thescienceofjohnlock:

mrs-mob-johnlocked:

aimtobekatie:

semperbi:

adosia:

I’m pretty sure this is the moment Sherlock knew he was in love with John…

And also the moment when he realised he may never have him…

“You look sad when you think he can’t see you.”

get out

oh.

fuck

smithelicious:

We went to St Barts today and I have to say .. I don’t know what I have to say becAUSE FEELS AND ARGH MY HEARTASFC

There was a sherlock shrine in the phonebox right next to the place where he jumped and it’s simply beautiful

thescienceofjohnlock:

annacarrota:

localshopofhorrors:

tearsspeaklouderthanwords:

i hate myself for posting this *crying*

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

and now just fucking kick me in the guts, spit on me and throw my body to the wolves…

That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.

majorsarcasm19:

spookynerdwp:

keep-it-ugly-punk:

hitrecordjose:

owl-outside-chris-house:

vickified:

hijackieee:

“If a clock could count down to the moment you meet your soul mate, would you want to know?”

omg yes

lol yes, so then i can shave.

Because I’m a morbid asshole this is what I began thinking of:

You look at it nearly every day. It’s still up there, years away in fact, and that’s fine. But sometimes you watch it. You watch the number tick away and you wonder and you dream and you try not to expect too much because you know no matter what it’ll be perfect. One a year when it becomes the exact future anniversary you watch it and count down to 0 and get giddy. Only ten more years. Only seven more years. Only four more years. 

Then one day you wake up. You stretch. You smile. You check. Just because. And something is wrong. All the numbers say 0. Something horrible has happened. 

They’re dead. 

but why

why would you post something like that

Oh, god, I’m going to end up writing a -

fuck. Sorry.

—

From the day Sherlock could count, the clock on his wrist had confused him. 

“But what does it do?” he asked his mother disdainfully. “What is it’s purpose?”

His mother just smiled down at him and rubbed over the spot on her own wrist. Sherlock could see that it was down to all zeros. Time had run out, but he didn’t know what it was timing. She crouched down next to him and took his wrist in her hand, glancing down at it for a moment.

“One day,” she said, “you’re going to meet someone. The most important person you’ve ever met. Then, the clock will say zero.”

“It’s counting down to the day I meet someone?” Sherlock questioned. His tone was near disgusted. “That’s ridiculous. What’s the point of that? And don’t say I’m too young to understand. That doesn’t work.”

She shook her head and repeated, “the most important person you’ve ever met, Sherlock.”

“I don’t like people,” Sherlock said adamantly. “They’re annoying.”

She stood back up and ruffled his hair fondly, ignoring his huffs of protest. “You’ll understand, when it happens,” she assured, walking away. Sherlock frowned at the floor and stomped off to the sitting room to read, angry that his mother wouldn’t give him a straightforward explanation. 

Later on, as he managed his way through boredom and bullies and endless hours of school, he started hearing more about it. Excited quips from girls, squealing and showing each other their wrists. He would sneak around and listen, struggling through their annoying giggles long enough to finally hear; the timer counting down to the day you’d meet the most important person you’d ever meet. Your soul mate. 

The words made him cringe in digust. The fact that he even had a working timer was horrid; it meant he’d end up meeting someone he would be deigned to remain with for the rest of his life. How could someone stand a single person for such a long amount of time?

The time on his wrist, by age ten, still read over 40 years.

—

John spent more time than he liked to admit thinking about what his soul mate would be like.

What colour is their hair? What are their interests? Do they like sports, or do they prefer to read? What do they do? What’ll they think of me?

The final question, he knew, was ridiculous; they’d love him, just as he’d love them. That was how it worked. The question was always nagging at his mind, though. 

He was something of a romantic, you could say. He liked the idea of lying around with someone, cuddling with them on cold days and teasing, flirting like no one else mattered. 

He hadn’t even met his soul mate and he was enamoured of them.

The time on his wrist read 30 years on his first day of medical school, and he wondered why he was one of the few who had to wait so long. He continually told himself it would be worth it, eventually.

—

It was the first proper case Lestrade had actually, legitimately, asked Sherlock to come to, and he was being harassed about his timer.

“For god’s sake!” he shouted, practically ripping his sleeve as he tugged it back down. “Yes, I do have one, yes, it is functioning!”

Anderson was sneering at him from a distance and Sherlock had half a mind to chin him right then.

“Jesus, calm down, Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed, holding his hands up defensively. “It’s just - you know, a surprise. For you.”

“Not like I ruddy well control whether or not I have one,” the detective hissed, absentmindedly rubbing his wrist.

The rest of the people in the room glanced around awkwardly, hands unconsciously touching the marks on their own arms. Lestrade kept eyeing Sherlock in a way he believed to be inconspicuous until Sherlock finally snapped and remarked, “is it proof enough?”

