
In the Dark of the Night
Initially, John thought it was Rosie. A nightmare, maybe, or an earache - she’d had an infection the week before and her sobbing had kept him up all night, it was awful. But when he staggered over to Rosie’s cot she was asleep, her rosebud mouth curved in a tiny smile.
The sobbing doesn’t stop, though, and now that he thought about it, it didn’t sound like the unabashed wailing of a child. This was a shameful, muffled sobbing, the sound of someone who was trying their very best not to be heard.
John debated whether to make his way downstairs, but to his credit he didn’t actually debate very long before he found his way as quietly as possible down the creaky old stairs of 221B. The sobbing grew louder as he descended, occasionally interspersed with low whines like an animal caught in a trap.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured as he took in the scene. Sherlock was scrunched into a ball on the couch, his face jammed into a pillow, his entire body shaking. He jerked when John spoke, and immediately sat up, trying to surreptitiously wipe his face on the sleeve of the dressing gown.
“John!” he said, pasting a smile on his face. From where John was standing, it mostly looked sick, and Sherlock’s mouth kept twitching. John had never seen Sherlock’s face so out of his control before. “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, and jerked to his feet. “I’ll just…” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his room. John did not miss that his other arm kept the pillow clutched across his midriff like a shield.
“No, it’s fine,” John said, and planted himself on the sofa. “Had a nightmare, won’t be getting back to sleep anyway.” It was a brazen lie, of course, but now Sherlock would feel compelled to offer comfort - it wasn’t as though John didn’t know how Sherlock’s brain worked by now. Sherlock sat down next to him, and they spent some time staring into the shadows of the living room.
“I used to dream of Afghanistan,” John says, and Sherlock looks at him from the corner of his eye, his fingers still digging into the couch pillow like it’s an anchor, or a lifeline. “Before I met you. I’d wake up and I’d be crying, and I couldn’t stop. Not for hours. Some nights I was afraid to go to sleep.” He takes a breath, sighs it out. Sherlock doesn’t move. “Some nights I’d sit on my bed with my gun in my hand, and I’d…wonder. I’m still not sure if I would ever have gone through with it, but I wondered, sometimes. If…all this-” his gesture took in the world, his life, everything, “was really worth it.”
Sherlock sucks in a deep breath.
“What-” he stops, licks his lips. “What do you dream about now?”
“It varies. Mary, Culverton Smith. Moriarty. Sometimes I dream about that damn cabby, even,” John says. “I’m always just too late. I dreamed of the morgue two weeks ago. Dreamed that nobody came in and stopped me.”
“You’d have stopped yourself,” Sherlock murmurs.
“Yeah maybe,” John says, but he’s not so sure.
They sit in silence for a while, watching the play of streetlights and headlights on the walls. It’s central London, there are always passing cars casting patterns into the flat. Even at fuck-off-o’clock on a Sunday.
They are quiet for so long that John almost jumps when Sherlock speaks.
“I killed a man in Tokyo,” he says. “He was one of Moriarty’s and he had information I needed. I…I had forgotten, until now. Well, until Eurus.”
John wants to ask how, wants to ask why, but he bites his lip and says nothing.
“I sliced off his eyelids,” Sherlock says in an eerie, distant voice. “I thought, if he could tell me what I needed to know, I could…he was strong, though. I could have admired him, if he hadn’t made it so much harder.” He holds out his hands in front of him and stares at them. They’re shaking like leaves. He clenches them into the pillow again. “I thought…I thought I could do it. I thought I could do it all and then come back, and there would be you, and-but. But now every time I close my eyes I see his face. He didn’t look human by the end. Just an animal in pain. I told myself it was mercy when I cut his throat.” The laugh sounds painful, jagged, a thing of edges and pain and bitterness. “I knew it was, in Serbia. In Serbia, god. I’d forgotten Serbia, too. Deleted it, locked it away. I’d have kissed the knife, then, if I’d thought it would free me. Just an animal in pain.”
John watches as Sherlock tilts his head back and swallows, but the tears are flowing free now, even though Sherlock’s face is completely blank.
Suddenly, he knows what to do. He turns sideways on the couch, reaches out, and pries Sherlock’s hand off the pillow to take it in both his own.
“You should go,” Sherlock says, but his long fingers are curling around John’s palm, giving the lie to his words. “You should take Rosie and…”
“No,” John says.
“I killed people,” Sherlock insists. “I’m a monster.”
“You’re an idiot,” John says, and yanks on Sherlock’s hand, hard, so that he falls over into his lap. He catches an elbow just left of his vulnerables for his trouble, but a moment later he has Sherlock - who has gone totally limp with surprise, tucked up against his chest, his curly head under John’s chin. “This man in Tokyo, you say he was one of Moriarty’s?”
Sherlock nods stiffly. His hands are moving restlessly, as though they’re not sure where to settle, but eventually one of them curls into the fabric of John’s t-shirt.
“He ran the Asian side of a human trafficking operation.”
“And did his information help you get home?” John asks, weaving one hand into Sherlock’s curly hair to stroke his scalp. Sherlock nods.
“Good,” John says. “Then I’m glad you killed him.”
Sherlock goes rigid in his arms.
“No, I want you to listen to me for a moment, Sherlock,” John says quietly. “Will you do that for me?”
“Of course,” Sherlock says instantly, and John smiles into his hair.
"I’m glad that you killed him, Sherlock. I’m not happy that you had to do it, I know it cost you something, but I can’t say I’m sorry that you could. Because if killing that man was part of what brought you home, then I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”
Sherlock tries to twist to look up at him and John lets him.
“You really mean that,” Sherlock says, quietly amazed.
“Of course I do, you idiot. Losing you is my worst nightmare, of course I’m glad you could come back, even if it took killing someone, even if it took killing a hundred someones.” Sherlock looks stunned, but John presses on. “And if, you know, we ever come across whoever put those scars on you…just say the word, Sherlock. I learned a thing or two in Afghanistan that I bet you don’t know.”
Sherlock huffs a strangled laugh and hides his face in John’s neck.
“No need,” he says. “Mycroft took care of them. I’m told the person who found the bodies is still in counselling.”
“Good,” John says, and strokes Sherlock’s hair softly. It feels as though they’ve crossed some kind of Rubicon here, like they’re finally moving again in the direction everyone in the world thought they were. He has his hand in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock is holding on to his shirt with both clenched fists. “That’s good. Now let’s try to get some sleep before Her Ladyship decides its time for breakfast.”
And they continue to lay there in the dark, the two of them. Silent but not alone, twisted but not broken, until dawn starts to light the sky over London.