A spoonful of sugar

Menstruation is caused by change in hormonal levels to stop the creation of a uterine lining and encourage the body to flush the lining out. The body does this by lowering estrogen levels and raising testosterone. 

Or, to put it more plainly “That time of the month” is when female hormones most closely resemble male hormones. So if (cis) women aren’t suited to office at “That time of the month” then (cis) men are NEVER suited to office.

If you are a dude and don’t dig the ladies around you at their time of the month, just think! That is you all of the time. 

Could you imagine being Voldemort’s brother if you weren’t at all interested in his genocide, and have to spend all of your time proving to everyone else that you don’t support what he’s doing?

Even worse, imagine being his identical twin. So you not only have to prove that you’re not like him, but also that you’re literally not him.

I’m just picturing this kind of lame, not super interesting guy. His name is something pedestrian, similar to Tom. Something like Bob. Bob Riddle. He was probably a Hufflepuff. He’s got some low-level job, like as a Welcome Wizard at St. Mungo’s. His love life is non-existent, because the only people who want to date someone who looks exactly like Voldemort are the kind of people who marry convicted serial killers.

But Bob’s unexciting life is constantly made exciting by people throwing stuff at him, cursing at him, literally cursing him, and/or arresting him on a daily basis.

The Daily Prophet constantly speculates about whether or not he actually does support Voldemort, and the Quibbler says he doesn’t exist at all, that Bob is actually just Voldemort trying to earn minimum wage so as to sponsor his genocide. Media headlines dub him “Lord Voldeborb.” So Bob has a series of memoirs published to prove how dissimilar he is to his brother.

And eventually having all these books written about him convinces him that he can write. So he writes an autobiography about how boring his life is.

Your mother died giving birth to you. Every woman dies in childbirth. If you have younger siblings, do not question how they got there. Truly, you do not want to know.

You have no ears, but delicate pink shells. Your teeth are pearls. Instead of hands you have small white paws. You are beautiful, and terrifying.

A handsome stranger has awakened something deep within your breast. You do not know what it is, but it is awake, and it is aware.

People keep dying of consumption. You cannot say as yet who is doing the consuming.

There is mist on the moor. There is always mist on the moor. Seasons have no meaning here.

“No.  No we can’t.”

“Listen, we could really use your help on this.  Three murders all the same, and now a fourth, but this one is different, it…”

“Probably not connected to the other three.  Copycat with no attention to detail.”

John leans against the cold wall on the upper landing, listening to Greg and Sherlock chatting the floor below.  He’d been coming down to use the loo, but now…

Greg laughs.  “You know that’s a ridiculous theory right.”

“Call me again in a few days if your people are still failing at their jobs.  I have too much on at the moment.  There’s simply no way I can find the time.”

Greg sighs.  “Fine.  But I thought you’d jump at the chance.  This has got to be a nine, eight and a half at the very least.”

John doesn’t hear Sherlock say anything in reply.  After a moment Greg walks out onto the landing, and John sinks back into the shadows.  His head is pounding, he’s drenched in sweat, and he’s only managed to keep down some dry toast this morning after almost three straight days of vomiting up everything that passed his lips.  He doesn’t really feel like socializing.

“Call me,” Greg insists, before turning and jogging back down the stairs.  

John waits until he hears the front door close, before coming the rest of the way downstairs.

“John.”  Sherlock’s brows are knit.

“Hey.”

“Should you be out of bed?”

“Need the loo.  Thought I might lay here on the sofa for awhile, if that’s okay.  Bit boring up there.”

“Of course.”  Sherlock hurries over and starts gathering the magazines and newspapers that are spread out over the seat of the sofa.  “Would you like some tea?  I could make you some more toast.”

John smiles quizzically.  “Just the sofa for now, i think.”

Sherlock stops his bustling, his mouth forming an ‘O’ of understanding.  

“That Greg I heard?”

“Oh.  Yes.  He had a case.  Nothing important.”

“You haven’t had anything even approaching a five in months.  Why’d you tell him you were too busy?  You’ve been champing at the bit lately.”

Sherlock blinks at him, and then walks into the kitchen, pulls out the teapot, fills it with water and clicks it on.  “I have more important things to concern myself with at the moment.”

John laughs weakly.  “What?  You have nothing on!”

Sherlock pulls two mugs down from the cabinet.  “You’re ill.”

“Okay.  Right.  Yeah.  But what’s that go to do with…?”

Sherlock is scooping tea into the teapot, very pointedly not saying a thing in return.

“Right…”  John rubs a hand over the back of his neck.  “Well, I’m going to go use the loo, but–maybe would like a cup of tea if you’re making it.”

Sherlock holds up one of the mugs, by way of reply.

John heads for the loo.  He stops at the exit to the kitchen.  “Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock’s head turns a little, but he doesn’t look at him, doesn’t reply.  He just goes to the cabinet, pulls down his favourite jar of honey and sets it down next to John’s mug.