You deserve a poem
for what you don’t mean to me because
you are not
the most important, the most
cherished, the most loved.
You are none of these things
and I think the cliche, the most absurd
but still the most true: I’d rather be your friend, someone
you can call on to ask about love.
Because if we worked at first and
then didn’t, if we clicked together at first,
perfectly, and then
suddenly changed shape like
damp puzzle pieces no longer fitting
but instead sliding and slipping and
becoming swollen each time we try
to push ourselves tighter together
then we’d just be left like that,
trying to deflate ourselves, trying
to shake each other like snow
out of our hair.
And the way I looked at you, God,
sometimes I felt like my eyes could burn
right through you to the other side
and you didn’t feel it, how much I wanted
you, how that alone could melt the paint
off the walls,
and the news of her existence–not
shocking because Christ, look at you–was
like manna. I ate every crumb,
licked my fingers of it and left
feeling satisfied, like I had been the one
to put you both in the oven, like
I had stood at the counter for all of those
hours, my lower back aching, my skin
smelling of yeast, mixing
until I could
hum along to the sound of metal
flouring my hands
so that the love wouldn’t stick.
Sherlock knew the reason why no bullet had even been headed for Molly. Not even Jim Moriarty was brave enough to attempt the life of Molly Hooper—not on any merit of her own, really, in Moriarty’s world but because she was seeing Mycroft Holmes. No one was stupid enough to truly provoke that man.
It didn’t really matter in the end, he and Mycroft had worked this out months ago. Sherlock had asked his elder brother to let Moriarty out of his cage, and to allow him to lead the madman on a merry chase. He had been terribly sad to leave John in such darkness—to leave everyone in such darkness. Not even Molly, his potential sister-in-law, knew the full truth of everything. Sure, she helped him fake his death, yes, but she wasn’t entrusted with the plan.
Nonetheless, she had stumbled on his grief at leaving John to fend for himself—saying that he looked sad when he didn’t think John was watching. Sherlock was very lucky that Molly was seeing his real arch-enemy rather than Jim Moriarty who only fashioned himself as such. She could have used that information against him, but was inclined to be kind towards him.
The romance between Molly and Mycroft was sweet—if Sherlock was going to use the word for anyone, he would use it for them—and he was glad he’d started it. Well, sort of. He was the reason their lives had intersected, and he was glad that Molly had found a man to place her affections on. A man who would return them, at least. Sherlock also had a high standard for who he would allow to have Molly Hooper—the person had to be at least as smart as him, and as equally or better able to protect her if it came to it.
And September wasn’t the same
And cookies weren’t the same
And vanilla wasn’t the same
And sunsets weren’t just orange
And sweatpants weren’t just clothes
And good nights weren’t goodbyes
And good mornings weren’t the beginning
And I wasn’t the same.
Molly didn’t really like Angelo’s, not really. Or Chinese for that matter. She preferred Thai, or a very nice curry from a place near her own flat. Because of all this, whenever she and Sherlock had a dinner date it was usually a night in where she forced him to watch a romantic comedy or something. Spy movies were right out, though they were her favorite. It was because, she suspected, Sherlock’s own brother was in essence James Bond and he couldn’t quite suspend his disbelief for more than a millisecond.
She always went down to the shops after work and picked up fresh veg, and whatever else she planned on making for dinner—Sherlock wasn’t hopeless at cooking despite all appearances. No, quite the opposite—he excelled, and he liked to experiment.
But he also didn’t understand why cinnamon, pepper, chili powder, enough garlic to murder a coven of vampires, and oregano should never mix and shouldn’t ever again. So Molly did the cooking—it wasn’t the beautiful gourmet that Sherlock occasionally deigned to make, but it was nice. Molly was just coming up the stairs that night when she heard Sherlock throw his phone at the wall.
“It shouldn’t be that damned hard to find a baker!” Molly winced at his voice, knowing that he was too wrapped up in his anger to have noticed her coming up. He was standing in the middle of the living room, his dressing gown in place of his suit jacket, his feet bare. Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, and his toes worked angrily against the carpet.
“Sherlock, why do you need a baker?” he barely looked up at her as he turned around to face where she stood.
Molly chose to stare at him as blankly as she could—sometimes he got this way, unable to speak more than a single word. His discovery or frustration so great it could only be expressed in a single utterance of fury or excitement.
“Has he put you on a case where you need to interview a baker?”
“No, no no—don’t you see? It’s his birthday in a few weeks, and I need a baker. But there’s some damned holiday—no one is available it seems. I need a cake you see, Molly,” she nodded slowly, but said nothing. Sherlock took two long strides across the room and unloaded her hands, taking them and pulling her to spin around the room.
“He loathes it, you know, he just hates it when I do things like this—he’s off his diet, but he’s hidden it from his assistant so far. You can tell because she doesn’t glare at him out of the corner of her eye like she normally does when she knows he’s off. But he’s so pleasant he’s even texted me back a few times rather than calling and so I just know and I have to out him somehow—he outs me when I smoke, I deserve this much. It’s just a cake—five layers tall, five different flavors and different flillings between with a bright Union Jack fondant covering the whole thing. But none of the bakers will take my order!”
