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13 October 2012 @ 05:01 pm
NaNoWriMo is coming!  
Hey guys! Nation Novel Writing Month is coming up! I tried to write two years ago, but alas, I was not successful. I still have evidence of my failed attempt; a sad little 3k Sherlock AU. However, this is a new year, new fandom, new
OTP and I'm determined to finish this time, or least break 30K words. I have also graduated college and I won't have schoolwork hanging over my head like last time. I'm breaking this shit down and preparing, unlike last time when I just kinda winged it.

1. Outline my plot
2. Research beforehand
3. Have awesome writing buddies to encourage me
4. Set daily reminders to write
5. Always attempt to write more than is required each day
6. Don't EDIT while writing, that can come later

My NaNO writers profile is HERE if you'd like to be my writing buddy! I'll also be keeping updates on my tumblr - heartinyourpocket.

While I was hunting for my old novel, I realized how many unfinished fics I have, so I've decided to dump them all together in this post. Beware, some of this stuff is just strange and random, hence their unfinished-ness. I obviously gave up for a reason. ^^

1. The beingings of a Holmestice Gift, but I had to drop out. This is what remains.

He's known as “The Tailor”.

At least that's what Sherlock calls him. The man kills people with pins. The kinds of pins that tailors use on their suits. It's all straight forward and clean. The body Sherlock and himself see is a middle aged man, nude and just horribly dead. Lines and lines of pins adorn him, up and down his body, like you can see the shape of the invisible coat he's supposed to be wearing, only the cloth has disappeared. John can even see the contour of the pockets and yes, that must be the seam that runs down the thigh, straight and heavy, hip to knee.

The body looks like a doll, really, outlined in black marker, small, round dots but when Sherlock leans down over the body and pulls one of the pins out, John nearly chokes. The pins are nearly seven centimeters long and John's never seen something so small look so sinister. He watches as Sherlock inspects it, presses the needled end of it against the tip of his gloved fingers and he'll know just how sharp it is. The hole that was made in the absence of the pin is small, but somehow gapping, like Sherlock's just removed a bullet rather than a fucking need and John is nearly sick because there are hundreds of other pins in the man's body. Nothing will be left but holes when all of them are removed.
The hairs on the back of John's neck stand up and he imagines the killer watching them, reveling in the fact that now that the body had been found all the pins will have to be removed and that's just a whole new kind of pleasure for the killer, the second half of the murder.

John is just sick. "Sherlock..."

Before he can even try to look at the body again, Sherlock has taken him by the arm and led him away from the crime scene, light-handed and guiding. "What's the matter?"

"Going to be sick, I think." And he is, against the back wall of the thrift store, where the body was found, cold, white-blue and stiff in the London winter.

I've tossed out my toy, it's all used up, but I've got others to play with.

Sherlock is strangely quiet after John is done being sick, like he can’t believe that John reacted this way. Out of dozens of cases, this is the kind of murder that was just too much for Dr. John Watson.
John takes a handful of fresh snow and wipes his mouth with it, the bitter cold of it refreshing after his violent reaction to the body.

Sherlock his hovering, observing and the worried look on his face makes him feel just a bit better, but not fully.

“Do you want to go back?”

The image of the body overtakes him again he’s dizzy with it. Sherlock steadies him with gloved hand, his expression even more concerned than before. “No... I... I can’t handle that.”


“Please, let me...” John pleads as he leans against the closest wall he can find.

“Honestly, I’m not going to force you to stay, in fact...”

Sherlock leaves and returns, taking John by the arm and gently leads them home.

2. My start of a prompt fill - not sure why I gave this up.


Sherlock shoots the bomb, the explosion happens. John is injured, but not severely, but it puts Sherlock into a coma for a few days. While he's in a coma, based on what he hears people talking about around him, he incorrectly deduces that John is dead.

When he wakes up, however, to his great joy he discovers John is very much alive. Sherlock spends the next few days having to constantly reassure himself in various ways that John is actually alive, not only at the flat, but at crime scenes, at dinner, in front of Harry and Mycroft, etc.


If there is anyone on the planet who can tell they’re in a coma, while they’re still in said coma, it's Sherlock Homles. ~ DI Lestrade

The first thing he notices are the stars - the small flickering orbs of blue and pink and brilliant white. Looking around the night landscape he then sees the ocean that he’s standing on, it’s slick mirrored surface rippling as he takes a hesitant step. The horizon seems far, far away, farther than he think he can walk. Sherlock Holmes contemplates this for a moment and frowns at the sky.  Firstly, he cannot walk on water. Secondly, how in blazes did he get here? And...

Where is John?

“John?” Sherlock calls to the impossible infinity of his surroundings. When no one, no thing answers him, he grows worried and then skeptical of the world he finds himself in. He’s in his usual suit, sans-tie... and shoes, he observes, crouching to plunge a finger into the dark water that he stands on.The water is warm, body temperature, saltless and soft, lacking minerals deposits - pure h2o then. Sherlock brings the liquid to his tongue, finding it tasteless.

The world is truly infinite. The night sky is all encompassing, pressing tight against the horizon, its bright lights reflected against the water. It's beautiful, but haunting and imprisoning. There is nothing else to observe, to deduce, to ponder or contemplate. Sherlock's laugh is hollow and almost manic, but then there is no one to hear him either. He already knows where he is.


