john gets his own

anonymous asked:

Dr Who but each incarnation is swapped with one of their companions.

omg?? I love it??

The First Doctor: 

She’s not completely unfriendly, exactly, she just doesn’t have time for humans being idiots. In the right circumstances, she can actually be very warm. She loves history, which is lucky because her granddaughter Susan does too (they tell people Susan is her daughter, but even then it’s a bit of a stretch, human ages are weird). Of course, then two of Susan’s teachers follow her home one night, and next thing the Doctor knows she has a crotchety old history teacher and a handsome young science teacher on her spaceship with no way to get rid of them that isn’t morally questionable. 


The humans help her lose some of her haughtiness. She leaves Susan in the 22nd century to become her own woman. 

Along the way and against her better judgement, she falls hopelessly for Ian Chesterton. He wants to stay with her forever, but she knows it would never work, and encourages him to go with John Foreman in the Dalek Time Machine to get back to his own time. 

Later, in other lives, she checks in on him occasionally. 

The Second Doctor:

The baby face is a problem. It takes a good twenty minutes on a lot of occasions to get anyone to take her seriously. On the bright side, a lot of Polly’s clothes fit her now. 

She finds a best friend in Scotsman Jamie McCrimmon, whose rather naive approach to futuristic technology is extremely refreshing, as is his unique insightfulness. 

After Ben and Polly leave them, they rescue Victoria, who Jamie is utterly taken with. Victoria is unsure about living a life so unsupervised by someone older and won’t listen to the Doctor’s insistence that she is in fact perfectly qualified to look after them all. 

She and Victoria spend a good many nights aboard the TARDIS talking about women’s history and the things to come for women in the future and how women act on other planets. Victoria is fascinated, occasionally horrified, and often quietly thrilled at the things she learns. 

It’s a shame to see her go, but all she ever wanted was a family and security, and the Doctor can’t provide that. 

They meet an eccentric man on a space station, with funny trousers and an obsession with the recorder. The Doctor and Jamie like him instantly, and invite him on board only to learn that the man had been considering stowing away if not invited. 

The Time Lords take her friends away from her. She is forced to regenerate and exiled to Earth, as punishment for her interference. 

The Third Doctor: 

Shrewd, passionately devoted to science, and not one to take kindly to interruptions or anyone trying to talk down to or even disagree with her, it’s a wonder the Doctor even gets hired by UNIT at all. But then again, beggars can’t be choosers. 

On the bright side, this fellow John Smith from Cambridge seems to be the one person around with an actual brain and not just a penchant for attacking first and thinking later. 

They’re friends instantly. Or, they are once she makes it perfectly clear that she is the cleverer of the two. The look on his face when he realises is a memory she’ll treasure forever. 

He eventually leaves to go back to his own research, upon realising she doesn’t need him. 

It’s a shame and she misses him, but then Jo Grant comes into her life. Despite an awful first impression, the two women are soon fiercely devoted to each other. Jo keeps going on about women having to stick together amongst all the army boys, and while the Doctor could usually not care less about gender politics, if it means Jo hangs around her more, then so be it. 

The Master turns up. It’s exhausting and exasperating and oh so much fun

Meanwhile, the Doctor’s told herself to not let herself fall for humans, after how much Ian hurt. But with Jo, it’s impossible not to. (Not that she hasn’t noticed the Brigadier’s lingering stares, or failed to appreciate him in his uniform. But he’s far too professional to ever do anything, and too trigger happy besides.) 

Jo is like sunshine and she’s always there and smiling and pressing herself against the Doctor out of fear or shock, until one day they’re in the supply closet of a spaceship and they’re kissing furiously instead of listening out for their pursuers. 

It’s wonderful, being with Jo. Until Clive Jones comes along, and the Doctor has to tell her to forget about her and marry the nice young man who can grow old with her and give her the life she wants. 

She drinks more champagne than she is proud of that night. 

Luckily, along comes Sarah Jane Smith, who is exactly the kind of human that the Doctor automatically adores. Inquisitive, sharp, and a vocal feminist. What a woman. 

Of course, then giant alien spiders happen, and it’s time for a change.  

The Fourth Doctor:

Or… not. Apparently, she’s doomed to be young, attractive, humanoid, and pale skinned throughout all her lives. There are worse fates, but she wouldn’t mind a little variety, frankly. And being so small is getting infuriating. 

Harry takes a long while to take her seriously, but once he does, he is steadfastly loyal. Sarah Jane takes the regeneration in stride for the most part. 

And after them, Leela, who is so strange and savage but so utterly charming in her honesty. They share a few kisses, but nothing more. 

Then comes Romana. A young Time Lord who looks older than her, is far taller than is sensible, and has an even more absurd grin. She can’t stand him, with his bragging about his grades and thinking he knows everything. 

She soon teaches him that experience wins every time. 

