it's not from sherlock but whatever


one day soon I’ll hold you like the s u n holds the m o o n
and we will hear those planes overhead and we won’t have to be scared

In which Sherlock comes back after pretending to be dead for two years, finds John moved out of Baker Street and nearly engaged. He’d deduced two possible reactions… but not this.

Of all the outcomes Sherlock had prepared himself for, this was not one of them. There had been two scenarios in his head, two ways John’s emotions could play out. Shock was, in both scenarios, naturally the primary stage. That is logically what happens when a previously thought dead person presents themselves. It was the stages that came after the shock is where it got tricky, given that Sherlock had to take into factor that they were surrounded by the public eye, in a very crowded, very upscale restaurant. It was where the road split. Road one: Shock would be followed by disbelieve, perhaps tears, but most likely not with John. No, it was more likely disbelief would lead to laughter, the slightly bitter kind that Sherlock could picture on John’s face, the kind that would melt into relief, maybe even a slightly uncharacteristic hug. It might be a briefer display of emotion due to the public eye but at least Sherlock would know it was alright now.

The second road was not preferred but it ended the same. On this path anger followed the shock, maybe John stormed out of the restaurant, maybe delivered Sherlock a rightly deserved punch… But they were together in the end. Sherlock was forgiven in the end.

He never thought, however, that the stage of anger would be so prolonged. He never imagined that John wouldn’t eventually get along to embracing his lost best friend. Sherlock never pictured John leaving him standing alone on the curb of a dumpy fish and chip place with a bloody nose.

Ms. Hudson, on the other hand, had had exactly the reaction Sherlock had predicted when he walked into 221B. She’d screamed, cried, screamed again when he placed a gentle hand on her arm, and proceeded to alternate between the two for the next hour. Sherlock could barely focus on her however, only being able to think about how, as she wrapped him in a very tight hug, he would do anything to have experienced this reaction twice that night.

“Oh Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson patted his cheek fondly, a smile brightening her face, “I take it you’ve seen John?”

Sherlock tense, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She laughed delightedly, squeezing his hand before bustling into the kitchen, “I’ll get the kettle on for you two, then.”

Sherlock unknotted his scarf, hanging it on the familiar coat hanger, taking note in the back of his mind the relief that filled his chest at being, well, home, “Sorry?”

Ms. Hudson looked over her shoulder, “Well, I gather he’ll be around shortly, yes?”

Sherlock froze half way through shrugging out of his coat, the thought hitting him harder than he expected. Would he?

“Yes.” Sherlock said stiffly, dropping his coat over a chair—John’s chair—with a flourish, “Yes, of course. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Ms. Hudson gave him another firm kiss on the cheek and a Oh Sherlock, do play some violin for me tomorrow. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed it, and left him to “get settled.”

Sherlock had prepared the tea with shaking fingers. Of course John would be around. He wouldn’t let the night end like it had would he? He’d want to see Sherlock. Definitely. John was a man of answers, and he had two years worth of questions to ask. Sherlock had poured the water into the tea pot, set out two cups (he’d looked for John’s favorite mug only to find it no longer in the cupboard), milk, and sugar. He’d put it all on a tray, set it rather too harshly onto the coffee table, fell into his chair…

And the waiting had begun.

Sherlock was very good at sitting still usually. He could go days on end without speaking, without moving. But he couldn’t seem to manage it tonight.

He paced, drummed his fingers, watched the clock. By the time he decided to change into his pajamas, it was nearly two in the morning and he had already retuned his violin and stabbed the fireplace mantle approximately 57 times. The tea was cold and he hadn’t had a drop. He hung his coat up from its place on John’s chair, fluffing the flag pillow and smoothing the velvet out.

It was two thirty and Sherlock listened to Ms. Hudson’s bedroom door close downstairs. No doubt she had been waiting up for John. She’d given up. He wouldn’t.

Sherlock kept his phone in hand. John may call rather than come over now that it was so late. He had a…fiancé now, after all. Sherlock swallowed hard at the thought, checking his phone again. Another outcome Sherlock had not expected. Of course, he felt foolish now, thinking John had—thinking John could ever feel… whatever Sherlock had felt. Whatever Sherlock feels. That it was John and him, him and John. He never dreamt that there could be any other version of either of their lives, he never thought…

Sherlock pressed his hands over his eyes.

But perhaps he should not have left for two years. For a so-called genius, he seemed to have a habit of realizing things too late when it came to John Watson. Maybe one could only be a genius in one aspect of life, one field. Sherlock considered this. If that was the case, he’d gladly trade his knowledge of chemistry, of crime, of anything, for an upstanding understanding of John. Just John. It may not be more useful in his line of work. But he would be happier. Emotionally. Sherlock blinked at the realization. He was surprised, but it felt… true.

It was approaching four in the morning when Sherlock resigned to his bed. He couldn’t stare at the empty chair across from him any longer. If he did he was worried he may throw something, or miss the mantlepiece and stab himself instead with the amount he’d been at it. He let his phone rest on his chest, fingertips to his chin.

He didn’t want to admit it, but his hopes were crumbling around him. John was not calling. John was not coming up the stairs. John had left him on the curb after hitting him once, twice, three times. He found that his chest hurt more than his cheek or nose.

Sherlock was just beginning to resign himself to a few more hours of sitting completely still until it was considered a socially acceptable hour to rise and start a day in the life of the living, when his phone buzzed against his ribs, shocking Sherlock’s eyes open.


The screen said John.

Sherlock had barely picked up before he was saying his name.

He was met with a few beats of silence and then, slowly, “You’re awake.”

Sherlock felt pinned against the mattress, “You don’t sound surprised.”

The response was more immediate this time, “I’m not.”

You’re awake.”

Sherlock nearly closed his eyes at the familiar scoff, “Yes, of course I’m awake.”

“I… I’m not surprised… either.” Sherlock had never struggled for words so much in his life.

Silence followed and Sherlock thought he heard John pouring himself tea, or maybe a drink.

“Jesus,” A chair scooted back over the line and John sighed as he sat now, “I’ve not a clue what to say. How’s the nose?”

Sherlock felt himself smile a little at the comment. This was the most normal he had felt in two entire years, “Not as bad as the ribs.”

John chuckled softly, the way he did when he was confused, “What? I didn’t hit you in the ribs.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Silence followed again. Sherlock heard John’s breathing stop and restart, “Sherlock-“

“Don’t worry, I’m okay-“

“No, that’s not the point, Sherlock, the point is that you let me- You let me knock you around when someone else had been doing god knows what god knows where.”

“Don’t worry, you’re much gentler than Serbian interrogators.”

He heard John set his tea down too hard, “What? I- Oh my god, I swear, if you’re joking-“

“I don’t joke.”

Another laugh, this time disbelieving. It sent another shock of relief through Sherlock, “Yes you do, Jesus, Jesus-“

“John. I’m okay-“

“Well, you were dead this morning!”

John’s breathing was harsh over the phone. Sherlock could picture him rubbing his eyes. Sherlock just listened for a moment to the familiar sound. He didn’t know how to start. Sorry was nothing, not what was needed, it wasn’t enough.

“John…” Sherlock let out a breath, “I-“

“Don’t you dare say you’re-“

“I wanted to tell you so many times-“

“God, did you now?” John was nearly fuming again, “That’s the first time you haven’t given into one of your impulses.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Hardly, John. Hardly.