He hears them talking, their voices low because maybe they think Sherlock can hear them. He can, but it's amusing to think that they know he can hear them. At first it's voices he doesn't recognize, probably doctors and nurses and orderlies shifting his lifeless body on the bed, making him comfortable when it really is all quite irrelevant. He feels ghostly hands on his skin, like a thin feather pressing against his body. Sherlock sits and just feels, because what else can he do.

Lestrade's sharp voice shakes Sherlock from the stupor he's fallen into after hours of data-less silence. It's strangely reassuring to hear a familiar voice, though Sherlock cannot understand why. He doesn't even particularly care for Lestrade all that much, and what can the man possibly do for him while he's in a coma. Sherlock does listen to what the man says because despite all the nurses and the doctor that had spoken, he'd yet to learn anything about John.

"At least he's alive," Lestrade says with a deep sigh of relief, no doubt running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "What's wrong with him. I mean, I know he's in a coma, but what else?"

"He has a severe concussion causing some swelling of the brain. Most of the major bones in his right arm were broken. A few fingers, a broken wrist, both the ulna and radius are fractured and he dislocated his right shoulder. All the wounds suggest that he was thrown a great distance after the explosion and landed on his upper body, primarily his right side since that's were most of the would occurred."

"Good lord," The Detective groaned. "Do you know how long?"

"How long he'll be in the coma? No sir, we can never know how long a coma will last. It's dependent upon the amount of head trauma that occurred and the rate of healing."

"So he'll wake up whenever he pleases?"



Sherlock looked at his right arm, flexing his fingers, bending his elbow, twisting his arm and rotating his shoulder. It was all broken and yet he felt fine, a bit stiff, but still in fine shape.

This coma business was quite intersting. He still retained select and varying degrees of his senses, none of which where presented to him in the normal way. His personal hearing was fine. He could hear the water ripple as he treaded upon it. He felt and heard the desperation in his own voice as he yelled into the starry nothingness around him. “John, John, John,” he would cry out until is voice was nearly hoarse.

At the same he time he could also hear what he assumed was his comatose body’s hearing. It drifted around him as though he was seated in a great theater and he was the audience of a production that he could neither see nor interact with. He was simply bottled up in his own mind.


Not much later (though Sherlock couldn’t know how much time had really passed) a larger group of people visited his body.

“Good lord, look at those bruises. I mean, I know he’s pale, but those just look dreadful!”

Hudson was there then. It was the first time he’d heard her voice and Sherlock felt some kind of relief at hearing her pointed, shocked voice.

“I assure Mrs. Hudson, the bruising and broken bones are the least of his problems. A head injury is nothing scoff at, as you can see.” Sherlock recognized his doctors voice. Whoever the man was, Sherlock imagined that he’d quite like him if he ever left this coma business and woke the hell up.
“Yes, I quite right doctor,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, then addressed someone else. “What will we do with him if he never wakes up?”

“That is highly improbably, my dear lady.” Sherlock’s senses screamed at him as he heard his brother’s condescending voice. Mycroft of all people would now that Sherlock would manage to wake up from this. Mycroft would believe in him.

“I still can’t believe all of this happened. An explosion! My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson wailed softly to herself.

Without a case, evidence, clues or experiments to distract himself, Sherlock thought he would go mad with sheer boredom. Thought he would lose his mind to listlessness and  lethargy. But it was having the strangest effect on his concentration and focus.

The spoken word of his visitors was fast becoming the highlights of his plight. He waited and paced for the sounds of language and the familiar dialect of his companions. This need of words was replacing the need for a case, for mysteries, riddles and just and intellectual employment of any kind.

Sherlock wanted to see their faces, see their lips moves, see the movement of their eyes as they rambled about. He tried to visualize their expressions, but the problem was that every face he envisioned morphed in the same person. The one face he could never forget. The expressions of a man he had committed to memory long, long ago and would never forget.

John Watson was always in his mind.


Sherlock knew there is something terribly wrong.

No one had said it, but their silence one the matter is evidence enough.

John is not there. No one had spoke a word of him, uttered a single fact about him. John’s name was an obvious gap in everyone’s conversation. They danced around his name as though it were a large hole beneath them and they feared falling into its depths. The longer they refuse to speak of him, the more sure Sherlock is in his assumptions.

Sherlock’s inner world grows dimmer and he thinks he sees the stars flicker on and off, making his cosmos turn pitch at moments. The water grows cold beneath his feet and the ripples he make seem to echo on longer and longer - no one will ever see where they end.

John Watson is dead and Sherlock’s universe goes black.



“Sherlock, wake up my boy.”

Sherlock want to slap the man that realized his his brain waves have returned to normal. He wants to strangled the person that removed his sodium drip because Sherlock hasn’t been this well hydrated in life and he’d rather keep that IV for his personal use. Staying hydrated without having to drink liquids - brilliant.

Sherlock also wants to hurt himself for waking up at all because now he feels himself about to cry. His whole right side is on fire and he can’t imagine how his mind didn’t register this while he was in the coma, how pain like this can be simply turned off in his mind. It’s all for the best, he supposes. He want to cry because the morphine in his blood is having strange effects on is awareness and he wants to wail in agony because John Watson is no longer in the world with him.

It hits Sherlock like a ton of bricks - the guilt, the grief and the insurmountable pain at having lost a most cherished companion. He can hardly move or breath from the weight of it all. Why did he wake up? Who could possibly carry on living after experiencing emotions such as this?

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock feels a calloused hand wipe away a tear that had escaped him and he takes a deep breath, fearing like that one tear, everything else inside of him would break free. Of all the bubbling emotions and pain and grief that Sherlock feels only one word force itself from his lips.



