*had surgery and got the best health care treatment money can buy*
*was diagnosed with cancer and will continue to get great health care treatment*
*flies out to the Senate to vote on the future of health care coverage for millions and gives a long speech about how bad the GOP health care bill is, how he hates how the republicans went about crafting the bill, and how he thinks bipartisanship is the answer*
*votes yes to move the motion forward anyways*
john mccains surgery would have cost over $76,000 but we socialized government medicine so he didn’t spend anything while we try to get rid of your healthcare bc it’s ours and only the wealthy and powerful deserve to live
The screen is black. A woman’s voice cuts through. It’s Molly’s voice.
“Forward? Or Backward?”
A blinding white light floods the darkness. A pulsating heartbeat.
“Backward,” sighs Sherlock.
White noise stings as scenes are replayed backward. Sherlock and John running backward. John’s fist recoiling from Sherlock in the morgue. The christening, backward. The birth, backward. The plane glides into the air, tail first. Magnussen’s limp body jolts into standing position, Sherlock puts the gun back in John’s pocket. The flashdrive jumps from the fire, into John’s hand. The gun drops, the coin falls back into Mary’s fingers. Sherlock raises from Magnussen’s floor, the blood-stained shirt turns freshly white. Mary stands across from Sherlock, gun drawn.
What images have most captivated you as of late? I think it is a revealing question for what captures your interests, hopes, motivations. To that, I find myself returning occasionally to several images lately:
There is only one time in his life where
Sherlock gets Greg’s name right.
John’s blood is seeping through his fingers as he
presses down on the gunshot wound and it isn’t right, none of it is. John
shouldn’t be bleeding. He shouldn’t be so pale, struggling to stay conscious.
He shouldn’t have to tell Sherlock to press harder through clenched teeth.
Sherlock has his phone pressed between
his ear and shoulder, listening to that damnable tone before finally – finally – a gruff voice greets him from
the other end.
But John suddenly goes slack underneath
him as he loses his consciousness and Sherlock can hear himself screaming John’s
name, commanding him to wake up this instant, before he start begging him not
to leave him like this. The voice on the other end is on high alert now,
demanding Sherlock’s attention.
‘Greg…please hurry. John is…’
‘Sherlock, listen to me kid, we’re on our way, we’re
tracking your phone now, keep talking.’
Sherlock keeps pressing down on the
wound, refusing to let any more blood escape, but his fingers are trembling and
it just slips out between them! ‘Greg, I didn’t…I haven’t told him…please hurry
up. I can’t lose him, please Greg…’
‘Listen to me Sherlock, I will drag him back myself so
you can tell him. We’re almost there, make sure he keeps breathing and you as
well kid. Deep breaths!’
Oh. He’s crying. Sherlock can feel the
tears run down his face and his breaths are leaving him in ragged gasps. Panic
attack. Can’t. Not now. Not with John’s life in the balance. He can hear the
sirens coming closer and Sherlock focuses on the steady rise and fall of John’s
chest. He doesn’t know if it’s been an hour or a minute before other hands
wrapped in gloves take over. Sherlock watches in a daze as John is lifted onto
a gurney and pushed into the ambulance. He sags when he sees Greg appearing in
his vision, suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed by the sight of blood on his own
‘Steady, kid, deep breaths. Come on, you
need to stay awake. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it
Sherlock is clinging to Greg’s arms as
he tries to do as he is instructed and when his heart settles in his chest,
Greg helps him to his car so they can follow the ambulance.
Later, when John is out of surgery and
his doctors expect him to wake up soon, both Sherlock and Greg are waiting
patiently for the still man to wake up. Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away from
John’s face but he can feel the DI’s presence behind him.
He takes a deep breath before he speaks.
‘Thank you, Greg.’
For a moment Lestrade stays silent,
processing the clearly deliberate use of his name, but then Sherlock feels a
firm hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sitting here because I’m in a lot of pain, and I was hoping that this tree would take some of it away.
I used to have a busy lifestyle working in international business and traveling all the time, but my whole life changed when I slipped on wet marble and tore my spine. Since then, I’ve been on a path of searching for mind-body wellness.
This is what took me to Brazil to see a healer. His name is John of God, and he is a full-body medium. He channels different entities, and his body changes shape depending on which entities he is incorporating at the time. When you hold his hand, sometimes the entity would change. You would know this is happening if his eyes roll back in his head and then turn a different color. When I held his hand, his eyes went from brown to blue.
He even performs physical surgeries—things you wouldn’t believe. Some of my friends have had surgeries performed by him. He literally cuts them open and there is not a drop of blood. A friend of mine had an eye surgery, and John of God took a scalpel and goes directly into the eye. You could see the knife in the eye! And he also does everything for free.
The whole place feels very magical and out of this world. I hardly had any pain when I was there. It’s a spiritual hospital. John of God was actually thrown in jail a number of times, and the Catholic Church went after him, but finally the government declared that he was a sacred entity, not to be touched.”