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, “You’re right. I should know better.”

Sherlock heard a clatter that sounded like John throwing his cup in the sink, “Yes. Yes, you should.”

“Maybe I’ll give into one right now.”

A beat of silence, “What?”

Sherlock was already halfway to the door, “I’m coming over.”

The laugh was back, nervous and relieved this time, “Sherlock it’s nearly five-“

“I’m giving into an impulse, John.”

“Right…” A chair scraped back, “Yes, okay. Alright.”

“I’ll catch a cab. Text me the address, would you?”

Sherlock thought he heard a hitch in breath, a small sniff maybe. It made his chest ache, “Yeah.”

Sherlock shrugged half way into his coat, “Okay-“

“Right, can we not say goodbye?”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, “John?”

“’s just the last time you said…” John couldn’t seem to finish but he didn’t have to.

Sherlock understood. He understood and he knew he’d never utter the word ‘goodbye’ to John Watson again.

“See you soon, John.”

dreamingbrownie  asked:

Why is nobody talking about the Robert Downey Junior adaptation on Sherlock Holmes? I only saw the first movie from 2009 but it's so good?!? And a bit confusing for me because I'm a massive Iron Man fan which is the reason for me finding Tony FFs in which he dreams of his past life as Sherlock Holmes absolutely hillarious. But. So good! I still have to watch the second movie with Moriarty tho. And I love it that Sherlock clearly has ADHD there. Whatever, sorry for bothering you. Cheers!

Hi Lovely!

OH GOSH I LOVE RITCHIE HOLMES NO BOTHER AT ALL I’M ABOUT TO BOTHER YOU WITH MY MINI FREAKOUT. I mean it has its own faults and problems but I can overlook them because of the way Downey Jr. and Law play their Holmes and Watson! They so OBVIOUSLY love each other so much, and I adore the chemistry. Law even said that it’s a romance movie and BLESS HIS FUCKING HEART FOR THAT because HE KNOWS, and OH GOD RDJ loves Law so much. LIKE LOOK AT THESE FUCKERS:


OMG you’ll love the second one too; it’s a tad sad with the wedding, but Mary, OMG I love her in the Ritchie-verse… she KNOWS how much they love each other, doesn’t try to keep them apart, and she acknowledges how important Sherlock is to John AND AND AND she’s also a bamf too on the sidelines.

OHHHHH it’s so important that the audience is made EXPLICITLY aware of why Holmes goes after Moriarty – because he threatened Watson and Mary – and when *THAT SCENE* happens, the last thing Holmes ensures he sees is Watson, and then GOD the heartwrenching slow mo’ of that, where you see Holmes is at peace with his decision and FUCK it makes me cry thinking about it.

OH!! And Sherlock and John dance, no denials at all, just start dancing with each other, right there on screen… Like… I have no idea why people disllike these movies, honestly, they’re a treasure trove of Johnlock Moments.

OHHHH and Moriarty is genuinely frightening, imho, honestly. This Moriarty is played off as a completely “someone you meet every day” and I find that even scarier. He’s not Mags-levels of creepy, but fucknuggets he just… has an on-off switch and it’s scary. A calm sort of evil with intense levels of intelligence is more terrifying to me. 

AND THE MUSIC OMG And HNNGGG the cinematics of the second one OMG IT’S ORGASMIC THE SLOW MOTION CHASE SCENE HNNG. The action shots are AMAZING and ASDFASFD Seriously WATCH IT. AND AGAIN I WILL MENTION THE SLOW MO SCENE AT THE END. FUCK. Just FUCK, it’s a beautiful bit of cinematography that makes my heart cry EVERY time. It’s one of my favourite movies of all time and I just. GOD RDJ and Law are just so perfect. There is torture in the second one though, so slight TW for that.

Maybe it’s because RDJ was my re-introduction into Holmes and therefore it holds a special place in my heart. And I know that this is sacrilege but RDJ / Law are my Victorian Holmes/Watson, but BBC is MY Sherlock and John, you know what I mean? Like BBC got me in DEEP into the fandom, so I love them for that, and I just really love Johnlock. SO MUCH JOHNLOCK.

ANYWAY I’M RAMBLING. I can’t WAIT until the third movie, it’s been SO LONG, and I am so excited. While I love the first one because of the Garridebs moment in it (not really but John gets hurt and they have A Moment ™) I think I liked the second movie better because the “love interest” was virtually non-existent and it focussed on Holmes/Watson’s relationship and the case at hand and getting to Moriarty. It was fantastic.

And RDJ Holmes is a different kind of smoll and I love it. And Watson is so BAMF, god. Just the deadpan comedy of Law is amazing.


GAHHHHH. It’s such an underrated movie series because **HOLLYWOOD** and that makes me sad, but seriously I love it so much and jump at any chance to watch it. The first one, I could have done without the Adler subplot (bleh), but it’s a great movie too.

Anyway. Sorry for this momentary diversion into Ritchie-verse. Continue on Johnlocking <3

  • "Do you realize what you just did?"
  • "Is everyone okay?"
  • "I have no idea what to say to that."
  • "Why do you have to break my heart this way?"
  • "I'm going to go down in history for this."
  • "No one is walking away from that."
  • "What did you expect?"
  • "That shouldn't have happened..."
  • "You are driving me mad."
  • "Whatever you say, Sherlock."
  • "What makes you think that is a good idea?"
  • "Did you kill them?"
  • "We need to do something."
  • "No. Just... no."
  • "I shouldn't have gotten out of bed."
  • "Are we going to walk away from all this?"
  • "Maybe we're destined to do this."
  • "Let's jump."
  • "Change is necessary. It's the only constant in the universe."
  • "I'm starting to get excited for this idea."
  • "I can't... What?"
  • "Did you have to do it?"
  • "There's no stopping this."
  • "It's coming..."
  • "I'm not going to sit here while you destroy yourself."
  • "Didn't you just say the opposite of what you said two minutes ago?"
  • "Leave me here."
  • "Why bother?"
  • "I'm not going to sit idly by and let the world burn."
  • "Can we vote on this?"
  • "That's fucked up, man."
  • "We can't do this ourselves."
  • "We have to try."
Volleyball - Request

Requested by anon: May I request a Sherlock x reader where the reader plays volleyball and comes home one day still wearing her practice uniform and maybe smut happens?
– Same person – Request where the reader is a volleyball player and Sherlock never makes it to her games but the biggest game
& that person who requested a shower smut and whose ask I can’t find.

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Word count: 1.617

Warnings: Shower Smut - unprotected (THIS IS FICTION, YOU HAVE TO WEAR PROTECTION)

A/N: I’m back! And I feel so weird writing smut after such a long time… Oh well, remember feedback is awfully appreciated. ;)


Originally posted by sherlockspeare

Tap, tap, tap, and tap. The keys on Sherlock’s keyboards invaded the silent room. He was writing enthusiastically about a new discovery that he was certain it would drop so many jaws he would be crowned on a better position than his older brother Mycroft’s.

She walked in. She was sweating, panting even due to the heavy workout. Sherlock barely shifted as she appeared through the door; his mind was focused on his discovery, and looking directly at her would certainly erase his thoughts.

She left her duffel bag on the couch and walked to the kitchen to get some water. She was used to Sherlock’s indifference, especially when he typed so fast.