They run test, so many tests that Sherlock nearly forgets what they’re testing for. But he knows he’s sane, he’s healthy (almost), he’s cognitive and functioning. He knows that three plus four is seven and that santa isn’t real and that humans are instinctively idiotic.

3. My first time writing for NaNaWriMo. As you can see, I hardly made it to 50k.

Leaving home. Or escaping. No one ever really calls it ‘escaping’; calling it that implies that there is something that needs to be broken free of. Sometimes it’s more than a right of passage or next step of growing up and more than the simple idea of the chicks leaving the nest. Leaving home is Sherlock Holmes personal cry of distain. When a person has no one to relate to in their home and not because they are outcasts, abused or neglected, but they just don’t need them anymore. Sherlock thinks, I know you already, all there is to know. The human mind develops and changes and things don’t make sense they way they used to. Or things make too much sense.

Things had changed when he was twelve and decided to stop being so ridiculously dim about people. People didn’t look at him quite the same after that point in his life, now that he knew everything, when he could see and observe everything and know what those things meant; understanding. His teachers and classmates regarded him differently as well because he was now decidedly all-knowing. Like he was God or something and no one likes it when a human tries to be a God. In fact, he was shunned for it.

Sherlock had never taken things to heart, had never been bothered with opinions or emotions. Despite his rather high IQ, he could not explain why these things never bothered him. It had simply always been that way. At an earlier point in his life that fact alone might had bothered him, but now, at the age of 24, Sherlock really couldn’t be bothered with much of anything. He simply saw everything, observed facts like they were the light that illuminated his world. By making facts and statistics and evidence more important than the people around him, life itself seemed much more simpler. A trade of complexities. Sure, his family and the community thought he was psychotic, but it gave Sherlock piece of mind. Despite what everyone else said, science is a selfish subject.

Engine running and wipers on full speed, thick drops of rain impacting the roof, the taxi slammed it’s doors shut with a pleasing finality that Sherlock doubted he’d ever associate with a taxi again. Through the water laced windows, he could see Mycroft looming just through the front door, a ghost of a brother at times. His mother leaned heavily on the doorframe, a small handkerchief held by her thin fingers, nails shinning a shocking red. Sherlock doubted if it was wet, at least not with tears anyway. She hadn’t even cried when he’d left for Oxford.

He hadn’t told them he was leaving, why should he? He never told them anything else. His family also never asked him anything either. It had been two months since Sherlock had come home from college with degrees in physics and chemistry. Two months before boredom and aggravation took over and he decided to move back out.

Three suitcases, two duffle bags, four boxes of books and a small shoulder back accompanied Sherlock to his new flat (new in the sense that he had never been there before). The place was a small, but cheap. He had never needed much to survive. Sherlock held no illusions of city life, in fact he found the idea of living in the city quite daunting. He barely managed to deal with the few idiots of his community. How was he to cope with the bustling idiocies of an entire modern city? At least the people knew about him where he came from, knew that he was an oddity and not to be trifled with, unless you wanted your entire life story and most intimate secrets revealed to your neighbors. Sherlock had little to threaten here in the large labyrinth that was London.

Sherlock moved into small flat in Richmond, only 25 minutes from London, but not nearly far enough from his previous home. All of his belongs sat on the bed in a measly pile, ready for him to pack away somewhere in the tiny flat. Sherlock took a quick tour of the studio room which also contained the sink and stove and then ducked back to the entry where he spotted a small closet, opposite to which the bathroom was located. Sherlock was pleased.

Sherlock was not a vengeful or hateful person, he was just a more harsh and honest - not all bad qualities, but paired with his uncanny observational skills he tended to be more than a little blunt when explaining the facts to someone. Thusly, the traditional ‘piss off’ started off Sherlocks list of replies to his deduction methods and observations. Despite the cold manner in which Sherlock left his home, it was by no means on ‘bad terms’ as he would put it. He had an allowance of money each month that his mother had assured him would always be given to him, regardless of his employment or unemployment. Sherlock remembered that he had shrugged his shoulders, wondering if his mother just being motherly or whether she had other devious intentions. He never could tell about his mother, same with his elder brother, Mycroft.

His landlady was named, appropriately, Mrs. DeVilles. She was a stickler about the rent and never missed an opportunity to threaten Sherlock within an inch of his life to clean his flat. Sherlock could always hear her snatch the door open to the entrance of the building before her heavy duty boots signaled her arrival to his door. Despite her harshness at him, she was generally a respectable landlady and took into account Sherlock’s... incapacity to prioritize correctly.

Sherlock didn’t need a job, didn’t necessarily want one either, but he did need a distraction, desperately. The solution was simple: sidewalk stalking.

When there wasn’t construction going on, Sherlock liked to sit and just watch people, the businesses that ran alongside his flat. Most of the people on the road had come to know of him. He was always that guy that ran down those brats after they graffitied Mrs. Horas shop windows. The old woman had given him a few boxes of cleaning supplies, which he in turn gave to Mrs. DeVilles. “Sherlock, these are cleaning supplies! Go clean something with them!” she shouted and then proceeded to thrust the box back into his unwilling hands. Gifts could be annoying at time, especially when living in such a small flat as he did.

Two things began to happen the longer Sherlock stayed in the Richmond neighborhood. One: The Lower Mortlake Road people began to trust him and he began to rely on them for keeping himself fed, his flat cleaned and his small, undeveloped business growing. He told the decorating shop’s owner that two of his student employees were stealing from him and the delivery boy was shorting him an item out of his shipment each time he delivered. And in turn the owner told his customers about him and how if anyone could help you out it was that Sherlock Holmes boy. A name like Sherlock Holmes travels fast.