Of course, then he spots some pretty princess on Tara, and next thing she knows, the moment the whole Key To Time mess is sorted, Romana is now a less taller, less ridiculous, utterly beautiful Time Lady in her first regeneration. 

She tries to argue against what she can only consider body theft, or at least copying, but it is a relief to not have to crane her neck up to speak to her companion. 

Romana becomes a most dear friend. She’s missed being around someone like her, someone who understands. It makes it all the worse when she leaves, leaving the Doctor with only Adric and his incessant questions. 

The Fifth Doctor: 

There’s something about this body, a regality, that commands a little more respect than the ones before it, despite it following the pattern of her others. 

Adric’s questions exasperate her, while Tegan’s demands to be taken home are met with gentle requests for patience and promises of Heathrow airport, and this Traken prince she’s picked up is thankfully one of the most polite people she’s ever had in the TARDIS. Decent brain on him, too. 

Tegan’s smile sometimes makes her stomach do backflips. The Doctor ignores it. She’s learned her lesson. It’s almost a relief to see Tegan reach her breaking point and leave, except it isn’t, because for a long while it feels like a part of her is missing. 

Turlough is a curiosity, but a nice one who makes for surprisingly good company in the absence of the others. 

Perpugilliam Brown is a surprise. The Doctor remembers why she has tried to avoid America where possible in her travels. Americans are loud. But in the case of Peri, it involves shouting at the Master, and as such, the Doctor decides that Perpugilliam Brown can stay as long as she likes. 

Between the two of them and soon Erimem, uncrowned Pharaoh of Egypt, they make quite the team.  

The Sixth Doctor:

It’s about time! Finally, a more weathered model. Peri is surprised to say the least, and seems a little disappointed to lose out on her best friend who had until now looked a very similar age to her, but soon realises very little has changed. 

And now she lets the Doctor take care of her a bit better. Thank goodness for that! The maternal instincts in this body are absurdly strong, she has no idea what she would do if she couldn’t express them. 

Now, the borderline narcissistic but quietly lovable history professor she accidentally picks up some time after losing Peri is a trickier matter. Still, at least he shares her love for chocolate cake. 

The Seventh Doctor: 

Bright, bubbly, and able to get most people to like her within ten seconds. Now this is a regeneration she likes. Plus, her most impressive set of lungs yet. Handy, for calling companions who like to wander off. 

She tries to not encourage Ace’s use of explosives, but it’s difficult when she sees how genuinely happy they make the girl. She’s getting soft in her old age, she knows. 

Still, at least her brain makes up for it. She can out-think a computer, easily. The universe is her chessboard and she’ll do whatever the hell she pleases with it. 

The Eighth Doctor: 

She’s a jolly thing. Always keen for adventure, ready to shout at anyone who deserves it, and just wants to have a good time, really. 

After a rather rocky start involving amnesia and kissing the cardiologist who had caused her regeneration in the first place, the Doctor is just minding her own business when she accidentally messes with history. 

It seems that saving this stowaway on the R101 might not have been the best idea after all. But he’s so charming and sweet and genuine, sharing her utter passion for life, that by the time she realises her mistake, she’s not willing to part with him. 

That goes… about as well as one might expect. 

The Ninth Doctor: 

It’s funny, being a weathered old war veteran with a guilty conscience, and simultaneously looking like someone who could be on the front of a magazine. 

Life is hard, after the time war, but she meets a man with big ears and blue eyes and things get better. A lot better. It feels good to smile again. 

The addition of Captain Jack Harkness is an interesting one, but she’s always said the more the merrier. Their other companion is not quite as happy about this development, but before long they’re the best of friends. 

The Tenth Doctor: 

She’s gentler now, somehow. Oh, she has her anger and her snark, and boy does this body have a set of lungs on her. But she’s so much softer, underneath. 

Losing her friends from her last body takes its toll. She at least manages to avoid comparing Martha to them that came before her. Martha is wonderful, always completing even the most impossible tasks that the Doctor puts to her. They part on good terms, after the Master’s ravaging of the Earth. (The Master had not been so impressed with this version of her. He had trouble seeing the strength within, seeing that she was more than the duality of compassion and shouting.) Martha needs to look after her family, and that’s probably for the best. 

And then there’s the skinny idiot in the suit. He actually talks faster than she does, which is absurd, but she wonders if that’s simply because of his questionable family. Perhaps not letting them get a word in is how he survives. 

Either way, they get along like a house on fire. Losing him, wiping his memory and seeing him stare right through her and smile that stupid smile, is almost enough to break her. 

No more companions, she swears. 

The Eleventh Doctor: 

It’s all about fun, now. Impressing the little boy whose garden she crashes in and then impressing him when he’s grown up and has waited 14 years for her. (To hell with her rule about no more companions. Her old self was full of dumb ideas anyway.) 