The water was too cold, and her body was still warm from the workout; the mix made her cough slightly. She had carried the volley ball with her all the way to the kitchen, but the sudden cough made her drop it.

Sherlock snapped his head instantly. Whatever he was writing disappeared at the sound of her coughing. He got up and stared at her before sighing in relief.

Keep reading

elennemigo  asked:

Fictional kiss prompts: 10 for Sherlolly! Please and thank you! 😙

#10- staring at each other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

Here you go, m’dear! This was the first idea that came to me when I saw this one, so I hope you enjoy. 😉 

“So, what should I say?” Molly asked, settling into the couch next to Sherlock.

“Doesn’t really matter,” he said with a wave. “I just need to practice. What sort of detective would I be if I can’t accurately read lips?”

Molly shrugged. “Ok then, I’ll just…start.” She slowly mouthed some words.

Sherlock sighed. “Honestly, Molly, that’s not how people really talk. They’re not going to be slowly and clearly enunciating if I’m secretly observing at a distance. And I think you can get a bit more complex than ‘thank you.’”

“You just said it didn’t matter,” she countered with a roll of her eyes. “But ok fine. If you insist, I’ll make it trickier.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching her little lips move along with the silent words she spoke. He thought for a moment.

“I might slap you again?” he guessed.

She grinned. “Well done!”

“Ok, try another,” Sherlock asked with a little clap of his hands, encouraged by his correct deduction.

She gave him an interesting glance up and down, and then mouthed some more words, his eyes riveted the whole time. This was strangely more enjoyable than he expected it to be. And he definitely felt his ears warm up a bit this time, as he repeated the words back to her.

“How can a shirt be…” He cleared his throat. “That sexy?”

“Very good,” she replied more softly, a little glimmer in her eyes. “Again?”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth feeling a bit dry suddenly. His eyes focused on her lips again, and he couldn’t help but note the way hers did the same for a moment with him. It was probably best if he just focused on learning this skill and stopped thinking about how her mouth was moving and the brief glimpses he was getting of her tongue and teeth. Might not be appropriate, given the circumstances of her helping him as a friend.

But as he watched her rosy lips form these next words, he instantly felt like his heart was going to pound its way out of his chest. Whatever sort of game she was playing at…he quite liked it.

“I wish I could wear that shirt,” Sherlock repeated to her, raising a brow in a little surprise which made her blush.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the fact that he scooted over closer before she spoke this time. Although he was doing just fine, he instinctively felt the need to have a better view.

Molly tucked some hair behind her ears and bit her lip for a moment before mouthing another phrase. His gaze darted from her mouth to her eyes then, unable to pick a focal point as her words fully registered.

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock finally murmured.

“I didn’t say-“

“I was answering you,” he interrupted quickly, meeting her now widened eyes as he clarified. “No, you’re not the only one who wants this.”

They stared frozen and agape at each other for only about two seconds before they both dove in, clinging desperately to each other as their mouths collided, driven by every bit of passion that had been built up and held back over the years.

It took no time at all for Sherlock to decided that this was the kind of lip reading that should now be given top priority.

@mid0nz wrote:

I’ll just end with this– the greatest missing scene of all. Eurus, Sherlock and Mycroft weren’t born. They were made. HOW? What would she have had to suffer to be that conniving child? What did she see? How did she learn? She learned to speak the language of the sociopaths who raised her. 

I don’t see this.  While I agree about the Holmes parents’ monstrousness (though I don’t think the show meant for us to read them as such), one of my greatest frustrations with the writers’ S3/S4 choices is that they really do seem to think that Sherlock was “made” by a single traumatic event (and, in consequence, that now that he has recovered his memory of the event, he can relatively easily remake himself into a nice, normal person).  I find this crudely reductionist and emotionally unsatisfying, even for a genre show.  Meanwhile, Euros’s childhood sociopathy/whatever malignant mental illness the show thinks she has appears to have arisen solely from her intelligence and its unavoidable concomitant, lack of feeling.  There’s no other explanation even hinted at in the text.  Mycroft…well, who bothered to think this through for Mycroft?  Apparently he’s just another, but lesser, unfeeling-brain-by-nature who merely happened to be in the vicinity when the murder and self-harm and multiple arsons and supposed death by fire of his sister went down.  No trauma involved for him!  (For all that MG infuses Mycroft’s flashbacks with real feeling, there is not a single moment when anyone in the story acts as if Musgrave would have been a horrifying experience for Sherlock’s thirteen-year-old brother, as well.) 

In earlier years, fandom liked to toy with all kinds of Grand Guignol theories about childhood at Holmes Manor.  I never thought the Holmes parents could be Quite Right, but a few of the theories seemed excessive even by the new TFP standard.  So, while I wasn’t thrilled with the Middle-Class McNormalsons reveal of S3, I could begrudgingly bring myself to live with it.  But what the two theories in their more reasonable incarnations had in common was that the Holmes boys, while obviously responding to their environments, shaped themselves.  Neglect, whether benign or malicious, left them to grow up as hothouse flowers, cultivating their own strange characters.  Reducing all their splendid self-willed oddity to “well, Sherlock had one Really Bad Experience as a child” and “Mycroft is smart therefore naturally inhuman” is just so unsatisfying for me.  I’m sure part of this results from the clumsy, inconsistent, preaching-not-showing “S4 is a speedrun of itself” showrunning, but I’ve read enough Moffat interviews to believe that he really thinks that TFP solved the ultimate mystery of Sherlock Holmes (“How can anyone be like that and not be a monster?”) and that the answer was “His childhood friend was murdered.”

(I cannot work out a way to selectively quote long nested texts on Tumblr, so apologies for this formatting.)


Sherlock belongs to us now

Seriously, the writers essentially gave Sherlock William Scott Holmes to us. 

Moffat and Gatiss completed their part in his story, and set up each happy ending that we could want.  Now, it’s up to us all to make that happy ending into the story we all want to see.  No one’s end wasn’t real.  No lies were told.  All I Love You’s and texts and caresses gave us all exactly what we wanted and they were all as real as we want them to be.  Sherlock belongs to us now. 

Steven and Mark are finished telling the story they wanted to tell.  Now it’s our turn to continue that into whatever we wish.  Don’t talk yourself out of your happiness.  We all deserve our happy endings.

In case you’re confused, here’s a useful lil illustration:

mild-lunacy  asked:

I have a question I think a lot of us in fandom struggle with: how do you manage to ignore not just the *specific* things Moffat and Gatiss say about John and Sherlock, but the overall idea they have always suggested that they genuinely didn't mean to write Sherlock as in love with with John and vice versa? Obviously, they *have* indeed written it regardless, but how does one integrate their constant denials with that? Aside from dismissing the importance of Authorial Intent entirely, I mean?

I’m afraid that’s not a path I can go down. I continue to admire these writers and what they’ve created, though I don’t understand why they would discredit a perfectly valid reading of their story. I stand by the reading I see, and while you and they are welcome to decide that I am too fanciful, overthinking things, or am seeing what I want to see rather than what’s actually there, I am confident that what I see in the story is defensible as a reading, backed up by textual evidence perceived through reasonable eyes. I’m happy to continue interpreting and re-interpreting that evidence here among other fans, being influenced by others and tweaking my views on this story in perpetuity. The evidence exists to support these conversations and interpretations, and frankly that’s enough for me.