His name was Toni Gerald, better known as Toni T if the boy Sherlock had talked to was telling him the truth, which he was. The young teenager had been sniffing out a local shopping station that Sherlock had never had the reason to enter before (he got his food via Richmond Meats, courtesy of Mary Emily).

Sherlock followed him for many days before the man made his move, gun tucked in his jean beneath his shirt. This was the first time Sherlock had encountered an armed person before and the youth was considerably larger than himself. Regardless, Sherlock followed him into the store discretely and walked down the shopping aisles, watching the boy as he pretended to browse. As the teen slipped to the back of the store Sherlock circled the rows and prompted the other customers to leave as quietly as possible, informing them that something was amiss in the store.

Sherlock had nearly everyone out of the store when he felt eyes upon him. It was the cashier’s steady blue eyes that had been following his movement, watching curiously and cautiously as he advised the customers to leave. Moments and moments passed as their eyes met and Sherlock knew that young man knew what was about to happen. The cashier pursed his lips and his brow creased with the sudden stress of the situation. But he was calm and steady.

It seemed that Toni T was finished with biding his time, or simply working up the nerve to continue with the robbery. Sherlock could hear the boy’s squeaky sneakers approaching.

Sherlock made a quick decision, stepping up the the checkout counter and blocking the space between Toni and the cashier. “John” was scrawled in marker on the clerks name tag, a flourish at the end of the J let Sherlock to believe that a woman had written it, rather hastily in fact. John tried to look around him, but Sherlock caught his eye and held it. Stay calm, John. Everything will be fine.

Toni stood close behind him, shifting his weight side to side with impatience and nervousness. He had no chance.

Sherlock took a small step backwards and smiled when John’s eyes grew to the size of tea saucers. He rose his elbow and hit Toni suddenly and brutally in his face, jaw emitting a satifying sound at the contact.

Sherlock found the incident rather anticlimactic, but the reaction of the clerk more than made up for it. John the clerk, leaned over the counter and peered warily at the unconscious man and then at Sherlock. “Should I call the police?”

Sherlock smiled at the man and nodded. He retrieved the gun from the boy, laying carefully on the counter and waited as John dialed the cops.

After a moment on the phone, John hung up and joined Sherlock at the body. He was short and verging on being to thin for his height. His blond-brown hair was mussed from his running his fingers through it. John just stared at the body and then at Sherlock, surprise and confusion still written on his. “How did you - when did he - or you...” John stuttered and rambled.

“I’ve been watching him stake out this store for a few days. It was only a matter of time before he came in.”

“Oh,” John said softly. “Well, thank you. Really, I don’t know what I would have done it you hadn’t have been here.”

The earnest smile that he man gave him was entrancing as it was unexpected. “It’s no problem.”
Sherlock was intrigued as he watched John blush, the flushed spreading across his cheeks and down is neck. “I’m Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock stated, raising a gloved hand towards John.

John took his hand. “And I’m John Watson, obviously,” he said with a laugh, pointing to his employee tag with his other hand. “Do you live around here?”

Their handshake continued as they talked. Sherlock told John that he lived a few blocks down and was making a living as a neighborhood watchman of sorts. He never been bothered to come down this far, but the Toni T had been vandalizing various parts of Richmond he needed to be stopped. John, in turn, told him that he was a medical student and worked here for the money and lived not too far away, the commute to the university was terrible, but necessary. Sherlock was surprised to find how mesmerizing John’s voice was.

The door clinked open and Sherlock was awoken from his conversation. He, regrettably, dropped John’s hand and nodded at him. The coppers invaded the small shopping station and after giving his statement, Sherlock snuck away into the streets.


He’s not lonely, per say. He is just more productive when left well alone.  The thought of enduring other people as he’d endured family is a frightening thought indeed. Everyone will grow boring and everyone is eventually an open book and there is nothing more one learn from a book once read. Sherlock lives with that knowledge everyday. It’s a truly saddening thought that this is all his life had become. The idea that there is not a single other person with whom he can suffer through is maddening and isolating. He’s truly worried that everyone has ever met or will meet will be so annoyed and disgusted with him that no true friendship will ever come of it.

No one has ever really known the true Sherlock Holmes. How can they, when they are offended that Sherlock somehow knows them first. It’s unfortunate, but true. He comes to the table with everything and they, nothing - the balance is unequal and nothing is ever gained.

So, who needs or wants friends? Or companionship? And who could ever possibly need or want Sherlock Holmes?


Three days after the elbow punch to Toni T’s face, Sherlock returned to the shopping mart. He’s not there to see John, no, he’s just purchasing a few things. It’s a small shop, no more than 10 aisles. One register, one clerk - who is not John Watson. A woman introduces herself as Sarah, blushing and battering he eyes towards him. “Oh that John fellow, he’s got class from 7 to 2 on these days. He’s on the evening shift till 2am.”

“Thank you for your help, and by the way,” Sherlock says icily, “your boyfriend has genital warts. Thought you should know. Goodbye.”

4. A request by Conjure_Lass that I never got around to doing - I tried to start though.

"Never again," John berated himself as he dashed as quickly as was publicly descend in the grocery store that Sherlock and himself had wandered into. Just a few things, John, Sherlock had said. We'll be right in and out, no trouble. But when was it ever that simple when it involved Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

John had learned this particular lesson already, so it should have come as no surprise that with an attention span like Sherlock's, a simple shopping trip would turn into another experiment altogether.

