split roads

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.”

  • *After both getting kicked in the face by Basashi*
  • Domyoji: We had a bonding moment! I cradled you in my arms!
  • Bando: Nope, don't remember it, didn't happen.

@kaylareigns23 said: Can I get an imagine where the reader is dating Jeff and it’s the night of Jessica’s party and she’s in the car with him when he crashes and they both die or not (your choice) & like they’re on the other side together. Sorry for bothering lol I just really love your writing xoxo

Originally posted by words-plus-wisdom

Jeff X Reader

“Babe. The party is in need of sustenance. Lets go on a beer run.”

Your conversation with your friends trails off as you turn towards the sound of Jeff’s voice, raising an eyebrow at his glassy eyes and lazy smile. “What do you mean we? How much have you had to drink?”

He scoffs. “Two beers two hours ago.” Your gaze darts down to the red solo cup in his hand and he rolls his eyes with a laugh. “It’s Coke. Chill out.”

“Uh huh. Hand over the keys, Sparky. Unlike you, I haven’t had an ounce of alcohol. I’ll drive and you grab the beer since you’re the one with the ID.”

Keep reading

backroads in theory: long, winding paths through the hills. every once in awhile, you drive out of the forest and are greeted with miles of green and gold fields. you smoothly roll to a stop at a small intersection before continuing on your way.

backroads in reality: you’re hurtling down a jagged road covered in twigs at breakneck speed. oncoming traffic is always partially in your lane. sudden, sharp blind turns riddled with potholes. at the end of those turns, the road splits three different ways, so you think quickly and swerve to the right and oh god you weren’t expecting that steep drop there goes your stomach and fUCK THERE’S A COW IN THE ROAD–

The Song Is You (Chapter One)

Summary: A summer road trip with your best friend lends its way to some revelations. 

Author’s Note: This has been a long time coming, you guys!! You’ve probably been hearing Esme and I talk about our fic collab for a while now. We’re very excited to finally begin releasing this special piece to the public! All we can say now is that you will finally understand all the Monster Mash and “rick rolling” jokes you’ve heard in the last weeks. 

*** If you wanted to listen to the road trip playlist that is mentioned in this chapter, please click here!! 

Words: 4,481 

Warnings: an extremely cheesy mixtape, lame jokes, Lin showing off (so, nothing?) 

Without any further ado, welcome to the world Esme and I have so lovingly crafted for you! 

Keep reading

Coffee-Tom Holland

I Got the idea for this after going to Starbucks, so thanks Starbucks for the inspiration. Hope you like it


. _________________________________

 I walked down the bustling streets of London. I was gazing up at the huge buildings around me when suddenly I was head first into someone’s chest. “Oh…um, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking were I was…"the person I had ran into didn’t say anything, and I looked up at the them to see the big, brown, unmistakable eyes of Tom Holland gazing down at me,” Tom? Tom Holland?!“

I couldn’t believe it. Tom and I were best friends since I moved next door to him when I was 5 but when Tom got the role of Spider-Man our friendship fell apart and on top of it all I had a crush on him. "Y/N, I haven’t seen you since I was 19, where are you off to?” He said as he began to smile at the sight of me. “Actually I was just heading for a cup of coffee at my favourite shop, care to join me?” “I’d love to” he said smiling brighter at my suggestion. I was just as excited as he was, I haven’t seen him in 2 years.

We headed round the corner and faced the middle point of a two way split in the road, there at this middle point was a tall,slender building filled with variety of different people. We walked inside, the walls were covered in shelves filled with books reaching the buildings double height ceilings, the only two exceptions to this was a rustic old door heading to the bathroom and a bar jutting out with coffee cups stacked high and the only support being a bubbling coffee machine. We both order a cup of coffee each and sat down at my usual table in the far corner of the shop. Tom gazed around and took a long sip of his coffee “How in the world did you find this place?” “Well after you left for America I had to find something to do, once I found this place I made it my mission to read every book in here” He twisted his head in awe at the idea that I’ve read every book around him,“you’ve read all these books?” “Yeah, I missed you, I needed a distraction” His cheeks flushed red at the thought of me missing him,“I missed you too” “How could you have missed me? I was in this tiny coffee shop reading books by the dozens, whilst your filming Spider-man, there’s a slight difference Tom” I giggled at the contrasting paths our lives took. “I still missed you though, I would gladly pick sitting with you in this coffee shop over being Spider-man any day"he placed his hand on top of mine, and with that every emotion I felt for that boy 2 years ago before he left had come rushing back to me. "Tom…I-I have a confession to make, that probably would have been better 2 years ago but…” I was suddenly so nervous, he softly stroked his thumb over my hand. “I liked you too Y/N” he liked me, but my heart feel when I realised he was talking about 2 years ago,“But I honour of our 19 year old selves I think we should try going on a date” My cheeks burned hot at his idea. “So, Y/F/N would you go on a date with me?” “I would love to”, we both smiled at each other, and began talking like it was 2 years ago, we only left the shop when it was dark outside and it began to close. We walked out the store that night with my hand in his.

there are things in this world               that i could be. 
         heavy things like the road 
         spattered on by blood & bones & 
         cross-country hopes                  ( the ground is never green 
                                                              where you drop your heart.
                                                              you’re always a slapdash 
crime scene, waiting on 911 to get back to you. ) 

or       soft things           like        —         like —

right. you’ve taken the soft things out my hands,
freshly cut hair to the sound of wings taking off,
shaking fruit               tree             limbs until there
is nothing left. 

my list of things keeps getting longer.           flowers. frogs. fruit. 
open ended conversations. invitations that never pick up. the 
silence of dead air on the phone. soft things. hard things. the 
edge of his palm, the absent air — exchanged over and over 
inside lungs that loved 

and hated                     until they had nothing left. there was a 
belief that there are so many things given to you. air. steps. voice. 
use them wisely. 

                        and i stand here as none of those things. 
only hard and soft.                         the static in between. 

                       the split between road / kill.