(Writer’s note: I know I said five parts total. Turns out I lied. But I am pretty sure that the next part, six, will be the end. Sorry.)
Time slipped by as John soldiered on.
He could almost feel himself growing more dull and grey as he trudged
through the days, buoyed only by Sherlock’s messages.
He received one on his birthday as a
spambomb to the email accounts of everyone at his surgery. Initially,
John ignored the barrage of emails advertising, ‘New, cheap Viagra!’
and 'Enroll now! Hot singles in your area!’ but it was a huge topic
of discussion all day, especially after one of the lab technicians
pointed out that the first letter from each subject line spelled out,
'Never going to give you up.’ As the whole office wondered who had
played the prank John had learned somewhat against his will about
Rickrolling, a fad that had happily passed him by while he was
stationed in Afghanistan,.
Even then he would have missed the
connection to himself if what had felt like the millionth email from
the office manager about the 'issue’ hadn’t included a screenshot of
the emails. The sender name on the first email jumped out at him:
Jefferson Hope. A second look through showed that all the senders
were named for the criminals from cases he had helped Sherlock with.
Quickly, he clicked over into his trash folder, finding all the
messages still there and, in direct violation of the orders he had
just been reading from the manager, he opened each one. They were all
blank save for the last one, where only two words greeted him: 'Never
again.’ He hoped with all his being that would be true.
Another and considerably less
heartening message showed up on the second anniversary of Sherlock’s
'death.’ That day John had taken off, thinking it would be suspicious
if he didn’t. He had made the trip out to what he now knew was just a
meaningless headstone and, feeling somewhat foolish, stood there and
tried to look sad instead of worried.
To his own surprise words began to fall
from him onto the empty grave. “I miss you. God, I miss you. You
must know that right? And every day it becomes that much harder to
believe-” he faltered for a second, knowing better than to voice
somethings out loud even when he seemed alone, before continuing,
“-well, to believe that there is any sort of happy ending to be
found in this mess.”
He paused again, one hand coming up to
rub at his nose as he struggled with the rest of what he needed to
say. He crouch down and rested one hand on the black granite just as
he had years ago, took a sharp breath, and said in almost a whisper,
“I know what you said, I know miracles take time but I am running
out of it, Sherlock. I can’t do this without you. Knowing that you’re
alone too, where ever you are… Please. Please, this has to end
soon, one way or another. Okay?”
He stayed there, hunkered over the
grave for several more minutes, almost as if he expected the
headstone to have an answer for him. It didn’t.
Instead he found his answer when he
arrived back at home tied with red ribbon to a brightly colored box
of Swiss chocolates he found mixed in with his mail. At first he was
puzzled by the package, knowing it was not something he had ordered.
He almost knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door to see if they were hers, but
the card caught his eye first:
I wish everyday that I could have
brought you with me, but everyday it is only knowing you are safe and
sound that gives me the concentration I need to finish this.
Suddenly paranoid that Mrs Hudson would
come out and ask him who the box was from he bundled it up with his
mail, hurriedly taking the whole stack up to the flat.
He threw the rest of the mail
carelessly onto the desk, taking the box with him as he sat down in
his armchair. He read the card again, the words making the constant
ache in his chest almost unbearable, before he untied the ribbon and
set it and the card aside to open the box. He wasn’t surprised to
find all his favorite chocolates, he was surprised by the bullet he
found wrapped in cellophane at the center of the box. Picking it up
he could see the point of it was deformed from impact into something
fairly soft and his heart froze in horror at the thought of what or
who it had hit. He looked back down at the box, hoping for a further
clue and was not disappointed. Scrawled on the wax paper cup that had
held the bullet was a second message:
P.S. I am now doubly sorry for all the
times I blessed the shot to your shoulder that brought you to me.
Being shot is rather tedious even when it heals completely.
Clutching the bullet tightly, John
didn’t find the note as comforting as he was sure Sherlock had meant
it to be. He stared across the handful of feet separating him from
Sherlock’s grey leather chair, wanting more than anything to see his
friend sitting there, and he wondered how much longer he could bear
Contributing to the pedals because I know a lot about baseball (thanks dad)
Something has been bothering me about Arakita’s backstory ever since I watched it. We all know Arakita’s promising pitchers career was ended by an elbow injury, right? Well that’s actually a really common injury in baseball. So common that in the 70’s they invented a special surgery (Tommy John Surgery) to essentially reconstruct the pitcher’s tendons and restore them from what would have been an otherwise career ending injury. It restores the hurt pitcher to their pre-injury abilities, and some even claim it actually improves their pitching. Tommy John’s is very common in baseball, and incredibly low-risk to the point that uninjured players will ask for it to try and boost their performance.
So why wouldn’t Arakita get a relatively safe, career saving surgery?? This really bothered me so I decided to do some research and found that Tommy John Surgery isn’t performed on minors because the elbow injury they experience is very different. Instead of the tendons wearing out, minors can actually damage what’s called their “growth plate” in their elbow called Little League Elbow. From what I could read there’s not really a fix for it.