Oh yes, she likes Rory Williams a lot. And his best friend John isn’t bad either. Mind you, that nose… 

She has her spaceship, and her boys, and life is good. Well, there’s River Song to worry about, but she can never be sure if the archaeologist is more interested in her or John. Just one more mystery, it seems. 

Losing Rory, and then John, is hard. But she knows that they’re happy, and that’s enough. 

The Twelfth Doctor:

Short, bossy, a control freak, and a slight obsession with tartan. Also, her English teacher companion is secretly a rock star wannabe, disguised as a reclusive Scottish nerd. 

What’s a girl to do? 

(Apparently, find out that her best enemy is alive, and now also female. And Scottish like her companion. The first kiss had been… shocking to say the least. The ones after, against her better judgement, decidedly less so.) 

She cares about her companion more than she will ever say, and when faced with losing him, takes things too far. Further than anyone should ever take anything. And when it is all said and done… she can’t remember his face, or his voice, or how he sounded when he mocked how large her eyes were. 

River is there to comfort her, though, in those 24 years on Darillium. 

And then Bill. Brilliant Bill. Oh yes, they make quite the team. And Nardole helps sometimes too. 

Send me an AU and I’ll expand on it! 


Me coming to the abrupt realization that Johnny Seo is the most caring, corniest and loving man out there and therefore the Best Man Alive™ and I can’t BELIEVE I exist on this planet at the same time as him

the fact that thob is both the most romantic and husbandy ep and the ep where they misunderstand each other the most is just 🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪


“It bothers you, doesn’t it? What they think?”

2.04 // 4.10

fic where irene’s moan alert goes off while john and sherlock are sitting in the living room and instead of getting pissed off, john starts competing with his own sex noises

Sons of Lawrence #13

Summary:  Sons of Anarchy meets Supernatural. In this AU, the Winchesters run the most notorious biker gang in Lawrence. They traffic illegal drugs, weapons, and anything else that makes them money and keeps them on top.
Characters in this chapter: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Mary Winchester, Ruby, Jo Harvelle, Elen Harvelle, Bobby Singer, Meg Masters, James Novak. 
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,861
Warnings: Angst, language, medical jargon
Author’s Note: This series isn’t going to be light and fluffy. It will include explicit language, explicit sexual content, casual use of illegal drugs, explicit canon typical violence.
Miss the beginning? GIF credit [x][x][x][x]

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Mr. Winchester,” Doctor Novak stated matter-of-factly. “Y/N suffered extensive internal damage. I can’t tell you long it will take because I don’t know how long it will take.”

Standing next to Dean’s hospital bed, John had his arms crossed and a scowl on his brow. “I don’t expect immediate results, doc. But there’s gotta be something that can be done.”

James Novak crossed the room and turned on the lights of the x-ray panels on the wall. He opened a large manilla folder and pressed the film up until it got stuck. He ran a finger along the outline of Y/N’s skull. “When Y/N got thrown from the bike, she hit her head. Now, the helmet saved her life, but it also did some damage,” he cleared his throat before continuing. “Along with a severe concussion, the impact resulted in a hematoma. In layman’s terms, clotting of blood outside the blood vessels.”

Mary, who was holding her son’s hand, asked, “Is it serious?”

Doctor Novak nodded. “It can be very serious if a hematoma occurs inside the brain. Unfortunately, that is what occurred. The clotting can cause pressure to build inside the skull, which is a factor into why she lost consciousness. Hopefully that won’t last too long. We went in and drained what we could.”

“What else?” Dean rasped, his throat raw from having a breathing tube removed earlier that morning.

Another piece of film was slapped up. “There was a lot of scar tissue from what had been repaired 3 years ago. This time, she was stabbed more than once. Add in the internal damage from the accident and the loss of blood, Y/N is looking at a rough recovery.”

There was a collective heavy sigh between the Winchesters as Dean pushed his head into the mountain of thin pillows.

“Thank you,” John murmured and held out his hand for the doctor.

James’ lips pressed into a thin line as he shook John’s hand. “Y/N was on a lot of my cases over the past year; she’s an amazing person. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power not to lose her.”

He went to leave the room, but stopped suddenly and rummaged in a pocket of his crisp, tan jacket. “I almost forgot,” he whispered.

Mary held out her hand when James approached and extended a fist. The ring she had given Y/N the other day fell softly into her palm. She choked on a sob and almost crumbled under the weight of John’s hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll get that back to her, Mare,” John promised, his own voice tremulous with emotion.

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ok…..but while John Laurens does sing and rap, he never really gets his OWN song, like Angelica and Eliza do (Eliza is a beat boxer because she supports Hamilton and Angelica can rap as fast as Hamilton because she’s his intellectual equal). This is symbolic of the way that Laurens doesn’t get a real shot of a relationship with Hamilton. His singing and rapping does happen occasionally however, which is symbolic of the small relationship that Hamilton and Laurens managed to have.

What If Jack Kirby Never Left Marvel?