John skidded around another corner of the shopping center, nearly colliding with a buggy full of groceries. A small girl smiled at him as he twisted his head in frantic motions in an attempt to locate the wandering detective. Where could he be? The fruit section? The Deli Department (looking at the meats with morbid fascination)? God help them if he decided to buy something.

Never, never, never again. John you idiot.

"Sherlock!" John hissed as loudly as he dared, looking at the isle marking indicating that he was currently in the cereal section. John entered the isle and stopped, huffing and irritated at both Sherlock and himself. This was the first time he’d actually been shopping with Sherlock and John wondered how Sherlock managed to doing shopping by himself.


He turned and found Sherlock holding out a gallon on milk and small yellow box. “I’m done. We can leave now.” Without another word, his flatmate passed him and headed to the front to make his purchases.

Never. Again.


Inside their taxi, John watched through the glass as London grew dark, painted with blues and purples, flickering with bright yellows, greens and reds. He heard Sherlock beside him, tapping away on mobile, his leg occasionally brushing against the plastic on the shopping bag.

“What did you get?” John asked, trying to remember the words on the small yellow box Sherlock had bought.

“Nothing important,” Sherlock said after a moment a texting. “It’s for an experiment.”

An experiment. Ah. Of course. “What are you up to now?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up and he looked at the bag containing the... whatever it was he’d bought. “Oh, you know me, up to no good.”

Up to no good, indeed, John.

5. I love reading about UST and unrequited love - but unresolved needs to become resolved.

Unrequited love is a sickening things at times. It curls into the most painful of knots inside of you and abrades your patience like a leaky faucet, dripping, dripping; always on your mind. And no matter how tight you turn the tap, how many times you check the pipes, it never really goes away.

John is quite sure he went crazy two months ago, because once he admitted to himself that he fancied his flatmate in the worst kind way, carrying on in the same fashion as before became impossible. Now, he compares living with Sherlock to watching a train wreck - he can’t help but to watch, to anticipate, to see disaster approaching and not have the sense to move out of it’s path. It’s just bloody difficult most of time.

If Sherlock were to ask him how he knew he was crazy, John knows he could give a few examples of his insanity.

For one, he’s never sighed so much in his life. Sarah looked up at him one day, in the beginning, and asked him what was bothering him.

“I’m just fine, thanks,” John sighed again, flicking a piece of broccoli aside that reminded him of the shape Sherlock’s head. Dear Lord - he’d even manage to infiltrate his lunch; that thought alone elicited another deep sigh.

“You sure? You’ve been sighing a bit more than usual.”

“Have I?” John realized quickly that she was quite correct when he had to repress the urge to sigh again. What did sighing accomplish anyway? Besides preventing poor ventilation, and theoretically resetting the respiratory system, sighing also relaxed the lungs, causing a sense of relief in a person. Little miracles, his professor had told him once. When you needed to calm yourself, expand your lungs, relieve stress and relax - you simply sighed and let it all out.

John smiled at her and said, “I must be tired.” He wondered if Sherlock had noticed yet. He gave another deep sigh and Sarah giggled at him and finished her sandwich. But he wasn’t tired and he was beginning to doubt whether he would be fine with the situation he put himself in. What am I going to do?

John also knew that if Sherlock were a star, then his eyes would have Sherlock burned onto them by now. They eclipse each other when they’re together - John loses all sense of self pity and regret and Sherlock isn’t a freak anymore, it all gets blocked out, leaving only the best of themselves. That’s another reason he knows he’s gone around the bend. The only other people he’s watched this much are his professors.  

6. I have no idea where this idea came from or what prompted me to write it.

The weather’s horrible - damnable, really; it seems fitting that it should be so since John has been planning, pondering, and just working up the courage to do this for months. It’s not a pivotal or anything... well, it could be if the weather would allow it. If nothing else, there is no one around because it’s drizzling and the sky feels like it’s fallen onto the city. They’ve made a day of it in Regents Park, starting at the south end near their home and heading north, generally wandering and doing nothing. John's surprised how much Sherlock isn’t complaining. Shocked, in fact.

“I hope this foul weather is moving out soon,” John comments just as they reach St. Marks Bridge, the iron railing slick and shiny with water, the pavement saturated by it. John shivers and wraps his coat tighter around him.

“I like this kind of weather, mostly,” his friend says. “It’s great for tracking criminals - all the mud patterns and splash marks, water transfers and boot impressions.” Sherlock grins at him and John can only roll his eyes and smile.

“I prefer it cool and dry. If it’s too hot it reminds me of...” But John doesn’t say the next bit; he needn’t say anything. Sherlock merely nods his head.

The drizzling has slacked off so they stop atop the bridge, watching the ripples dance across the canal, it’s dark green surface in constant movement, rushing with the excess rain water. John’s heart is also rushing because he’s frightfully nervous. God, what if I mess this up? What if I read into things too much? Am I doing the right thing?

John leads them to one side, leaning against the wet railing, feeling the water seep into the sleeves of his coat. Sherlock joins him, standing close enough that when he mirrors Johns pose their forearms are pressed together; close and comforting for Sherlock, electric and nerve-racking for John.

“Sherlock... “ And John really has never been more unsure of anything in his entire life.