But what this injury can also cause is essentially a pinched nerve that would numb feeling in the pinkie and ring fingers as well as something called “claw hand” where the fingers involuntarily curl when the hand muscles are relaxed.
You know who makes a claw with his hand?
Arakita Fucking Yasutomo.
Head canon: Arakita doesn’t have much feeling in his pinkie and ring finger and makes that “wolf claw” because his pinkie and ring finger curl involuntarily and that looked stupid so he tried to hide it. Because of his baseball injury.
In the several months since coming home
to that first note John had received only one further message from
the dead git. It had been on the back of a postcard from America
featuring a sheep in a leather coat with the motto ‘Baah-d to the
Bone’ printed over it. The single line of writing on the back read,
“I bought a grey wool jumper, it reminds me of home when I wear
John had not been able to stop himself
from carrying the card around in his jacket pocket, a touchstone he
could use to reassure himself that he wasn’t mad after all and that
Sherlock was still out there somewhere alive. It had been weeks
before he could part with it even enough to put it away with the
first note, pressed in-between the pages of a copy of Pride and
Prejudice he had been surprised to find on their bookshelf. It had
been longer still until he stopped checking the mail eagerly each day
only to find bills and crushing disappointment.
By the end of January though he had
once again managed to tuck away all of this thoughts and hopes about
Sherlock, so much so that the significance of the twenty-ninth didn’t
even occur to him until Greg called him in the evening to check on
It had been another too long day at the
surgery and John had been blessedly tired when he got home. It was
the goal of all of his days to come home too exhausted to notice that
even with the hope of Sherlock’s eventual return Baker Street was a
hollow shell of the home it had once been and the empty hours of his
evenings where impossible to fill.
When Greg had called John had been
puzzled and slightly annoyed by it. Conversations between the two of
them were still short and stilted with guilt and grief on both sides
and he had not been in the mood to wade though another one. So he had
been terse almost to the point of rudeness and had quickly shot down
the man’s offer to take him out for a pint.
It was only after he had rang off that
he remember today would have been the second anniversary of the day
he had met Sherlock and he had felt bad for being so dismissive of
Greg’s good intentions however counter productive they had been. He
also half wished he had taken him up on that pint. Instead he ended
up going to bed early though sleep was not easy for him to find even
on the best of days.
Hours later, when it was so late it was
almost early, he was still laying there awake enough to hear the
doorbell ring downstairs. It was not exactly a strange occurrence,
even with all the publicity around Sherlock’s 'death’ desperate
clients and members of the homeless network still had a habit of
showing up at all hours looking for the detective. He got quickly out
of bed, cursing as he pulled on his robe and limped down the stairs
all at once, trying to get to the door before whoever it was rang
again and woke Mrs Hudson up.
He yanked open the front door, ready to
do some muted shouting at the person who had interrupted his lack of
sleep but the words died in his mouth as he took in the delivery
driver standing on the stoop, his beat up scooter still idling on the
street behind him. He held a slightly greasy looking bag out towards
John, saying, “Order for Watson, crispy noodles with duck, fried
rice, wonton soup and prawn toast.”
“I am sorry, you must have the wrong
address. I didn’t order any food.”
“Online order, you’re Watson right?”
When John nodded the delivery man
shoved the bag towards him. John grabbed it reflectively and the man
turned and began walking away.
“But…” John started.
The man waved the objection off,
saying, “Everything is already paid for, good fortune for you
He didn’t seem to expect an answer as
he climbed back on his scooter and drove away without another word,
leaving a stunned John to watch as the logo for Zing Zing’s Chinese
Takeaway on the back of the man’s jacket disappeared into the night.
That was when the penny dropped and he
recalled sitting inside Zing Zing’s that first night, laughing over
his crispy noodles with the mad man he had just met and for whom he
had just shot a man.
Tears stung at the corners of his eyes
as he realized that not only had Sherlock remembered the date, he had
remembered everything John had ordered that night and had recreated
it for him. Who would have ever guessed that Sherlock would be the
type to celebrate anniversaries?
John took the food upstairs and spread
it out on the kitchen table. Even though he was not hungry he still
ate, savoring the memories more than the food. When he was done
eating and had packed away the leftovers he picked up the fortune
cookie. He held it for a moment, remembering a tipsy Sherlock trying
to deduce his fortune for him that first night and how wrong he had
been. He tore the wrapping open and broke the cookie to reveal his
fortune tonight. It read:
Some Hellblazer: City of Demons inspired Ghost!Constantine… GHOSTANTINE.
Yeah you see what I did there 8) Not originally were my url came from but it is what my url is and I love the comic and the ghost bits ^^ Also went with Matt as reference cos yeah he’ll be my John face forever :’) I had so much fun with the ghost effecting and background figures~
Teen!John finding out that FtM Teen!Sherlock is binding with ace bandages and freaking out and buying Sherlock a real binder and telling him about how dangerous it is to bind with ace bandages and helping him look into top surgery and John just being super supportive uwu