#actually help

CLASSICAL COMPOSER BLR WHERE ARE YOU HIDING!?

I was having lunch and one of the new girls in my class doesn’t have a phone but had discord, so I gave her my username. Meanwhile the friends I had since third grade are watching on in shock. Naturally I’m like, “Yeah I use discord to communicate with my online friends.”

Next my friend says, “That’s crazy, next you’re going to say you have a tumblr.”

Sherlock Holmes x reader ! time travel

Part 1

Part 2

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You awoke in a sterile white room, the harsh scent of antiseptic filling the air. The room felt unfamiliar, its stark walls devoid of warmth or personality. For a moment, everything seemed disorienting. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to sit up, only to find a wave of nausea washing over you. You closed your eyes, focusing on the steady beat of your pulse to ground yourself.

The events of the last few moments rushed back. You’d been pulled from your life with Sherlock—your love, your everything. You had been wrenched from the time you knew, thrust into the future, but why? And where was he? The man you were supposed to be with.

A door opened, the sound of footsteps approaching, but you could barely register them. The rush of thoughts in your mind drowned out everything. A nurse entered the room, offering you a small, comforting smile. "Feeling better?"

You nodded weakly, but your insides twisted in confusion. This was wrong. Everything felt wrong. You weren't supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be alone.

She handed you a glass of water, her eyes observing you closely, the kindness in her expression not reaching the sharp edge of suspicion behind them. As you drank, her voice broke through the haze in your mind, more serious now. "There’s something we need to talk about, Y/N."

Your blood ran cold. How did she know your name? You hadn’t even spoken to anyone. A cold sweat broke out along your neck, and you fought the panic threatening to rise.

"Your test results came back," she continued, her tone softening, but the weight of the words she spoke was heavier than any physical blow. "You’re pregnant."

The room spun around you, your heart skipping a beat as you stared at the nurse. Pregnant? You blinked rapidly, unsure if this was another cruel twist of fate. Pregnant? With his child?

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. You weren't sure if the tears in your eyes came from shock, disbelief, or the overwhelming sense of loss. The world you had been ripped from felt so distant now, and you were left here, alone with a baby, in a time that was not your own.

For a long while, you said nothing, just staring at the nurse, your mind whirling with thoughts of Sherlock. How? Why? And where was he now? You closed your eyes, trying to picture him, but the ache in your chest only deepened.

The nurse, noticing your silence, softened further. “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?”

You shook your head, struggling to keep yourself together. You couldn’t tell her what had happened. You couldn’t explain how you’d ended up here. The world you had left behind—Sherlock—felt like a lifetime ago.

You needed him.

The thought brought a strange comfort, but also a deep, painful emptiness. He would have wanted to help you. He would have figured it out. After all, Sherlock always had a way of solving the impossible. But how could you explain this? How could you explain the mystery of time itself?

Days passed in the present, a blur of sterile rooms and confusing conversations. You were caught in the strange limbo of this future, but the past—the life you’d had with Sherlock—haunted you every moment. You couldn’t escape it. The thought of him was everywhere, even as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming reality of being back in this time.

You avoided the questions people asked about your condition. You couldn’t answer them. You couldn’t share the truth of how you had come to be pregnant, how it was Sherlock’s child growing inside of you. The pregnancy was all that remained of the love you’d shared. The rest, the life you had lived, felt like a cruel dream you would never wake from.

But the more you stayed in the present, the more you realized one thing: you couldn’t stay here. Not without him. You had to find a way back. Somehow. You had to go back to Sherlock.

It wasn’t long before a letter arrived. An old-fashioned envelope sealed with wax, the handwriting unmistakable. It was Sherlock's. The letter was brief, but its contents made your heart skip a beat:

“Y/N, I know you’re not from this time. I’ve been searching for you. I won’t stop until I find you.”

You stood in the small apartment where you’d been staying, your fingers trembling as you read the letter over and over again. Sherlock knew. He was looking for you. He hadn’t given up. The hope you had been desperately clinging to began to solidify.

How had he known? How had he figured it out? The last time you’d seen him, everything had been ripped away so suddenly. You hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. But here, in this strange time, Sherlock had found you. He was reaching for you.

Your gaze fell to your stomach again. The child you were carrying—the child you and Sherlock had made—was the only tangible connection you had to the life you once knew. It was the only thing keeping you tethered to him.

You had to find a way back.

Weeks passed as you worked tirelessly to track Sherlock down. You scoured old records, visited places you remembered from your life with him, hoping to find a trace, a whisper of his existence. The more you searched, the more the feeling of being lost in time grew. Each clue evaporated before you could grasp it, as if the universe itself were trying to prevent you from finding him.

But just as you were about to give in to despair, you received another letter. This one was addressed to you with that same unmistakable handwriting.

“Meet me where we first met, if that place still exists.”

You rushed out of your apartment, unable to hold back the hope that surged through you. Your heart pounded as you retraced the steps you had taken the day you had first met Sherlock Holmes. The place still existed, a reminder of the fateful encounter that had forever changed your life.

As you reached the spot, your breath hitched in your chest. The streets were empty, save for the occasional passerby. The cold winter air stung at your skin, but you barely noticed. You felt like you were walking through a dream, a dream that had never fully ended.

And then, just as you had begun to lose hope, you saw him.

Sherlock.

He stepped out from the shadows, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with such intensity that everything else faded away. For a moment, the world felt still. Your heart thundered in your chest as you took a step forward, then another.

You were about to reach out to him when something strange happened. You couldn’t touch him. You couldn’t feel him.

You stopped, your breath caught in your throat as your hand passed right through him.

"Sherlock?" Your voice cracked, a mixture of confusion and fear flooding your mind.

His eyes softened as he stepped back, looking at you with a mixture of awe and pain. "Y/N," he whispered. "I knew you were here. I knew you were close."

But he wasn’t really here, was he? You shook your head, trying to touch him again, but your fingers passed right through his figure, like smoke.

"Sherlock, what is this? Why can’t I touch you?"

He paused, his jaw tight, as if gathering himself. "After you disappeared, I searched for answers. Anything to find you. I found this." He lifted his hands, gesturing to his form. "This... this is the tear in the timeline. A fracture between our worlds."

You shook your head, "Here? Of all places?"

He breathed an airy 'ha'.

"Every important event in your life is marked in the timeline, because we are not the same and considering the.....circumstances, you meeting me was something unpredicted, something impossible. That single event caused a ripple, eventually a cut. It is small, but I was desperate," his voice broke. "I had to hear you again, the one person I truly loved, to have you slip through my fingers so easily, it is not something one can prepare for."

You felt a sob build in your throat, the realization that your love—your connection—was literally slipping through your fingers. But Sherlock’s words kept coming, soft yet firm.

"I had to find you, Y/N," he said, his voice breaking. "I won’t stop. Not until I have you back."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you couldn’t speak. You had no words left.

Then, almost instinctively, your hand moved to your abdomen, where the small swell of your pregnancy had begun to show. His gaze followed your movement, his eyes widening in realization.

"Are you...?" His voice faltered.

A tear slipped down your cheek as you nodded.

"It’s our little boy," you whispered.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sherlock’s composure cracked. His fists clenched, and he took a step forward, but his hand fell right through you.

"I will find a way to be with you. With both of you," he vowed, his voice low but filled with unshakable determination.

And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

You stood there, frozen, feeling the cold bite of the wind against your skin, but nothing could numb the ache in your chest. Sherlock was out there, and you would find a way back to him.

You had to.

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