|Anonymous: Would you know any good sherlock fanfics? :)|
So, the thing is, I haven’t read a lot of Sherlock fanfiction, but I have read some, so here’s pretty much all the Sherlock ff I have:
And yeah… That’s pretty much all I’ve ever read from Sherlock. Sorry, love! Though if my followers have a good rec, I’d love to read it :D
I’ve been thinking of taking up smoking. They say it helps with stress and god knows I need that. They also warn that it’ll kill me faster, but after everything that’s happened, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
It’s been two long, lonely years since you jumped - since you expelled yourself from my life, leaving me a broken man. Lestrade still takes me out for drinks once a week and Mrs. Hudson still appears shows up with tea and biscuits, but most of the time, I’m alone. I wouldn’t even call what I’m doing living anymore; I’m just existing, floating from grocery store to surgery, from Baker Street to Harry’s house, from one place where you’re still dead to another where you’re still sodding dead and it hurts. It still physically aches deep inside me. I thought time would lessen the pain, but I’m still stuck in stasis. Every time I dream, I see you jump off - I see you plummeting to your death and I’m always just moments too late to save you. God, I need a cigarette.
If I took up smoking, my fingers would smell of ash and tobacco, a bitter mixture that brings back fierce memories of you walking in after a hard night, stinking of cigarettes and frustration. Every time I would lose my current pack, I would be bombarded with memories of you flailing around the flat, looking for the hidden stash. I would have to go to the corner market to buy them and have to remember you bribing all of them not to sell you any.
If I took up smoking, I would have more reasons to think of you.
Instead, I sit alone in 221b and stare at the royal ashtray that you stole for me.
They were on the train ride home from Baskerville when John started to chuckle for absolutely no reason.
Sherlock stared. “What? What is it, John?”
John just shook his head and waved his question away.
But Sherlock was intrigued at this point, having seen nothing that would have caused John to suddenly break out into laughter. “There’s nothing humourous near us, the scenery outside is just cows and pastures so I can’t imagine that there’s anything out there that caused you to laugh. It must have been whatever you were thinking about. What are you thinking about, John?”
John licked his lips, trying to keep his face straight, but Sherlock saw right through him. “It’s just… you poisoned me and used me as a lab experiment. If anyone else had done something like that, I would have at least punched them. But with you…” He trailed off before continuing. “I guess its just lucky that we’re such good friends, right?”
Sherlock pretended not to notice the emphasis that John put on friends. Hadn’t he already explained his motives for both those things? However, he conceded John’s point; he was, in fact, quite lucky to have John, even if he was his only friend.
“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, allowing only the smallest of smiles to grace his face.
I am undone. [x]