This is a video I was commissioned to write for Comics Alliance, but it was never actually produced as a video for some reason (and consequently I never got paid for it). The premise was that it might start a new series of videos asking “What if…?” about various key points in comics history.

Anyway, I’ve got no home for this bad boy, so I might as well share it here.

What If Jack Kirby Never Left Marvel?
By Benito Cereno

Jack Kirby! The King of Comics! Best known as the defining artistic vision for the early days of Marvel Comics and the co-creator of the Fantastic Four, Captain America, Thor, the X-Men, the Hulk, Ant-Man, Iron Man, the Avengers, and many others, Kirby rocked the comics world in 1970 when he pulled up stakes from the company he had helped make great and moved to its distinguished competition, DC. In this video, however, we will take on the role of Kirby creation Uatu the Watcher and ask: what if Kirby hadn’t left Marvel in 1970?

Kirby left Marvel for a number of reasons, including lack of creative control, broken promises by the publisher, and a certain mustachioed showman—whether intentionally or not—receiving most of the credit for Kirby’s creations. But let’s say these things didn’t happen. Let’s say Kirby was given more control, more credit, and more satisfying working conditions, and so he never felt the need to leave Marvel’s metaphorical bullpen. Kirby’s defection to DC is one of the biggest moves in comics history, and one of the defining milestones that separates comics’ Silver Age from its Bronze Age. If it didn’t happen, how would comics history be different?

Firstly, many of the characters Kirby created for DC wouldn’t exist. While some of these concepts would likely have found a home at Marvel—more on that in a second—there are many ideas that were created at the behest of DC editorial that Kirby would not likely have created unprompted. While there are some characters Kirby created in this period—Atlas the Great, the Dingbats of Danger Street, Manhunter, arguably his Sandman revival and even the otherwise beloved Kamandi—whose absence would not have a major impact on DC continuity, others would be more significant.

The Demon, for example, besides having multiple solo series, has also played a major role in such series as Swamp Thing, Sandman, and Green Arrow, was also the original home for Garth Ennis and John McCrea’s Hitman, who would later get his own beloved and award-winning ongoing series.

Furthermore, Kirby’s run on Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen saw the introduction of Clark Kent’s new boss Morgan Edge, the revival of the Newsboy Legion and the Guardian, and the development of the scientific facility that would come to be known as Cadmus. Besides these elements playing a huge role in the Superman mythos from the ‘70s through the '90s, Cadmus and its related characters are central to major plots from both DC’s Justice League Unlimited and Young Justice cartoons. Also, Kirby’s DC-era aesthetic is a major influence on the art direction of the Batman: The Brave and the Bold cartoon. No Kirby at DC means a huge difference in DC’s animated output.

On the other hand, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that some of Kirby’s DC concepts might have found a home at Marvel. Besides imagining the possibility of having Kamandi team up with Devil Dinosaur, a couple of Kirby’s DC creations started life as ideas for some of his earlier Marvel properties.

The first of these examples is OMAC, the One Man Army Corps. A running motif in Kirby’s career is that of the super soldier, running from his first major hit Captain America to the Guardian to the Fighting American back to Captain America to OMAC back to Captain America again and finally Silver Star. OMAC was originally envisioned as a Captain America of the future, perhaps fitting somewhere in the lineage of Captains America throughout history that Kirby envisioned in Bicentennial Battles, a special Cap story he did upon his return to Marvel in the mid-'70s.

With that in mind, it’s pretty easy to picture Buddy Blank taking orders from SHIELD, getting beamed enhanced powers from a giant, orbiting Captain America shield in the place of Brother Eye. But past that, it’s pretty easy to imagine this future Captain America becoming home to some of the ideas Kirby brought to Original Recipe Cap in the mid-'70s, most notably the Madbomb and Arnim Zola. In fact, it’s not much of a stretch to picture OMAC becoming home to many of the more satirical aspects that in actual reality found their way to the pages of the Fourth World, like Glorious Godfrey and Happyland, or Darkseid’s Evil Factory. It’s pretty easy to imagine Mokkari and Simyan working for Arnim Zola, honestly. And if you can imagine OMAC fighting Arnim Zola in the Evil Factory, you can probably see elements of the “Homo Geneticus” storyline from Silver Star finding a home in that book, too.

And speaking of the Fourth World…

Kirby’s most lasting legacy at DC has been the characters and concepts he created for the group of titles that came to be known as the Fourth World, including the New Gods, Mister Miracle, the Forever People, and Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen. Several of these characters have been key members of the Justice League over the years, and concepts such as the Mother Box and the Boom Tube have become inextricable parts of the DCU’s DNA in the last four decades. But the biggest of the big contributions here is that stony-faced god of evil, Darkseid.

Kirby, however, originally envisioned the Fourth World as a Thor storyline. Two races of gods were meant to go to war ending in Ragnarok and the total annihilation of the current generation of gods, who would be reborn as, you guessed it, the New Gods. The first page of New Gods even opens with an “epilogue” to that untold story. The gods of New Genesis are literally meant to be reborn versions of the gods of Asgard.