Before things had ever needed to be planned, long before John ever needed an excuse to get them both out of the house, John Watson was quite pointedly not in love with Sherlock Holmes. Even with proper hindsight, John couldn’t really say if he wouldn’t have chosen to move in with the harebrained consulting detective. There were too may benefits, too many variables, to many wonderful nights spent working with him. Even if it wasn’t love back then, it was enjoyable, nevertheless. This was known by both parties - Sherlock had told him so while John had sat pensively, cleaning his gun after their latest run in with quick-handed robber. Sherlock tugged at the bandage that John had applied for him. “Aside from that fact that I was knifed, again, I really enjoyed this night.”

John continued to wipe down his Browning L9A1 with solvent. “Yes. Knifed. Again. Wonderful night,” John grunted sarcastically.

“Oh John, don’t be so depressing. You enjoyed yourself, I know you did.”

“I enjoy being out there with you, yes, but not watching you get hurt. I think I could do without that,” John sighed, frustrated, dropping the disassembled gun from his hand and cleaning the solvent off of his fingers. “Nights when you solve a case and come home safe - unharmed - those are the nights I enjoy, Sherlock.”

“So sentimental, John.”

“So what if I am?”

“I didn't say it was a bad thing."

"No. You don't say much of it at all."

Oh, John, you fool.

It wasn't as though John could just ask Sherlock to start caring about him. That was ludicrous and unrealistic. But it also frightened John, should he ever ask such a thing, that Sherlock might just say that he didn't need to care about John to get the job done. He might say that caring about him was pointless. John couldn't bare knowing that Sherlock thought him unimportant. He only wished Sherlock would show on some level, any level, that he cared about John.

On the other hand, John also considered how Sherlock perceived John's feeling. Did he know how much he worried for Sherlock or how he listened from his bedroom for Sherlock to come in from a case late in the night? Sherlock's safety and health seemed harder and harder to maintain at times.


Hips and knees aching, breathing needle sharp and thick with each inhale, John could barely discern the direction he was running in, only that he would follow that black coat anywhere. Sherlock kept a fast, steady pace ahead of him, a pace that John could hardly keep up with, but he would never ask Sherlock to wait for him. It would mean a sort of defeat that John didn’t want to admit to. I will follow him anywhere, John had told himself months ago and he repeated it to himself during times like these when the night seemed endless and Sherlock was  nearly out of his reach.

After avoiding gun shots in the Victoria Tower Gardens, where John had hidden behind the dark sculptures of The Burghers of Calias, they’d ran frantically after the armed men responsible for the River Thames Bridge Murders. After unlocking the groups secret code, Sherlock quickly determined their next meeting place:  Lambeth Bridge. John had no choice but to accompany him, pistol in hand.

7. I have a great love of crossdressing.

Harry had fussed with him for over an our before he was able to escape from his bedroom, high heals nearly causing his death as he attempted to descend the stairs. He was supposed to accompany Sherlock at an illegal gambling ring as his date. Sherlock was insistent that he should be his date since no other woman in their right mind would go with him. He dashed to the nearest taxi and hid, self conscious of his knee length dress, heals (being that  tall was awesome), flesh stockings, jewelry and the humiliating underwear that Harry forced upon him. You have to, John. You can't wear boxers in that dress! John had never even seen a woman in a garter belt before and now he found himself in one. The world was going to end. He was sure of it.

John crawled out of the taxi just on the outskirts of Brixton where Sherlock had instructed him to wait.

John could see it in the way he breathed - tight chested and harsh, stiff and unbearably heavy. The strain on Sherlock's face also gave it away. His tongue would flash and wet his lips, eyes trained on John's body like a devious hawk. Hunting. The air grew thick like a smokey night club, electric and hot, full of undulating bodies. Eyes like liquid clouds roamed like possessive finger over his appearance, down the low cut of his black silk dress. He felt exposed in such thin material, like Sherlock could see right through it. For all John knew, he could.

8. This feels more like a drabble that just... didn't stop.

Some might call it attraction, a connection or chemistry, but John Watson can safely say that it’s annoyance. He stays close to Sherlock, follows him dutifully so that when he gets the opportunity to thrash the hell out of him, he’ll be within good striking range. Like a fucking ninja.

The detective is annoying, yes, and stubborn and defiant. He’s also never wrong, at least in his own logic-driven mind. There’s not much John can say to sway him otherwise and finds it’s best just to follow and peep in with an odd complaint every now and them, otherwise Sherlock might just throw him off. Who would keep the man in check then?

“No, Sherlock,” he huffs all to often, like he’s telling off a child. Fingers caught in the cookie jar, or a jar of something vile and acidic. On second thought, John would prefer a simple jar of cookies. Cookies he can handle.

9. I think I was cold, lonley and sad when I started this - my emotions tend to find their way into my stories, especially in the role of John Watson.

Everyone has secrets; little fickle things that aren’t ever really meant to be kept, but we do. Reoccurring dreams that twist reality and make it that much harder to want to wake up. Secrets are hidden and meant to be kept invisible but they also shape every inch of a person, mold them into what they are.

John Watson imagines what kind of man he’d be today if he had no secrets. What would anyone be like without secrets? They would be miserable.

He wraps his thin coat tightly around his waist, the fabric pulls tight across his ribs and the cold London air rushes sharply into his chest. The inside of his mouth is bone dry and sticky from the wind, whipping across his face with brutal slaps. People around him shiver and cough, twisting and writhing, keeping their bodies moving in the frigid weather; to be still would be to freeze. The wind howls again, sending a wave of unsteady bodies knocking against him. A stream of air finds it way up his trouser leg and his thinning sock can do nothing to stop it. More goosebumps rise on his calves and thighs and John feels  the small hairs brush against the rough fabric of his clothing.

