#suchaprettyface

Word count: 11,651 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Harry Watson, Greg Lestrade Additional Tags: Red Pants Monday, Angst, Grief/Mourning Summary:

A bit of a fic for Red Pants Monday. Said pants aren't the star of the show, but they do make a nice catalyst.

Sherlock attempts to be a good friend to John during a difficult time. It goes about as well as you'd think, at least until the kissing starts.

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IF SO, run (do not meaner, mosey, or even just walk) to read: HOW TO MISS A TRAIN   http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchaprettyface/pseuds/suchaprettyface/works  

How to Miss a Train, by suchaprettyface (NC-17, Sherlock, 11k)

A bit of a fic for Red Pants Monday. Said pants aren't the star of the show, but they do make a nice catalyst.

Sherlock attempts to be a good friend to John during a difficult time. It goes about as well as you'd think, at least until the kissing starts.

There seems to be an influx of new and good fic into Sherlock fandom right now and this is no exception. It's told from Sherlock's POV, but it's a very John Watson fic: it seems like one thing on the surface, but once you start reading it you realize it's a very different beast indeed (which is a good thing, btw). A taste:

A violently intrusive memory:  Lying on the floor in a ball, shaking so hard he can’t see, the drip-drip-drip of a leaking faucet banging like a kettledrum against the raw surface of his mind.  He remembers every inch of the powder blue bathroom tile, cold and damp through his threadbare, unwashed pyjamas.

He still has nightmares, sometimes, about Lestrade finding his body, with Anderson and Donovan towering over and laughing, wielding the wordfreaklike a knife…like a needle.  Childish nonsense, of course; the opinions of people like Anderson and Donovan weigh less than sunlight.  Nothing so insubstantial can hurt him.

At least, not when he’s awake.

This time, something different takes control of the memory, and he hears footsteps that aren’t Mycroft’s…a shadow moves, someone kneeling, gentle but strong hands taking hold of his shoulders and helping ease him out of the fetal position…no judgment, no derision, just kindness, competence, and soft blue eyes…how different things would be now, how differenthewould be, if...