If Kirby had done this story in the pages of Thor as originally planned, that would theoretically mean that Darkseid would have become Marvel’s big bad, not DC’s. This new god of evil would battle Thor, or maybe Orion, or maybe some mixture of the two.

What this would of course mean is that there would be no need for Jim Starlin to introduce Thanos in 1973, as he could have used Darkseid, or even Metron as he originally intended. Maybe Darkseid gets the Infinity Gauntlet in 1991 instead, and maybe Josh Brolin plays Darkseid in Avengers 3.

As a side note: if Kirby can freely develop the New Gods at Marvel, that means he probably won’t need to introduce the Eternals upon his return to the company in 1976. Do the Celestials take the stage in the pages of New Gods, or maybe not at all? Would the Guardians of the Galaxy make their home inside a giant parademon head instead?

But the big question is, who becomes DC’s biggest big bad of them all? Darkseid has been at the center of many of DC’s major event, in comics, TV, and soon, movies. Without the Fourth World characters and concepts, there’s no Great Darkness Saga, or Cosmic Odyssey, or Seven Soldiers, or Final Crisis. Justice League International would probably still happen, but it would be significantly different. That one story where Superman and Big Barda make a porno wouldn’t have happened.

Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.

But think about how different Justice League Unlimited would have unfolded with a different villain in Destroyer, or a different threat facing the live action Justice League. Who would it even be? Brainiac? The Anti-Monitor? Eclipso? Maybe the best guess is to imagine that Len Wein and Jim Starlin still create Mongul in 1980, and since he takes the role of “big space guy who can fist-fight Superman,” maybe Cyborg has to teleport him back to War World in order to form the Justice League.

These are just a handful of possibilities for things that could have happened differently if Jack Kirby had been satisfied at Marvel and never left. What is clear is that the King’s influence to both companies’ expanded universes has been incalculable. The question you have to ask yourself, reader, now that you’ve taken a peek into this alternate world, is which do you prefer: our reality, or the world of “What If?”

‘Amo’ or ‘Mary’ – a matter of choice

I prefer reading HLV and S4 as symbolism, metaphors and subtext rather than taking the show at face value. I also believe at least half of HLV and all of S4 is happening inside Sherlock’s mind. So here are my thoughts about it:

I think Sherlock is trying to “tell himself a better story” about Mary. In his head, he’s testing a scenario where he chooses to acknowledge Mary as an inevitable part of his life with John, because that’s what John did; he chose Mary.

And Sherlock wants John to be happy, while he doesn’t value his own feelings very much. Which means he thinks he has to accept the emotional turmoil of trying to live a lie, a façade, a superficial befriending of someone who is actually a murderer. This is devastating to his own feelings, but in accordance with society’s expectations. And here is the clue, I think; S4 is about consequences – the consequences of your choices. This scenario, which Sherlock is running in his head, is what you get if you let the concept of ‘Mary’ rule your life. Sherlock is trying a scenario where John lives in a blissful heterosexual relationship with a wife and a kid, but where he, Sherlock, can still fit in somewhere. Problem is, though: this doesn’t really work, and his subconscious knows it.

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If the end of tld tells me anything, it’s that Sherlock is his own white knight.

Not John.

Because despite getting beat up by John, he’s still there to comfort John when he sees John cry. He still tried to reach out to John and asked “are you ok” when John was about to leave 20 minutes early.

Sherlock went through hell and back, not just with the drugs, but also the fact that the most important person in his life told him off, told him to stay away, beat him up, and even after all that John still wanted to leave 20 minutes early– I mean the sheer amount of times his existence and effort is repeatedly rejected by John, that leaves quite a huge emotional trauma y'know, especially considering the extent Sherlock went through to try to make John happy.

And yet despite all that pain, Sherlock is still continuously trying to stand on his own two feet and having enough strength to comfort John too.

Sherlock is his own white knight.

And Sherlock’s right, he doesn’t need romantic entanglement to fulfil his life coz all he needs to do to be whole is to love himself. Because everyone, even John, is capable of hurting him. And in the end the only one person he needs to feel whole is just himself

anonymous asked:

When Rosie is in bed and there's no case to read up on, no experiments to tend to, John comes downstairs and settles into the comfort of his chair or the sofa to listen to Sherlock play something on the violin. It has been proven that hearing her Papa play, even from downstairs, soothes Rosie into a deep and lasting sleep. John watches on as his love gets lost in the music, feeling his own heart swell as the emotion channels through the notes. Some are new, written after they finally got it (1)

together. They sound hopeful, bright. And some are from before, slightly mournful and longing. John can tell the difference, yet both make his heart feel full, ache for them both and all the years they lost. There’s a moment after Sherlock has stopped, where stillness and silence permeates through the room, the flat, until the lingering London sounds gently bring them back to reality. Some evenings John stands, goes to him, and they hold each other. Sometimes they share a waltz, making up for lost time. From there their evening is spent either in bed, or cuddled up watching something mindless on tv as Sherlock comments along to make John laugh, or doing their own thing - content in the knowledge that they don’t have to hide and lie anymore, that they are loved and happy, and their little girl is asleep and safe upstairs. It almost makes all those years worth it,how they cherish each other and every minute every second and moment together. (Fin).