As you know, I have never predicted that any particular ending was inevitable. Stories have patterns, but stories are engineered by human beings and are not predictable. But ships cannot be killed by creators; they only get more interesting the more obstacles get thrown in their way. I object to all attempts to control a fandom through creator edict. 

Stories are always collaborations with the reader, or in this case, the viewer. I reserve the right to interpret as I see fit. What I will not do is insist that the writers see it the way I do, defend their choice to write a story different than the one I would write, or question why they do what they do. None of us can guess at that. You can spin any theory you like about why this or that pressure from there or whatever is the cause, but I won’t follow you there. I don’t write meta about human beings, I write about fictional people. Fictional people can be fully known and dissected; actual people, you, me, the writers, cannot.

We may never know the answers to your questions, and we have to accept that. We aren’t owed the inner thoughts of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. They are free to say what they like.

To me, the story stands alone, and the story is generous with its evidence. I’ll stick to that.

Sacrifice, Virgin or Otherwise

Sally can smell it, the moment they find the spot. 

It’s not some Slayer Superpower thing, it’s merely that the tender cologne of bile, entrails and bits-that-used-to-be-people which a Grothlok Demon leaves behind is sort of hard to mistake. 

Even if it’s wafting out of a boarded-up former abattoir, you’re going to notice. 

Behind her, she hears Mary Watson draw in a breath, the blond nurse raising her not-at-all-suspiciously-well-maintained firearm and moving stealthily to Sally’s side. At the back of the alley, Molly Hooper is waiting, twitching with nervousness and hopping from foot to foot as Mycroft’s mysterious Girl Friday keeps the engine warm on Hudder’s car. 

“This is it,” Watson says, and it’s not a question. 

Sally nods anyway. 

“Got our supplies?” she asks, and the blond nods again, gesturing to her inside pocket. 

“Good,” Sally says. “On my count- One, two, THREE!” 

And coiling every not-inconsiderable ounce of supernatural strength she possesses, Sally kicks at the door to the abattoir, knocking it open. 

Without missing a beat, Watson reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, knotted purple handkerchief which she tosses into the room as if it were a grenade. 

Keep reading


honestly i dont even really know how to begin this like??? i feel like i have so much to say it was just the best day of my Entire Ugly Life. im so honored i really am it was just the most beautiful experience ever nd also so funny lkafsfsa i can’t wait to share with you !! 

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Yooo I want to follow some people

Like for real if you like any of the following hit me up or something so I can follow you and we can become best friends or some shit:

Supernatural (No haters tho’ I don’t like hate in any form, unless we’re hating on Metatron ‘cause he’s a dick)

Avengers or Marvel (Although Tony Starks haters can stay away cause he’s my baby and I will protect him, good? Good)

Criminal Minds (Specially if you love my smol cinnamon roll Spencer, or my sexy sinnamon roll Penelope, or my slightly burnt but still adorable cinnamon roll Emily, or basically if you love anyone from the BAU team)

Harry Potter (I’m a happy Slytherin btw)

Lord of The Rings/ The Hobbit (cause you know, precious things can happen)

Star Trek (My space babies)

Star Wars (My other space babies)

Merlin (still not over the ending)

Sherlock (High functioning antisocial, do your research)


DC (whereas its the movies or the animated series or the series or whatevs)

Game Of Thrones (season 8 is going to make us wait a long, long time)

Im pretty sure I like more things but those are the ones at the top of my head, anyways just hit me up and I’ll follow

ID #58799

Name: Alice
Age: 17
Country: France

Hi ! I’m Alice. So i’ve wanted to have a penpal for a long time now and here seems the right place to find one.
I live in Brittany, in France. I can speak english and a little bit of spanish. I’m very open minded, accept all sexualities and gender. I love to discover new cultures and see how people live in other parts of the world ! I would be thrilled if you wanted to learn French, and i would gladly help you if you do. I like dramas (It’s Okay It’s Love is my all-time favorite ♥) & tv shows, especially Shadowhunters, Sherlock, Doctor Who and i plan on looking at Stranger Things. I absolutely love listening to music, and i can listen to pretty much everything : Kpop, pop, classic, oriental, jazz… If fanfics count as books, then i’m reading A LOT. I also read books of course, but i really have to be interested in it. I love photography, especially landscapes and my friend’s beautiful smiles.

Preferences: Any nationality, gender, sexuality, skin color, hair color… Whatever ! Just maybe someone around my age ;)

Stradivari (An Adlock x Eurus Fanfiction)

(I get waaaaay too crazy when I write fics, and switching from Irene, Eurus, and Sherlock’s characterisation here is an internal experience on its own. This is exhausting to write tbh. Should I make a blog post about it? Gaaaaaah, whatever. On to the fic!)

The wind howls intimately against the crashing waves as the helicopter touched the cold cement of the building. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat to hide his neck from the chilling breeze, entering the confines of Sherrinford to provide company for his sister. 

It was devastating just to think that he had promised her home and yet she’s still locked up like nothing’s changed. But if there is one thing he has gotten into terms with through the years, it’s that home is not a place, but it is a sanctuary found in the arms of the people you hold dear. 

His eyebrows furrowed as soon as he heard the echoing tune from her chambers, the familiarity of the curve of the notes making him sigh. 

With her back to him, she played the theme he wrote for The Woman, her head slowly swaying to the solemnity of the music. She paused for a moment, recognising that he had entered the room, and continued playing until the edge of the last note she had heard from him when she asked him to play once before. 

“Can you teach me the rest?” Eurus said calmly, putting the violin down to her side and turning to face her brother. 

Sherlock squinted at her, trying to guard his expression. “You told me we’re playing Chopin on my next visit.”

Eurus tilted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow at her brother. “That’s way too easy. No story. No excitement. I want to know more about this.”

Taking his own violin in hand, he started to tune the strings, eyes avoiding his sister’s. 

“We both know where this is going. Just tell me and save us both the agony.” her voice had a sing-song tone to it, drawing near the glass to look at her brother closely. 

“I’ve written it a long time ago.” Sherlock muttered, plucking some of the strings. 

Eurus’ stare was boring deep into him, and he could tell that she was studying him closely. 

“Oh, I’m not interested in when. I want to know why you changed the way you play it.” 

Sherlock put down the violin to meet his sister’s eyes, reading into her knowing expression. “Did I?”

Eurus smiled. “Oh, yes. I can tell. The way your fingers caress the strings… The absolutism in every stroke of the bow… When you wrote it, it was meant to show grief, frustration… confusion.”

The older Holmes remained stoic, still waiting for his sister to conclude her own amused inquiry. 

Her eyes turned to look at his fingers against the bow, a smile creeping up her face. “Now it’s full of passion,desire, longing… How long was it then when you last slept with her before we met for the first time? A week ago? More like two… three days?”

Sherlock looked at her pointedly, sensing a challenge in his sister’s voice. He figured there was no point in arguing. “Just out of a quiver of a note?”

Eurus smiled, looking pleased with herself. “That… and the cuffmarks on your left wrist that day. I’m quite surprised Mycroft didn’t notice.”

The detective gave an amused smile. “Oh, he did. He just got caught up with everything that he failed to make a fuss about it.”

