Caring is not an advantage
“She was an exquisite painter. She made her living restoring Renaissance paintings for art museums. She travelled extensively because of her work. She was…highly intelligent, optimistic about the human condition. Usually consider it a sign of stupidity but with Irene it seemed…almost convincing. She was, to me, The Woman. To me, she preclipsed and predominated the whole of her gender. The only one I ever—”
To Sherlock Holmes, she was always The Woman, the beautiful Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
inspired by this post
And yes, Sherlock and John can see the Knight Bus. Because they are magical.
Here’s Bethany’s cup. #CupofFeels #sherlock #doctorwho
then you probably like sherlock
if you like sherlock
you probably like merlin
if you like merlin
then you probably like doctor who
if you like them all
then you probably cry a lot
okay let’s do this
All he’d planned on doing was getting some bloody bread.
That was absolutely it. Tesco, bread, home. He hadn’t had any left for breakfast in the morning and he was off work, so a bit of air, a brisk walk, and he’d be set for tomorrow.
The whole trip went well enough - he got the bread, even treated himself to a gallon of stupidly expensive juice that Harry always goes on about, and walked back home. The bloody sun was even shining.
Then he got home, unlocked the flat, missed the small trackings of mud leading to the stairs, and headed up to the sitting room without a second thought. He didn’t think about the adjacent door or look into the lounge before walking into the kitchen to toss the bread on the counter and the juice in the fridge. He let himself be routine and normal and he didn’t think about looking for details because that isn’t what he does.
Now, of course, he’s regretting it, because having a bit of premonition might have made this part a bit less difficult.
John can feel his hands shaking - along with his chest, seemingly incapable of taking in a steady breath - and he can’t work his jaw enough to get out a single word. Sherlock is waiting for something, his eyes bright and wide, hair curling down in tendrils, too long and beginning to cover his eyes, lip split, eyes dark. He hasn’t said anything either, though. He hasn’t said a single word, and that, John is almost positive, is the reason his heart is pounding twice as fast as it ought to.
The proof isn’t conclusive enough, or… Something like that. Sherlock used to go on and on in situations that didn’t make any sense - there wasn’t enough evidence to support the hypothesis and that’s really horrible right about now, because good, solid proof would be just perfect right now.
Still trembling, John lifts his hand and gives a small shove to Sherlock’s shoulder and oh, god, he’s right there and he’s… real, solid flesh, alive and right in front of me and alive.
And then, before he even thinks about it, he’s retracting his hand, and then pulling back his arm, and his fist collides with Sherlock’s face with a shout of, “You prick!”
The bastard doesn’t even flinch. His eyes shut and he stands still until John’s knuckles meet his nose, and then he exhales sharply as blood drips onto his lip and John stares, gawping. The previously deceased reaches up and wipes roughly over his lip before making eye contact with John, who’s wavering and breathing heavily, with gathering tears that are angry and despondent and overjoyed, for fuck’s sake, but he’s so angry.
John pulls his arm back again and propels forward, but Sherlock acts this time and grabs his fist, all too aware that if he allows John to go at him again there will be a time after that, and after that, again and again and again. The counteraction makes John’s breath catch in his throat and he shakes his head, fist twisting in Sherlock’s grip but never getting free. His other hand come up but Sherlock takes hold of that one as well, gripping tightly to both of them until John loosens the tension in his fist and Sherlock can twine his gloved fingers through the spaces in John’s bare ones. His grip is bordering on painful and he won’t stop staring at John like he’s the most guilty person on earth, and it’s too much because John can hardly breathe. He has to remind himself to let air in, and he takes in a gasp of breath that comes back out as a dry sob.
John ducks his head to get away from Sherlock and his blood and that look, hoping to calm himself down even the slightest. All he succeeds in is taking too many short breaths in a short period of time, and he’s dizzy and quite sure that he’s hiccoughing, only adding to the shaking of his bent form.
“John,” Sherlock whispers - his voice rasps and it sounds as though he hasn’t spoken since their phone call three years ago.
“You - ” John gasps, inhaling in a quick burst, “you were dead.”
“You know better than that,” Sherlock tells him. It has the same tone as an admonishment, with concealed layers of apologies that he still hasn’t spoken.
John digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s gloves and lets his head rest against his friend’s chest.
“I hate you,” John chokes out.
Sherlock keeps his hands tight. “And I know better than that.”
[This ficlet is here [x] on AO3, and is the only one I’ll be posting on tumblr!]