Molly nodded a bit, smiling hesitantly. Oh she knew why none of the bakers would take his order. It was Queen’s Jubilee, no one was going to be making a cake like that for ages—it was too much like poking fun, and the fun it poked was too fun. It was also massive and awful and tacky. Sherlock always got himself into situations where he needed her help.
“I can bake, a bit, Sherlock.”
“I’d thought to ask but you’re busy developing that course on deductive pathology for the spring term and I just couldn’t—“
“But this matters to you, doesn’t it?”
“He did get me four cases of Cuban cigars to out me on my birthday—it was just a pack of Gitanes! Surely I can get him for nicking biscuits!”
Molly smiled, grabbing his head and pulling herself up to peck his lips with a kiss.
“Sure you can, love. Would you sketch it out while I make dinner?” Sherlock’s grin was positively wicked as he released her and picked up her bags of groceries.
“You are, aware, Doctor Watson, of the necessity of keeping patients apprised of their surgery results is also dependent upon them remaining with the hospital long enough to properly recover from said surgery, correct?”
John laughed a little nervously, tapping his thumb against the armrest of the chair he was perched on.
“Yes, Doctor Mpemba, I’m—I’m aware.” The short black woman—a South African ex-pat—was staring him down in that uncomfortable way she had. John was more familiar with it than most other doctors here.
“And you’re also aware that Mr. Bianco is, in fact, the fifth patient who has somehow or other managed to discharge himself without proper physician’s endorsement?”
“Well, you see, with Mr. Bianco he—he was acting strangely, and I’d just left to get the nurse and when I came back he was—“
“He told the receptionist that,” she glanced down at her notes with a frown, “the best insurance is deciding to see peacefulness in every situation. And then he signed himself out while she was staring at him in confusion.”
“He-ah-yes, he was saying a great deal of things about how to calm yourself.” There was just no way that Mr. Bianco had assimilated The Little Book of Calm into his system, there was no way. It was impossible.
“The fact remains, Doctor Watson, that Mr. Bianco is just the latest in a long line of odd occurrences around your treatment of patients. I’m going to be putting you on a probationary period for a few months, to make sure that you are following all hospital procedures and guidelines properly. This is the best for everyone, you understand, don’t you?”
John nodded, the motion jerky and nervous.
“I’ve covered the rest of your shift, also, if you’d like to go home to have a bit of a rest.”
“Yes. Yes, that would be good probably.”
John went home in a cab, different from his normal use of the tube because he just wanted to be home and away from people. Once in his flat—a tiny little thing, because he was saving money to help pay off his loans for school—he started pacing. He would be fired before the end of the year, he knew it—he’d gotten a much fairer break than most people did, too, but that was because he’d introduced Clara Mpemba to his sister Harry. Too many weird things happened to him—he wanted a life, for just a bit, where nothing happened to him.
That was why, the next morning well before his shift at the hospital started, John Watson walked down to the Army Careers office and signed his name. It was the year 2000, for God’s sake, nothing was going to happen to him in the Army of all places.
I always hated the beach Or the ocean’s end The denouement of watery travel As nuclear families Bare-butt-babes Chemical coconut odor The stuff of half-truth nostalgia That even the sediment scours at in response But you, Serenity awash Felt the majesty from miles away You, Tucked turmoil Into your breast pocket Right atop your heart You, Trailed sand into my subconscious and made no apology For beatific memories The lapping of wave break Between your breaths You, Slept sporadically Lived under constant erosion With the sound of sea Pulling you away Now, I can’t bring myself Back to the beach To meet our warring perceptions On the dunes I miss your words Like you miss a place I hold you in my head out there Your face A vivid scenery of peace I have no desire To see the beach And find you are not there
There are things in this world that are so rare that when you find them, you HAVE to pay attention.
-Brilliance. Some minds are just wired differently than others. They process things in an almost magical way. They see things most people don’t. They understand things and people and have insights and ideas that blow you away.
-Beauty. Outer beauty is common. Inner beauty is rare. These are the people that shine in the dark. You can feel them. They make the world and everyone around them better. They are selfless. They are caring. Their souls are visible and bright and clean.
-Self Awareness. No one is perfect, though many think they can do no wrong. There is power in seeing your own flaws, recognizing your weaknesses, and being willing to make changes when needed. Sticking your head in the sand and pretending everything is perfect may work for a very short time, but looking inward and improving yourself is doing it the right way.
-Ambition. People who have an idea or a goal and actually go for it are rare. Most of us dream and dream, but never get off our butts and DO. Those that go after the things they want and do so without fear of failure are people we can learn a lot from.
These are just a sample of the things I find admirable about people. Most of us are lucky to have a shred of one rare trait. If you find someone who has all of them, grab tight, open your eyes, ears, and hearts and for the love of God, never let go.