There’s a slight relief that came with the sight of Eurus’ eyes twinkling with glee, and he could already tell she wasn’t giving up the matter at hand. It was not the best idea to have her be curious of Irene Adler, but it was already a lost cause. Needless to say that even if he didn’t want to admit, Eurus somehow made it easier to talk about The Woman. 

He saw his sister walk over to her bed to reach for her violin once more, looking at him expectantly as she claimed the form to play. 

“From the beginning, then.” Sherlock commanded, holding his bow to start the melody.

With Mycroft’s request, his next visit dawned earlier, much to Eurus’ demand. 

“I can’t play it right.” the younger Holmes snapped upon the arrival of her brother. 

Sherlock studied the tense movements of his sister, amused at her rampage. “Mycroft tells me you’ve memorised the piece entirely.”

“It wasn’t complicated, Sherlock, but what I can’t accept is why it doesn’t sound right. With you it was easy to read everything into the music, hardly a difficult deduction, really, as you are already well aware… but even if I try to channel the intricacies of the emotions you weaved into playing, it doesn’t work. As I’ve said before, what’s the point if the piece being beautiful and right isn’t the same thing?” 

There was spite in her voice, as if she was given a problem she cannot solve and the situation was foreign. Sherlock could recognise the same tone, similar to a tantrum, as he was also prone to such when he finds himself blind on a case. 

Still, how does a mind surpassing Newton unable to come into terms with a mere violin piece? 

Breathing heavily after playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Sherlock could not hide his surprise upon seeing how quickly Eurus had recovered from the extraneous piece, her fingers curving once more to start what happened to be a screeching mess of notes. 

“What is it now?” he tried to hide the annoyance in his voice, but failed evidently. 

Eurus looked livid, playing an earsplitting tune that caused a violin string to snap. Sherlock looked at her, bewildered at her actions, to which her expression turned blank. 

“I would need another violin.” she said in a deadpan voice. 

Sherlock took it as a dismissal and turned to take his leave when his sister called once more, still in the same chilling voice, with another request. 

“And on your next visit, bring her.”

Eurus was not accepting any visitors unless her request was merited. 

“Oh for God’s sake! Have we really gotten to the point where family affairs and petty arguments involve bringing in national criminals in an institutionalised facility, who, by the way, are supposed to be officially dead?” Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temples in exasperation.

John couldn’t help but snort at the statement. “And this is new because…?”

Mycroft glared at the doctor, to which Sherlock laughed. The eldest Holmes darted back to look at his brother, a sour smile in his face. 

“You think this is funny, Sherlock? Who thought it was a clever idea to confuse our dear sister with matters of the heart?” Mycroft hissed. 

“You’re blaming me?” Sherlock spat back, rolling his eyes at Mycroft as if the suggestion was preposterous. 

John scoffed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but Mycroft does have a point. You fed her this obsession, mate.”

Mycroft scorned. “Sentiment is not something she’s very familiar with, dear brother. She sees romance and love on a spectrum that is to be analysed logically — something you claim to be unfamiliar with but we all see the obvious. I believe — and hope in the heaves above — that she will come into a conclusion once she meets Irene Adler.”

The helicopter ride to Sherrinford was silent. 

Sherlock could feel Irene’s eyes trained on him curiously, but with only the information that Eurus wants to meet her, he couldn’t blame the burning look she was giving him.

“This will be interesting.” Irene mused, sliding the coat off her back before entering the room where the youngest Holmes resided. “Should I expect her to be worst than you?”

“You’ll know when you meet her.” Sherlock simply said as he followed her in. 

They saw Eurus sitting on her bed, expectant upon their arrival. Sherlock saw that his sister’s eyes were quick to scan Irene’s gait, expression turning from unreadable to purely amused.

“You exceeded my expectations.” she said bluntly, completely ignoring her brother, eyes only focused on The Woman. 

Irene gave her most intrepid smile, meeting the other woman’s challenging gaze with a spark from her own. “And that is?”

“I know you will be easy on the eyes, but I didn’t expect you would… sting.” Eurus simply replied. 

Sherlock studied the two of them, eyes piercing towards each other. It was like watching a dance on flames, and he was sure that if someone was going to get scorched, it would most likely be him. 

“I take that as a compliment. You’re not so bad yourself.” Irene addressed Eurus with a slight nod, causing the latter to narrow her eyes. 

Walking closer to the glass and still not acknowledging her brother, Eurus asked Irene to draw nearer. Sherlock wanted to protest but clearly they are lost in their own game, and he remained where he stood. 

“When you walked in, I thought the song made less sense, but seeing how my brother has been hovering nervously at the corner since you entered, I go back to where I stand.” Eurus affirmed haughtily. 

Irene grinned. “He pretends to be distant than he really is, but he’s easy to read. But I’m sure you already know that.”

Eurus looked amused. For the first time since her visitors arrived, she turned to her brother, and as quick as a whip, her voice was demanding. 

“Play it.” 

Sherlock looked affronted. “Why does it matter that much?” 

“Because I want to know why I’m wrong. I don’t like being wrong.” she said, deadpan, reaching for her violin as well.

Irene was watching in full interest, a smile playing on her lips as Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving in to the request. 

He sighed, fingers slightly trembling. He realised that he only played the piece for Irene once, a couple of years ago, the courage supplied by slight intoxication.

Taking his bow, he started, as accompanied by his sister. Halfway, he realised she stopped and left him to finish on his own, eyes fully focused on his movements, mirroring Irene’s own steady gaze. 

Lingering on the last note, Sherlock gave the bow one last stroke, before ending completely. 

Gathering his composure and trying to ignore the heat rising up his neck upon meeting Irene’s eyes, he turned to his sister. 

“Well?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. 

Eurus pursed her lips slightly, before giving him a nod. “Interesting… I need to rest. You may leave.”

Irene raised her eyebrows in amusement, walking towards Sherlock. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Instead of replying, the youngest Holmes took her violin in hand and started to play Paganini Caprice No. 1 with brevity.

“Until my next visit, Eurus.” Sherlock breathed before heading out. 

To his surprise, Eurus abruptly stopped in the middle of playing, sniping a remark at both him and Irene before she continued to play as if nothing happened. 

“Judging by the tension, I suggest you take the third room three corridors from here. I assure you it’ll be free from disturbance. ‘Til next time, Sherlock, Ms. Adler.”

“You didn’t take my advice. Was it easier to have sex in your flat? I assume the landlady wasn’t very happy about the creaking floors.” Eurus stated bluntly after finishing another piece from Bach. 

Sherlock let out a sigh, expecting his sister’s comments were long overdue ever since he arrived. 

“So, Eurus, what was your experiment about?” he asked, also curious about the conclusions her sister drew from the brief encounter with Irene. 

He saw her studying him, as if he was nothing more than a specimen for her to dissect. “I won’t play it anymore. Only you can play it. You make it beautiful. I can only play it right.”

“I thought you believe the two has to be the same thing?” Sherlock mused. 

“You proved me wrong. It was a song only you can play because you play it for her. I can’t play it because I don’t see her like you see her, and clearly romance or whatever is it you have with her is not something I’m akin to. But for all graciousness, and as I am fond of you, dear brother, then I would not butcher the song you obviously hold so dear.” 

Eurus recited the words as if it was a monologue she was merely reading, but Sherlock figured it was as sincere as she could get. 