*sobs* My babies are all growed up and raising their own baby.

New Job

Chapter 3
“Not Too Insane For You“


Word Count: 3.7K

Beta: @trexrambling (BIG TIME LOVE YOU DOLLFACE!! <3)


[be safe, dear readers!]

Summary: Sam’s big interview at the Mandrel Institute for Behavioral Health and Wellness is today and it goes down in an…interesting way.

A/N: The next two chapters are gonna be more insight to how Sam and Reader got to where they will eventually end up. Thanks for all the love and support everyone has sent me these last few days! I love y’all <3

Sam swore his heart rate was at least 200. He could hear the pumping of blood in his ears as his heartbeat refused to slow down. He also noticed he was starting to sweat a little bit. Why am I so damn nervous? He didn’t remember being this much of an internal wreck when he did his final interviews before graduation. He willed himself to take deep breaths to try and calm his pounding heart. He had to at least appear like he was collectively cool before meeting with these people. He needed this job.

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the signs as john oliver roles/shows
  • Aries: Vanity Smurf
  • Taurus: Last Week Tonight
  • Gemini: Dr. Augustus P. Crumhorn IV
  • Cancer: Dick Pants
  • Leo: Dr. Xenon Bloom
  • Virgo: Wax Sherlock Holmes
  • Libra: The Daily Show
  • Scorpio: Mock the Week
  • Sagittarius: Danger Dance John
  • Capricorn: Professor Ian Duncan
  • Aquarius: Booth Wilkes-John
  • Pisces: John Oliver's New York Stand-Up Show

“Five years ago.”

And, just like that, silence falls. Movement ceases. The bow refrains from its drawing across strings, muscles tightening and fingers pausing, Sherlock’s chest rising and falling in the same steady rhythm even though he’s not entirely sure how, when his heart is suddenly emitting bass notes louder than the treble he’d been weaving through the air just seconds prior.

His sharp, narrowed gaze falls on the hazy reflection in the window opposite him, and he waits.

He’s used to waiting, now.

“It’s quite a space of time, I know, but… well, I’ve been thinking about it.” John is slipping the coat from his shoulders, not looking towards the man silhouetted against the window with a violin perched on his shoulder as he shakes the rain from the somewhat soaked material and throws it unceremoniously to the floor. Sherlock observes, but makes no deductions. Now isn’t the time. “Because it’s five years ago today - did you know that? I know it’s not exactly the sort of anniversary you celebrate, your first suicide, but…”

Sherlock watches silently as John looks up and away from the coat, searches the misted window from afar until he meets Sherlock’s eyeline; it’s too far to read his expression, too dark, but Sherlock isn’t looking to find answers in such a frail attempt at eye-contact. That can wait, too.

After all, John is talking. And Sherlock owes John that.

“It’s quite funny, really - well, not funny. Doesn’t exactly make me want to laugh.”

Sherlock can’t quite tell from here, but he’s relatively certain that John’s hair is damp. He fights the instinct to grab the same towel he had recently used to dry his own ridiculous mop of hair and throw it at the doctor, because he’s quite confident that it’s the wrong moment. Perhaps in a minute. When John has finished.

“But that it’s today, of all days. Kind of coincidental, maybe.”

Slowly, Sherlock allows the hand holding the bow to fall to his side; he leaves the violin, though. It’s oddly comforting, settled against his shoulder, the weight of an old friend.

“It fits, though. I’ve had a few hours to think about it, plus, of course, the five years before all of this. Because I did think of it, which I’m sure you already know. Seeing as you know everything.”

He fights the urge to snort - clearly he doesn’t know everything. He didn’t know, for instance, that John would come home tonight. He had thought… well, it didn’t really matter what he had thought now. He’d been proven wrong, and not for the first time in recent days, so he had the sense to simply wait and see where it would take them.

Not that it made sense. Not when his fingers had started to tremble against the strings and his heart had started picking up speed to the point where he wondered if the sheer force of adrenaline had ever been known to kill a man.

The answer was probably in his Mind Palace somewhere. It could wait.

John was taking a few steps forward - soft steps, always soft, John didn’t know how soft he was but Sherlock did. For an ex-solider, he had always surprised Sherlock with quite how soft he was.

He stopped his progression after three and a half paces, lingering by his chair but not sitting.

Sherlock could just about make out the sudden clenching of John’s fists.