Someone pushes him from behind and the crowd moves together across the street like cattle.

Several streets later, the crowd has thinned and dispersed, leaving John to himself as he makes his way down the deserted alleys. He turns to make sure no one is following him before he takes two more alleys and another three streets up. A small building tucked between two larger ones is discrete and unobtrusive. The shutters are pulled tight and the antique oil lantern beside the door no longer works, rusted and chipped away from the weather. John approaches the building with haste, jogging up the few steps and knocking hurriedly on the door.

A small elderly man opens the door, looking at John with tired, but familiar eyes. “Dr. Watson,” he greets softly with a nod. “Upstairs, sir.”

The door to a rather plain building closes and John Watson is, at least for a few hours, lost to the world.


Currently, one might note, Sherlock is winning.

He sits contorted in his chair, legs knotted so tight a person would cringe. But he sits entranced, knuckles pressing against his chin, eyes locked in a battle of wills. The man across from him is relaxed and calm, tossing his gaze to Sherlock as though it were an afterthought.

“We haven’t the time for this, Sherlock,” the man remarks.

“Then by all mean, leave,” Sherlock returns with a raised eyebrow, but each man knows, no progress will be made unless one of them leaves screaming at the other.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spits, the name sounding foul on his lips. “I’ve told you, I don’t care. Nothing you can say or do will change that. So please be on your way.”

The other Holmes brother rolls his eyes, breaking eye contact, twisting his umbrella tightly. “I’ll be on my way when you agree to stop.”

Sherlock scratches at the patch on his arm, avoiding his brother’s gaze.

“Do you even know what boundaries are, Sherlock?”

“Don’t be stupid, Mycroft.”

“Then you know you should respect boundaries,” Mycroft warns. “Stop acting so childish.”

“Just go.”

“He’s mine, you know.”

“Mycroft. Stop it,” Sherlock growls, knotting himself tighter like it could somehow protect him from his brother’s words. “Leave,” and Sherlock watches as Mycroft rises from his seat and leaves without another word.

There are boundaries, and yes, he knows what they are, but he can’t bring himself to respect them. Not when it’s John Watson; when thing aren’t over and settled and they can still hurt each other.

Not when he’s still so much in love and he never even wanted to be in the first place.


Rewind One Year

Sherlock listens, gathers and snoops. A new tenant is moving in 221 C, bringing with him an air of mystery that Sherlock cannot resist. They say he’s a retired Army doctor and that he’s a quiet gentleman. They say he’s lonely. He’s a ghost with a body. There are six boxes sitting beside the door to 221 C and another two arrive later in the day. The wind whistles up the stairwell as two people enter, the old floor creaking below their feet, dirt left behind from their boots. Sherlock allows his door to swing gently open, revealing Ms. Hudson and her new tenant.

He’s a ghost with a body, they say... they say.

And he sees now.

10. A Franklin & Bash idea. I'm not even in this fandom anymore.

Peter runs his fingernail beneath his jaw and clicks his teeth together, wondering again, how he can fix the mess he finds himself in. Janie’s in the hall, trying her best to dig her heals through the wood flooring, pacing back and forth just outside the door of Peter’s office. Jared, Peter knows, is probably sitting sullenly on the sofa, resisting the urge to start a screaming match with Janie or just give up and play video games for the rest of the evening. Peter doesn’t blame him. They’re all a bit unsettled right now.

It’s selfish to want all the things Peter wants; friends, girlfriends, a supreme pizza with a six pack. Is that really too much to ask? But all is doomed to fail when his best friend and girlfriend refuse to make nice with each other.

Jared feels bad for the guy. Peter’s in a tight spot and he honestly doesn’t see how this can end well. He’d love to say, “Dude, I’m your best friend, chose me,” but he can’t. He wants Peter all for himself, all his time and attention and smiles and bro-fists after homeruns on the Wii, but realistically, Peter’s too great a guy to not have to share with. Everyone is drawn to him, his energy and intelligence.

Jared never had a chance.

He’s just a guy; a stupid, inconsiderate, intolerable guy. Janie knows she should walk away from this, because no one, no one is worth this. But somehow Peter is worth this. God, he is so frustratingly worth it. How can she fault him for wanting to keep the people he loves the most close to him? She doesn’t blame either of the boys for the way things have progressed. She only worries that she has somehow gotten in the middle of something that she was never meant to interfere with. Their roles with each other have gotten mixed up and thing have become interchangeable and intwined. How can you pull away from that?

Janie decides that you don’t pull away from it.

11. Avengers, Black Widow, Natalia Romanov

Love is for children, she says, like anyone could possibly believe that.

Love is for people who have hope still left in their life. Who need to believe that someone is deserving of their love - they roam, searching for someone to give it away too.

Love is mean to be given away, but she doesn’t have any left to give.

Tony Stark has a room made up for her, she suspects it’s because he feels obligated to her, or at the very least he feels like they could be friends. She doesn’t keep friends, not real ones anyways, the kind that can hurt her or be hurt by her. She knows she’s a dangerous person. Dangerous people hurt other people. Simple.

She has her own room, but she never uses it. Doesn’t plan to, sentiment or not.

Half way around the world, she wonders if he should have just stayed one night, just to see how it felt to be wanted somewhere, at least for the night. The plane takes a sharp dip and snaps her out of her reverie and the night calls to her. The lights blink on the horizon but the plane flies on, dropping her off somewhere she can do damage. Damaging and dangerous and so quick to detach from situations she doesn’t feel easy in.