“I… ah… thank you.” was all he managed to say. 

“Oh, but one last thing Sherlock.” Eurus noted.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, wondering what could it possibly be at this point. 

“I’d like Irene to be my Christmas present. 5 minutes of unsupervised conversation would do.”

sometimes i envision the TJLC “inner circle” as like yknow in movies where a character becomes inundated to an exclusive interesting new life or whatever, and theyre like “we were living the high life, the money kept coming and i didnt question from where, i was living a life i didnt even know was possible” except its just like me and my friends exchanging doodles of john and sherlock kissing and yelling “OH MY GOD THEY KISS GOODNIGHT IM CYRING” at each other

anonymous asked:

I simply love your imagines any chance you'd write this?: Mycroft x reader where the reader plays obsessive guitar (Blues) forgetting the time and to eat or sleep. Resulting un the reader losing weight and faĺling asleep at day or drinking far too much coffee. So the Mycroft and the rest of 'the gang' step in?

Originally posted by quantumacid

“Now we all know our parts correct,” Mycroft asks before opening up the door to his fiancee’s private study in the east wing. 

I step with shoes!” Rosie exclaims loudly stamping her squeaky shoe feet in excitement.

John gives Mycroft an sheepish look as he tries to calm the three year old down. Yet again Mary had a mission outside the country to complete and Mrs. Hudson too was visiting family in Florida leaving Roise to tag along and yet another Holmes shenanigan rather than doing regular kid stuff. 

You know-like playing with sticks, drawing, playing with other kids her own age instead of helping to stage an intervention for a family friend. 

“Uh, sorry about that. Rosie remember what daddy said about the trip to uncle ‘Crofty’s house?” he questions quietly beside his daughter hoping that she will understand the need to be silent.

We’re here to see aunty ____,” she starts to shout before John got a hand over her mouth to stop the noise.

There’s a hush in the hallway as everyone listens to see if the sole occupant in the room has heard only to be met with nothing but a few snuffles and nothing more.

“The hell with it,” Sherlock grumbles as he pushes through Mycroft to the door with his brother sputtering all the while to reveal his sister-in-law to be sprawled on the floor among a nest of notebook paper and guitar just out of arm’s reach.

With a grand sweep of his arm Sherlock gripes,“She’s not even conscious-” before John follows up with a “Quick check for a pulse” while holding back Rosie and answered “I’m on it” by Molly.

Mycroft however follows at a more sedate pace behind the two in order to get a hand on Rosie who seems to want nothing more to run over to his passed out fiancee and getting more agitated by the second.

Sherlock joins his brother’s side as let’s the doctors do their thing.

“Honestly Mycroft how could you let it get this far. If anything I would think that this would be the nonissue with the way you like to control every little thing.”

 Mycroft gives him a very cool side glare that Rosie is thankfully too preoccupied with escaping her uncle’s grasp to notice but not by Sherlock. “I only control things that can be detrimental to my loved ones health Sherlock and I did not perceive that playing the ‘blues’ would fall into that category.”

Pfft. Anything can be detrimental to your health if you do it right,” Sherlock scoffs before electing to pick up the aggravated Rosie up and inspect _____ together.

Mycroft of course follows but at a heavier pace for he knows that he could have, should have stopped this sooner when the signs were clear.

The weight loss.

The copious amounts of caffeine ingested.

The seemingly random naps in the day-everything pointed that there was something wrong but he had refused to believe that something as simple as music was harming _____.

After all she was a professional musician. 

She played for the Queen’s orchestra and featured in some popular artists covers for talent alone-this shouldn’t be happening to her at all and yet here ______ was- half naked on the floor in her underwear (that Molly was gracious enough to cover her rear with her sweater to avoid Roise’s inquisitive nature to ask what exactly ‘place all packages here’ meant on the back) with notes sticking to her at random and snoring lightly.

Molly sighs as she tries to put ____’s body in a less contorted position. “Well, we at least know that she’s still breathing but doesn’t ____ look a little-you know,” Molly gestures lamely for what she doesn’t want to say in front of Rosie or Mycroft.

“Yes, well, you would be that too if you skipped on eating more than a few days,” John states while setting ___’s airway more open, “I’d guess that she skipped what-three to four days worth of meals?”

“Five and a half,” Sherlock corrects, “there’s crumbs on _____’s shoulder indicating that she most likely grabbed a graham cracker of sort-most likely their supply meant for Roise and ate a packet.”

Roise makes the most distressed sound as she squirms in Sherlock’s arms. “Not my crackers!”

Roise shh!” John tries to hush his daughter only for Sherlock to interject, “Don’t bother John a gun fight could happen in this very room and ____ wouldn’t wake up due to the lack of REM sleep she’s had in the last week.”

The toddler continues to squirm in Sherlock’s arms until he finally sets her down and Rosie takes off like a rocket with her squeaky shoes sounding off behind her presumably toward the kitchen with Sherlock following lamely behind.

“And where are you going,” Mycroft intones as Sherlock is already halfway out the door.

Sherlock gives his brother a writhing look. “To look after Rosie of course. My God its like you can’t even think while being engaged-,” Sherlock starts before catching a very warning eye from Molly. 

It was no secret within their circle that everyone was waiting for Sherlock to finally pop the question to Molly but as it seems Sherlock was dragging his feet more so than what he’s done in the last five years.

Mrs. Hudson was praying for it, Angelo was promising to carter for it, Rosie was impatient to be the flower girl and only God could tell what it was like for Molly.

Giving Molly one of his more coy smiles Sherlock finishes, “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do here. All ____ needs is more fluids and rest before she’s back to normal and we can stage a proper intervention anyway. You could basically string her up like a puppet than have her do the  macarena and she’d be know the wiser.”

Deep down Mycroft knows that to be true and gives him the go ahead to track down their wayward niece and in record time as a loud crash could be heard from the kitchen followed by a very quiet but noticeable, “Uh-oh.”

Knowing that Sherlock would tend to whatever mayhem that Roise could wrought upon his five star kitchen Mycroft bends down to be closer to his fiancee.

He strokes the hair out of her face and looks glumly at what his negligence has brought. 

“You don’t have to look so upset Mycroft- _____ is going to be alright,” Molly tries to comfort him, “after all its not like its hard drugs or anything serious like what happened with Sherlock. She’ll get better.”

“But when and for how long,” Mycroft muses aloud, “As her future husband I should be more vigilant and prepared.”

“Mate my wife is an international assassin for hire, I think you’re overreacting and ____ will be fine,” John retorts making a note on his notepad about ____’s condition.

He stands up and claps Mycroft on the back lightly. “Its like Sherlock said there’s not a whole lot we can do until ____ is in better health to help her get over this obsession but I wouldn’t worry you are after all the reason that Sherlock’s still with us yeah?”

Mycroft nods his head. He knows that it is because of his intervention that Sherlock is still around and kicking.

“Speaking of which those two have been too quiet for too long,” Molly says slowly as she carefully stands up to see what the pair could be up to.

As she leaves John gestures to Mycroft, “help me pick her up and pop her to bed yeah?”

It takes a tick for Mycroft to respond but he eventually snaps out of his stare at _____’s face to grab her legs securely while John gets a good grip on he arms. 

The journey from the east wing to the master bedroom is thankfully not an awkward silence as they navigate carefully among the decor.

