I wish I'd know who I am

DW is still airing

The Sherlock fandom is more death repellent than Sherlock himself

Well... It was a decade ago.

In their reply to the audience they then say they are picking her up from middle school, again implying that their girlfriend is underage, but quickly state she’s grading papers letting us know she’s a teacher, definitely an adult, and there no reason to be upset.

The rollercoaster gif portrays how switching from upset and worried to relieved in such a short period of time feels emotionally.

(There will be more coming soon, I promise :) )

SHERLOCK

Needles pricking your skin, poisoning you with the elixir of life.  Bubbling mixtures and compounds adorning the kitchen table, varying in colour and strength. You’rve hit rock bottom, though it seems there’s always a new low waiting for you. Biding its time, fangs gleaming, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness. And now… now you kneel at its feet. 

Coat-tails flying, mind ablaze, Sherlock Holmes staggered through the streets of London, taking no notice of the people walking past him, staring at him before hurriedly tugging their children away. Why would he? They weren’t him, weren’t his saviour, his everything, his reason to stay clean.

He could barely see them anyway. His vision seemed impaired, the edges of his sight blurring and melting together into myriads of greens and greys. None of it registered to him, not the backlit advertisements that would usually hurt his eyes, nor the wheezing, honking cacophony of late-night traffic, held up by drunk partygoers. It was all there, of that Sherlock was certain, but it had the same effect on him as the knowledge of the solar system did. Unnecessary. 

An incessant nagging sound took up lodging at the front of his mind. Thoughts as thin as paper and translucent as glass were nudged aside, allowing the rushes of wind and thudding of footsteps to properly hit him. 

There was someone in front of him. 

“Got any change to spare, sir?” 

Deductions flew up almost immediately, the tapping and squeaking of chalk around the woman’s scarved head landed like miniature bullets on the back of his skull. He swiped them away, looking almost wistfully at the space next to him.

Has grandchildren. 

Widowed.

Drinking problem.

Familiar. 

“Any change at all sir, just a penny?” She looked up at him pitifully, but with something else, too. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, trying to understand the implications behind the intensity of her gaze. Passer-bys stared at this strange interaction: a formally-clothed man, clearly on some kind of drug, squinting at a homeless woman? How grotesque, they must have thought. How grotesque, indeed! 

“No, no, I don’t have any money on me,” Sherlock mumbled, tripping over himself as he clattered up the street to Baker Street and freedom.

Dear God, he thought - or would have thought, had his mind been capable of forming complete sentences then. What have I become without you? 

I'm so sorry I didn't post more of this, I kind of... forgot it was there? I ignored it in any case, which makes it annoying that this part is so short but the next bit should be written by next week so pleaseplease chase me up on this! Thank you so much, I hope you like it :)

JOHN

All in all, the wedding had been… well, it had been… a bit of a wreck. A near homicide during the best man’s speech? But at a wedding with Sherlock Holmes there, John reasoned, he didn’t know what he’d expected. But now everything seemed resolved. The music was pumping, disco lights making everything in the hall seem unreal, a fever-dream induced haze. The smell of wine and floor wax created an unfamiliar scent, but with the claire-de-la-lune and Mary’s body in his arms, John could pretend that nobody else was there. She glowed, the multicoloured light ricocheting off the sequins of her dress, her smooth, cool hands on John’s shoulder and in his hand, his dark, curly locks, pushed against his chest. His voice, rumbling and low, sending shivers down to John’s very core when he says his name. 

“John?”

"Hm?" John's eyes snapped open, being pulled from a reverie of dancing with- with someone other than his wife. "Sorry, I was miles away. What's up?" 

"Nothing, just wanted to wake you up." Mary grinned, tracing her finger around his shoulder. She sighed contentedly and leaned onto him, their heartbeats out of sync in an 8-beat of entwinement. They swayed to generic waltzes, John desperately trying to keep a hold of the thought of Mary, Mary, Mary, his wife, his soon-to-be mother of his child, his emotional confidante for two years. 

But why had he needed an emotional confidante, he asked himself. There it was again, the despicable, scratch-marked part of his brain that always tried to wave the truth in front of him no matter how much the rest of him protested. Why did you need a confidante? Whose death couldn't you get over, whose loss brought back the nightmares and the limp and pain, who have you been infatuated with since the beginning, long before Mary came? 

No, he thought, unconsciously gripping Mary's hand and hip tighter, not on my wedding night…

The music seemed to warp out of tune, the disco lights becoming blinding and erratic. The chatter of the guests amplified tenfold, filling John's ears with a dragging buzz not unlike television static. The room was wrong, the people, the lights, the woman with his ring on her finger and his child in her womb, they were all wrong.

Maria: Oh shit I think Sam’s chasing him!