Her boots crunch the gravel beneath her feet, the small pebbles shift and scatter off the patch that she treads. Three guards are taken out by her small knives, the metal splits the air as they fly across the lawn and are embedded into their throats. The blood stains the sharp white of their uniforms and she hates that there is no remorse in her stride. But she walks on.

She feels alone in the night. Alone means safe, secret and un-compromised.

Her mind flashes back to Stark Tower and the Avengers and she think that this time, alone isn’t such a great thing to be after all.

12. I'm a Wincest girl and I'm surprised this is the only attempt I made at writing it.

Our Loses (or The Things We Keep Losing)

Dean had learned that losing things was part of life. He lost clothes in motel room, his favorite toothbrush in that gas station bathroom with the weird mirror one summer. They were just things - countless trinkets that he’d accumulated in his life on the road would vanish and that was okay with Dean. He wasn’t attached to much.

But Sam was not something he was ever prepared to lose.  

The ending never turned out the way Dean expected it to. The world wasn’t on fire. No zombies or crumpled heaps of bodies were piled along the roadways, warding off the few survivors of the apocalypse to stay away from the cities. Death only would have waited there for them.

So, yeah, maybe it’s hard to believe that things worked out, that they’re alive and the world isn’t dead.

He remembers imaging what the days after would be like, the days after the skies burned red and he  would feel his grief rise out of his chest and just explode, because the end could only mean one thing: Sam wasn’t there anymore. Dean would know, his world had ended several times already - the rest of humanity just didn’t realize it. Or maybe they didn’t care that Dean Winchester lost his baby brother.

And they didn’t care when he got him back either.

After years of hunting monster and doing bad things for good reasons; after stopping the apocalypse and not giving a flying fuck if the world appreciated it or not, Dean realized that it had come to a point where he would have let the world die. He would have said fuck it to any angle that turned a wing to him and god dammit to any demon that casts their black eyes upon him and his brother.

Because in the end all that mattered was keeping him and Sam alive, breathing, maybe not happy but alive.

13. Chronicles of Narnia, more specifically, Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I have massive Caspian/Edmond feel going on, okay. VoDT is on of my favorites in the series.

Like great beings that had fallen from sky and into the thrashing sea, the great king and queen of Narnia rose from her depths, filling King Caspian with such elation he flung himself into the waters to retrieve them.

Taking one look upon the woman, Caspian encircled her and gave a joyous cry, “Lucy!”

“Caspian?” An equally delighted smiled graced the young woman’s face. “Edmund, it’s Caspian!”

His valiant queen had grown into a strong woman. Caspian felt the strength in her limbs as he returned them to the towering vessel, which seemed positively dwarfing from the warm waters below. She had the makings of her sister, Queen Susan, but he could tell that she was more suited to dangerous adventures than Susan. The sea, it seemed, agreed with him as it’s waves crashed over them, spouting sea foam in their faces and Lucy could only laugh.

Lucy greeted the sailors on the Treader with a polite and somewhat modest bow, thankful for their efforts in retrieving them from the ocean. They knew not what to make of her, but remained welcoming by the way Caspian’s arm cradled her against his side.


Turning, Caspian saw him. A wet young thing, freshly caught from the salty sea. His strange clothes clung tightly to his tall, lanky frame. His smile was entrancing and set upon Caspian, as though that moment could have been no more magnificent than if Aslan himself were there.

King Edmund had changed much and Caspian made ample note of it, as he was sure Edmund took note of him. Aged by the years and wars of ensuing peace. They were both changed men, in their own ways.

"My starlight shines through you, my Lord. Did you not think I would find him? His mark upon you?"

“I do not understand, my lady.”

“Why do you hide him?”


The star stepped closer, laying a single glowing finger upon Caspian’s lips. “He is here, just behind your lips, longing to be spoken and acknowledged. I daresay if you leave him there he will drift away with your next quivering breath, my lord.”

Caspian gave up his ground and took an unsteady step backwards, shying away from the star’s words, true as they were, which could not be spoken in a place such as this; in the presence of Aslan’s table and a mere stones-throw away from the boy himself.


Oh, dearest Edmund.

A sad look passed over Liliandil’s face, tinting her blue glow with purple tones. Stepping closer, her color returned, brighter and more hopeful than before, as though her light could outshine all other troubles. Another finger was pressed into his armor, teasing the beat of his heart beneath. “He should be here, dearest Caspian, in your heart where he may keep you both warm. Love makes the blood within your body rush faster, breathing deeper. In loving him, you will discover the mystery that is finding where you end,” she whispered like an old soul having lost something dear, “... and he begins.”

The burning heat that was always Edmund settled in his throat and gave off a steady heartbeat of it’s own and Caspian knew of the things the star spoke of (knew of, but not experienced).

“My Lady,” Caspian conceded in the softest voice he could produce. “I hide him not with shame or disregard. This... longing you speak of is indeed weighing on my mind, but the possibility of have my
sentiments returned is impossible.” A quick glance around ensured their privacy. “He stays aloof in my heart so that I may release him more quickly should I be denied. And, my star, I fear I have already been thusly rejected.”

“Oh, Caspian. Do not lose hope.”

The long-limbed willows swayed around them with Lilyandil’s pitiful sigh, dragging a warm wind around them, comforting Caspian’s dying wish of many impossible somethings.
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