However its when they finally get to the bed with ____ that Molly’s shriek of “IN THE KITCHEN?” that they nearly drop _____.

The Return of the Hounds Pt. 2

Part two! If you have any requests for Sherlock fics please let me know!!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 3,122

Part 1


You opened your eyes. The two were gone. With the coast clear, you sat up, kicked your legs over, crinkled your toes, and stood, your bare feet nearly sticking to the freezing floor. Achy and weak, you shook, clutching the drip stand with white knuckles to regain your balance. Before you left the room, you searched for anything that could be used for a weapon to defend yourself from whatever the hell was going on.

A small drawer revealed an assortment of scalpels. You picked up the one with the largest blade and tucked in your tight fist, ready to fight.

You limped through the halls until you came across a closet marked “RESTRICTED: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. You knocked before you realized it was ajar, and left unattended. You looked around, slipped in, and shut it behind you.


The two followed the sound of the gunshot into the ICU as they expected. The heart rate monitors beeped for unconscious victims. A puddle of blood was smeared on the floor. A body was dragged 3 yards, then abandoned.

John gagged as Sherlock searched the body for any clues. Anything to tell him what the hell was going on. In the left shirt pocket, he felt something stiff. It was a small printed x-ray. He lifted it to the dim light to revelation the sharp outline of a sickly, decaying brain. A warning.

His blood ran cold. He had to get to you before this happened again. He and John followed the signs along the walls to any room that might shed some light on the disease.

Before they did, they stopped in the room they had left you in. The door was shut and locked, but Sherlock kicked it in. His eyes searched the empty room, but there was no sign of you. Sherlock looked hopelessly at John, who tried to take a step back and think logically.

“Well she was barefoot, wasn’t she? Footprints?” He suggested.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Yes…” he said quietly. He dropped to the ground, scrutinizing the painstakingly clean floor for the disruption caused by your small footfalls.


He saw them. The staggering, dizzy, bare footprints that dotted the room and led the pair out into the hallway.


Computers filled the walls in front of you. A virtual control room. A screen was open to a search engine. You sat at the desk behind the projector, covered in research papers and exam results, envelopes marked classified and restricted, x-rays and MRIs. You saw a box of slides and CDs. One rested on top with the title “CS Pitch T6.” You took it out of the case and put it into the laptop. It flashed over the screen. A movie clicker with a title the same, and a well-dressed blond man smiling on screen.

“Hello.” He started. “I’m Culverton Smith. Many may recognize me for the innumerable philanthropic contributions I’ve made in my home country of England, and now, I’m ready to stake my claim of the American dream. I’m bringing my wealth and charity to you, the great people of America, and all you have to do is welcome me with open arms, and an open mind.”
His crooked smile churned your stomach, and his lack of sincerity was transparent to you. An abrupt voice in the video cut off your train of thought.

“Alright, cut! That was good, Mr. Smith, we can probably move on from there.”

A crewmember combed his hair back into place, and another brought him a script.

“Now you’re explaining the study.”

You fumbled through the box for the films from the study.

Aha! You tossed them into the projector and started the slideshow as the clip continued to play. You followed along with the video, flipping through dozens of aged x-rays and brain scans, each more damaged than the last. Captions came after each photo. You skimmed them, reading lightly. It was enough to get the idea. A group of scientists researched the effects of a gas that makes its victims “incredibly susceptible to suggestion” as a form of biochemical warfare. The project was abandoned after many of its subjects turned inexplicably violent, resulting in horrifying homicides. You sat in front of the projector, enthralled. You noticed the same unsettling man from the videos in the last few slides, followed by a study from just the past year. The medicine promised to clear the mind, remove memories from the past few hours, depending on the dosage, and even block new memories from being formed. It failed the clinical level of approval, but the next slide promised tweaks and more tests.

You were glued to the projector as the door suddenly flew open. You jumped up out of the chair, swaying slightly due to the speed, and pulled out the scalpel, ready to face your attacker. You faced the two men who were in your room before, who were just as surprised to see you as you  were. They put their hands up in defense, but they both seemed more relieved than frightened.

You dropped your attack posture, placed the scalpel on the desk and fell back into the chair, attempting to hide your weakness.

“Now,” you began slowly.  “I don’t know, much. I mean, I don’t remember anything from the past-,” you thought carefully. “Oh god,” you said, defeated. “Few years, I guess? But I think that’s the point. I think I’m a part of this study.” You pointed at the screens. “And, I don’t know who either of you are, but I have a feeling you know me. And I’m not sure I trust you completely, but I’m ready to help you figure this out, if you’ll have me.”

The two looked at each other and nodded.

You focused on the taller of the two. His blue eyes were pained and fatigued. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. But there was something familiar about them, you just couldn’t put your finger on it. It was comforting, in a way.

You cleared your throat. “So um, well, I found all of this. Someone tried to create a chemical, that-“

“Made its users incredibly susceptible to suggestion. The HOUND project.” Interrupted Sherlock.

You nodded. “Right. But it didn’t work out because-“

“The subjects turned homicidal. Uncontrollable.”

“Yes. How’d you know?”

“The case. The Hounds of Baskerville case.”

“Case? Are you a detective? Is that why you’re here?”

He clenched his jaw.

“So what does the study have to do with memory?” John interjected.

“Well, some bloke from the UK came over and brought the study back, you know, funded it and stuff. It got rejected a second time by the US Federal standards of medicine whatever, but he promised in this video-“

You rewound the CD and played it.

“-that he’d keep testing until it worked. He’s bloody determined, I’ll give him that.”

Sherlock and John were glued to the screen.

The video played out and the men stood back, exchanging a glance.

“So,” you asked quietly, waiting for the men to respond. “Know him?” You asked.

“I know exactly who he is,” the tall one replied.

“Friend of yours?” You asked

“Something like that,” he said. He explained the story of how he very nearly died under the “care” of Culverton Smith a little under 3 years ago.

“It was right before we met.”

John busied himself with searching the files for anything to reverse the effects of the medicine as Sherlock took a seat next to you.

“What was I like? I mean, I know who I am, I know who I was at University, and at my first job, and even in my own flat, but then it just stops. I can’t remember who either of you are. You, feel familiar, but I just can’t remember.”

His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away.

“You,” he started, his voice shaky. “You were involved in a hit and run. The case seemed simple enough, just find the car that hit you and get on with it. But it wasn’t. We visited you in hospital, and you snuck out with us. Said you “needed to find the bastard that hit you and take care of him yourself.” You stayed with us on the case for two weeks. And we found the driver. And you-“ he laughed. “You took care of him yourself. By hitting him with your car.”

“Oh god, what happened?”

“He’s fine, just stayed in hospital for a few weeks. But then you kept coming back to the flat. You helped with dozens of cases that I couldn’t solve myself. You were,” he sighed. “Mine.” His voice cracked. “You were,  we were…”

“Oh god…” you sighed quietly. “I’m so sorry.” You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours. He scanned your eyes for any sign of your next move, but he never could have anticipated what you did next.

You did the only thing you could think of in a situation like this. You threw your arms around him and pulled yourself close to his chest. He paused for a minute, then did the exact same. You didn’t know who he was, but you knew a broken person when you saw one.

“I want to remember,” you whispered to him. “I really do.” His grip tightened, and he rested his head on yours.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted on the side of your head. You kicked back, sending the wheeled chair rolling backwards. You clutched your head with both hands as you cried out.