So. Sentiment was coming. He forces himself not to turn and face it head on. The adrenaline may think it knew best, but he was slowly learning to trust other instincts. Like the one that told him he wasn’t quite ready to face John.

John’s voice mirrors the softness of his approach. “I went to see my therapist after you died.” He pauses, the silence pressing intimately against the fact that Sherlock had in fact not died, but neither of them corrected the mistake. John had, after all, lived those two years of believing otherwise. It was a moot point. “And she… was… determined to make me talk about it. You know how, when you thought Irene Adler was dead, I kept pressing you? Trying to get you to talk about your feelings?”

Sherlock’s head jerks irritably to the side, not seeing how The Woman had anything to do with the conversation. She was nothing. This was… well. Considerably not nothing.

“Well, all right, not quite the same, but that’s sort of my point. Imagine someone trying to push you into talking about that loss, but then… multiply it by about ten thousand. And then again. And again.”

The ebb and flow of John’s breathing became shallow, uneven for a moment. It makes Sherlock want to turn around even more, nothing to do with adrenaline this time; he compromises, letting the arm wielding his violin to slide to his side instead. Preparing himself, though for what he wasn’t entirely sure.

“It might have been all right, if she’d just stuck to trying to walk me through the grief, the anger, but something… something made me say it. So bloody stupid, letting yourself actually be vulnerable in front of your therapist -” John’s laugh is throaty, full, amusement laced with something far deeper and far more painful to hear, “- but I said it.”

It. It. What was it?

Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s spoken aloud until he sees reflection-John fold his arms and shake his head; damn. He’d failed. This was John’s turn to speak.

And speak he does. “Bit of a stupid question, really, mate.” He clears his throat. “Sherlock. Though I suppose not really, considering I didn’t say what I was supposed to say, then and now. I just… insinuated. Like we do, you and I.”

You and I.

Sherlock clenches his fingers tight around the neck of his violin.

You and I.

“I said to her, after she managed to make me angry - she was good at that, passive-aggressively antagonising a response out of me. I probably don’t pay her enough.” Sherlock can hear the slight smile in John’s voice, relishes in it, relishes in the odd twist of normalcy in such an abnormal conversation. John’s never really spoken about this before, this determinedly hidden point in his life, and Sherlock knows its basis lays within a point the doctor has yet to make. The thought makes him tense up all over again, almost missing John’s next jumble of words. “I said to her… I told her…”

An intake of breath. A steadying of emotions.

“I told her that there were things… things I wanted…” Another intake of breath, this time sharper, and it takes everything that Sherlock has within him not to turn on his heel and stride over to John, get on his knees, gather the man’s hands within his own and command that he keep his words to himself, tell him that he doesn’t need to hear this if it causes John pain to say it. The ache to physically comfort the man standing behind him was suffocating. “There were things I wanted to say to you. Before. Before you jumped, before the phone call, before…”

John’s voice breaks, and Sherlock drops his violin - drops it, doesn’t care, doesn’t give one damn about the expensive piece of wood, nor the clattering it makes upon hitting the floor - and reaches out to support himself upon the window because otherwise he’s going to give in, otherwise he’s not going to allow John to finish his soliloquy and he’ll have failed him. He bows his head and he knows John will understand, will feel his sorrow and regret from across the room, because John always knows, and he only hopes his friend will be stronger than he currently is.

He hears the light footsteps approaching before he can even realise his hope is a foolish one. He doesn’t need to look around to know there’s a hand stretching out toward him, John reaching out –

“Don’t comfort me, I beg of you.”

When he speaks it’s raw, hoarse from restraining himself from speech - he’s sickened with himself, utterly full of loathing. John, spilling his emotions, and Sherlock, unable to control his own in the wake of them: weakness, such weakness, and now John - John, who should be comforted, not Sherlock - is reaching out to soothe him.

Sherlock reaches out behind him in a similar gesture, though it’s a request to stay away rather than to make contact.

“Forgive me, John. Don’t come any closer.”

John’s voice sounds far too similar to Sherlock’s own vulnerable timbre, and it squeezes deep inside of Sherlock’s chest to have such a tone so close to him. “Sherlock…?”

“You stand there, speaking of… loss, of grief, of immeasurable pain which I have yet to even come close to making up for and yet I’ve somehow manipulated you into believing that I’m the one who needs support. I repeat, don’t come any closer and - for the love of god - don’t try to comfort me.”

He can almost feel the strength of John’s battle, the fight to stop from ignoring Sherlock’s request, and he knows it with such inherent intimacy from his own longing that he feels a tremor rock through his body at the combined desire from them both: it’s agony. There is a reason, he now knows, why Mycroft had always been so vehemently against the concept of empathy and all of the dangers it posed within such close quarters, and Sherlock’s own personal reason is now poised on the edge of both touching him and moving away and he cannot stand it, will absolutely falter, will completely destroy the inward promise he made to himself to allow John to have his moment –

“Turn around.”