“John, what the hell is happening?!” Sherlock yelled, stopping the chair.

John darted over, peeling your hands away to examine your head. You were shaking and screaming, horrible, blood curdling screams that sent Sherlock into an even deeper panic than before. A drop of blood rolled from your ear as you carried on, the pain spreading to your forehead.

“This doesn’t make any sense; all the studies say that the patients only showed these symptoms when continuously fed the chemical and she…”

Sherlock looked at the drip feed. The bag was marked saline, but he would have bet his life on the idea that that was what was killing you.

He tore it from your arm and threw the stand across the room. You continued to whimper as the two picked you up and rushed you to a nearby exam room. They nearly dropped you when greeted by the face seated in the corner of the room.

“Good evening gentlemen. I would address your friend there, but it’d be a bit of a waste, don’t you think? Poor thing doesn’t have much time left.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock hissed.

He stood up and walked towards you, leaning in close to Sherlock. Culverton’s acrid breath puffed in his face as he spoke.

“Did I accidentally give you the serum too? Do you not remember who I am? I’m a serial killer! I want to kill you, Mr. Holmes! For good this time. But the thing with you is you don’t think you have feelings or friends. But you do. You have so few, that’s your problem. That’s why it hurts so much to lose them. You like to think you have fewer feelings than everyone else, but it’s not true. You just divide them up amongst fewer people. I want her to suffer, because it makes you suffer. You’d give your life any day, hell, you’d even take it yourself! But I want you to watch her dissolve. Then I want to kill you. Then obviously, I’ll save her. No point in wasting two lives when one will suffice.” He pulled up your head by your hair. White foam dribbled down your chin, your eyes were shut, but you still breathed, your heart still struggled to beat. “I’ll save her for later.”

He dropped your head back down.

“That’s why I know you won’t kill me. Because I’m the only one who knows how to save her. I’m the only one who can guarantee her safety.”

“And that’s why I know you won’t kill me.” He leaned over to john. “Because what will happen to you and Sherlock if you kill the one person who has control of his little bloodhound? I’ll be dead, but then you’ll watch her wither away in agonizing pain, fits of seizures, possibly choking on her own vomit, oh it’s gruesome, but the list goes on and on. That’ll put a damper on the relationship won’t it!”

“You’re right,” You murmured under your breath.

“What?” He swung around, genuinely surprised.

“They won’t kill you.” You strained yourself to simply lift your head up. “I will.”

“No!” Sherlock screamed, attempting to hold you back.

Using the last bit of strength you had left, you hurled yourself at him, slitting his throat with the scalpel before collapsing onto the floor beside him. His eyes were wide with terror as the life drained swiftly out of them.

Within minutes, Culverton Smith was dead.

Your breathing became shallow and ragged as the two picked you up gently and placed you on the bed.

“I don’t want to die.” You laughed lightly with tears in your eyes. “But if I do, at least I’ll be the last.”

“You are not going to die, you’re not.”

“Mind palace!” John yelled.

He slammed his eyes shut and locked himself in. His hands flew in front of his face, pushing and pulling imaginary scraps of information from the air.

“Blood!” He yelled. “The serum was injected through her bloodstream. You gave her a tranquilizer, which slowed her heart and slowed the spreading of it. Clean blood should help it out of her system.”

“And where are we gonna get clean blood on such short notice?”

Sherlock rolled up his sleeve.

John shook his head. “You sure this is going to work?”

It has to.

“Well what’s your blood type? Are you two even compatible?”

“My blood type doesn’t matter. She’s AB+.” John sighed and got to work, collecting the tools to create his own transfusion machine. It had to work.

“We need to take some blood out of her first.” John said, placing on needle in her left arm. It dripped into a small container that sat on the floor. He waited. Your fingers grew cold, your lips dimming. That was his cue. He placed a second needle in her other arm, and a third in Sherlock’s.

“You sure you’re okay with this? You’re not exactly the poster child for clean blood.” He nodded to the fading scars on Sherlock’s arms, a stark reminder of his drug laden past.

“I wouldn’t be doing this unless I knew I was 100% clean. I have been for 4 years.”

He sat beside you, watching you carefully. Softly, you wrapped your hand around his, and squeezed before nodding off.


You rolled over and opened your eyes. It was morning, but it wasn’t the next morning. Four days passed before you finally woke up, to the relief of your nurse. She set down your breakfast and checked your charts.

“Good morning honey,” she said softly.

“Where am I?” You asked. Your body ached, your head throbbed. But you could finally remember. “Where’s Sherlock Holmes?” You yelled, interrupting your nurses description of the past night’s events.

“He popped out for just a minute, I think. I could grab him if you’d like?” You nodded quickly as she stepped out of the room, smiling. You fidgeted with your blanket as your heart began to race. Growing anxious, you pushed off your covers and stood. You could feel rapid footsteps approaching. Sherlock suddenly appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide.

Tears welled in your eyes. “Oh Sherlock.” You cried. You’re memories of the night before were foggy, but you felt so overcome with emotion when you saw him.

A relieved smile ripped across his face as he ran towards you, scooping you up and wrapping his arms tightly around you. You pressed your head against his chest as he pulled you in closer, resting his head on yours.

When you finally pulled away, your wide, teary eyes smile greeted him. Your nurse interrupted, gently helping you back into bed. Sherlock sat beside you, explaining the events of the entire night.

“So that’s why I couldn’t, well, can’t remember anything? TD-12?”

“Used in low doses in surgeries, but can be overdosed very easily. Which leads to muscle degeneration, headaches, and death.”

“You’ll be in rehab for a month or two sweetie,” your nurse piped as she entered the room with your lunch and medications.

“Two more months in America? Sherlock, it’s very nice here, but I’ve been here for one week and I barely survived.” You were joking, but in all honesty the only place you wanted to be for the next two months was curled up with a hot cup of tea in 221B Baker Street, solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ll see what we can do.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a familiar number.

“Mycroft, I need a favor,” he started, disappearing out the door to finish the call.

Days passed, and as promised, you were on one of the first flights back home, courtesy of the British Secret Service. The private flight provided pull out beds, room enough for two. Unlike the flight in, you now had no problem consciously resting your head and sleeping away the trip on Sherlock’s shoulder. He had the same idea.

John helped you with rehab once you returned back home. It was fairly easy; the serum wasn’t in your body for long enough to cause lasting damage. Mrs. Hudson brought you a daily cup of tea after your sessions.

“Without this, you’d be in rehab for three more weeks love, I’ll put money on it.” She giggled.



“Are you kidding me? Double homicide, triple suicide, one suspect, who couldn’t possibly have done it? This is as good as it gets!” You contested.

“There’s nothing else? Are you kidding?”

“Wait,” you stopped, straightening. You put your cup down and adjusted the computer in your lap.

“Amnesia virus eradicated in US, last afflicted patients see new hope in blood transfusions,” you read, smiling at Sherlock, who stood above you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in, giving a tight squeeze before returning to his throwing stars.

“Oh no,” you said as you read more into the article. “Virus spreads to 4 other countries.”

You took a sip of your tea, and closed out if the article.

“Not our division.”

Sherlock laughed, and sent one final star through the middle of the fluorescent smiley face spray painted onto the damask wallpaper.