Sherlock feels his lips curve into a smile which is nothing to do with amusement. “I wish I could, John, but, no. I need a moment, if you wouldn’t mind.”

You need a moment? Didn’t you just berate yourself for not allowing John to have his?

John’s reply mirrors his own thoughts, though in such a way that was far more John-like and therefore infinitely harder to ignore. “Well, I need you to turn around. Look at me.”

Eyes drifting tightly shut, Sherlock bites his lower lip. Hard.

“Sherlock, look at me. Now.”

Damn it all. He’s using his ‘Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers’ voice, and that would be enough to shake any man’s resolve. Slowly, slow enough that he catches John’s reflection-gaze one last time in the now heavily condensated window, Sherlock pushes himself away from the glass and turns on the spot to finally - upon command - face John. Face the words he had spoken hours earlier. Face reality.

Face the elephant in the room.

John’s hand falls gently to his side. His eyes, despite the small smile playing on his lips, are guarded. “There. Was that so hard?”

Sherlock can feel his own defenses rising, yet he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that at all. Not now. This is the wrong moment for defenses - every moment was the wrong moment for defenses with John Hamish Watson, and if he was to do nothing but this tonight, he would keep them down and away for the length of their communication. He must. He absolutely must.

And he must answer. Truthfully.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Swallowing hard, Sherlock realises he’s still holding the bow in his right hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on John, he bends carefully at the knee and places it on the floor before straightening back to his full height and realigning himself to deliver his words properly. “Are you referring to me turning around, or… or perhaps…”

He can’t say it. Damn, damn, fuck, he can’t say it.

John reads this. Sherlock can see the quick processes of realisation flickering in the haze of blue within John’s eyes, and he marvels - possibly for the first time ever - at the rapidity of John’s understanding. Perhaps there were different sorts of genius, and John simply happened to be a different breed to Sherlock.

The thought of there being something which set them apart from one another sparks a thread of unwanted fear directly down his spine.

John seemingly has no fear now. His shoulders set themselves back, chin lifting in apparent confidence, though Sherlock isn’t entirely convinced. “Well, is there any point in beating around the bush anymore?”

Run. Run from this place and don’t look back.

Sherlock’s body poises instinctively for flight.

John doesn’t miss a thing. His eyes harden again and, with almost awe-inspiring authority, he takes a step forward and closes a rather large portion of the gap between them: Sherlock can feel, now, the body heat emanating from the smaller man and, within an instant, he feels the magnetic force between them flip - suddenly his chances of leaving the room have settled to zero, and whether he likes it or not, he knows that everything is about to change and that he won’t do a thing to stop it.

John reads this, too.

“Good. I didn’t want to have to wrestle you to the ground.”

Sherlock’s lips separate, a breath stolen from them without his permission. John, wrestling him to the ground. John, on top of him. John, initiating physical contact.

John’s voice slips through the sudden haze of combined panic and anticipation. “You said it first. So.”

The heat which Sherlock thought was coming from John seems to be coming from within himself now, caressing over his skin and making him tingle in a way he’s never experienced before; he barely suppresses the oxymoron of a shiver which is now determinedly making its way across his entire system, his hands beginning to tremble, eyes suddenly tearing themselves away from John’s iron-hot stare –

Clarity clicks; his gaze zeroes in on John’s lips.

John’s lips move.

Sherlock comes undone.

“I love you, too.”

John’s hands reaching forward, hesitating for just a moment before resting upon the solid plane of Sherlock’s chest.

Can he feel how hard my heart beats for him?

“And I’ve been waiting for the right time to say that…”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down one final time to John’s lips.

“… for five fucking years.”

At which point Sherlock Holmes finally closes the distance between them and tentatively, bravely dips his head and brushes his dry, trembling lips to John Watson’s, heart pounding wildly beneath his chest as his kiss, his love, his ardent and unforgiving adoration is returned to him in the softest of pressures.

Fingers reach up and tangle into his damp curls.

Holding tight.

No letting go.

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On Saturday morning, John was woken up by Rosie in mid-REM by her jumping onto his stomach.

“Let’s go, daddy! Let’s go!”

Unf!” John groaned, hands uncoordinated as he tried to still the squirming child on his chest. He blinked open his eyes, pained against the brightness of the lamps his daughter must’ve turned on, to look out the window. It was still dark. “What time is it?”

“Disney World time!”

John winced again at the volume, trying to drag himself out of the vestiges of sleep. The alarm clock on his nightstand said 4:12 AM. Biting back another groan, he found his daughter’s head with his hand to clumsily smooth back her curls. “Darling, we don’t have to leave for the airport for another eight hours. How about you go back to sleep, yeah?”

The hurried thumping of feet sounded from the staircase. In a moment Sherlock whirled into John’s room, impeccably dressed and enviously alert. When his eyes found Rosie, he grinned. “Oh, good, you already woke him up. John, I’m making breakfast.”

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