“Proof of what?” Lestrade questioned, confused.

“Proof enough for you and your team that I’m a human being, even if I’d rather not be.”

Lestrade expression fell and he looked away, internally upset with himself. “How much time is left?”

“What’s it your business?” Sherlock muttered.

The time had jumped from ten years to twenty yesterday afternoon, and he berated himself for feeling anything by it.

—

Burning.

It was the only word present in John’s mind. Bloody accurate in so many senses. Burning desert sun, burning bullet embedded in his shoulder, burning ground against his back, burning throat as he let out strangled cries and raggedly inhaled dust.

Pain nearly covered it, but burning was more specific.

On top of the searing in his shoulder (searing worked pretty well, too), there was a hard throbbing in his right wrist, and he could see behind his eyes that the number of days until he met his soul mate were spinning rapidly, counting down. 

Hell, maybe they’re dead, too, he thought. The burning sun became blotched out with black spots and John was lost to the world, writhing in the dirt unconsciously.

—

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he cried out in surprise, gripping his arm and working his jaw through an unexpected throb of pain. That… Definitely didn’t feel right. 

He did a once-over of his arm and found nothing wrong until his eyes passed over his wrist. The numbers all read zero in dark red font and Sherlock’s expression faltered. 

Just the day before they’d read four years, nine months. Something had gone wrong.

—

John’s eyes flew back open and he wheezed, trying to work against the pain in his lungs as he scraped along for air.

Broken ribs, his mind supplied. You’ve just had a heart attack, too. Don’t forget the bullet wound, of course. Sorry, you were thinking about your soul mate? Good bloody luck.

If he’d had enough oxygen, John would’ve shouted for it to shut up. He could feel hands working on him, inexperienced and trembling, moving too fast, too shoddy.

“Stay with me, mate,” the soldier begged. “God help us.”

—

Sherlock watched as the numbers started re-appearing.

1 day, 2 days. 3. 4. 5. 6.

They jumped back down to zero and his stomach flipped. They started over.

… 10, 12, 15, 22.

0.

7, 17, 20.

The detective growled in frustration and rubbed his thumb hard over the mark.

“Make up your mind!” he shouted at it, watching as it climbed to 30 and dropped again. Every time it hit zero, he’d feel a stab of pain in his chest, a heavy weight on his heart.

The number rose once more and stopped at sixty-eight days.

If he felt a swell of warmth and relief, he dismissed it.

—

“John Watson!” 

Since returning home, John had stopped checking his wrist. There’d been too much distraction; teary visits from his mum and tense ones from Harry. Trying to find somewhere to stay while he was healing and until he could find a job of some kind.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at! What happened?”

“… I got shot.”

There was something nagging at the back of his head, but he couldn’t place it. He felt different - almost better.

“Come on - who’d want me for a flatmate?”

It wasn’t until he stepped in the door of that lab.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

John snapped his gaze up and his right hand clenched around the head of his cane. That voice; that gorgeous baritone sent a chill down his spine and made his chest feel like it was inflating. 

“Ah - here. Use mine,” he offered breathlessly. Sherlock met his gaze and something flickered over his expression. His eyes darted down to his wrist and he lifted his sleeve just a centimetre - enough to make his breath hitch.

“Mike, give us a moment,” he ordered. Mike eyed them, back and forth, before complying and standing to walk out.

“Be back in ten minutes, mate, I ought to go check on something anyhow,” he said to John before he walked out. Sherlock stood as soon as the door shut and strode over to John, looming over him so close that John had to take a step backwards.

“Does it read zero?” Sherlock hissed. “Plain, grey zero?”

John wet his lips and sputtered a moment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched the cane from John’s hand, taking his arm in the other and shoving up his sleeve.

0000d 00h 00m 00s

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock demanded.

“What?” John asked, bewildered.

“Answer the question; Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John managed. “How did you - “

“You were shot. You died, went into cardiac arrest, four times,” Sherlock said.

“How do you know this?” John asked.

Sherlock released John’s arm roughly and undid the cuff on his right arm, holding it out for John to see. The doctor ran a finger over it gingerly, then encircled Sherlock’s wrist with his hand. “Did you know,” Sherlock murmured, “if your soul mate - ” he said the word like it was filthy, but his gaze was still soft ” - dies, you can feel it? It shows up red on your wrist and it physically pains you.”

John swallowed and smiled tightly. “To be quite fair, I think the bullet hurt worse,” he quipped.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked.

“John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

The two stared at each other in a haze, eyes scanning over each other’s faces like they were committing them to memory.

“You’re looking for a flatmate?” John inquired eventually, softly.

“Not anymore.”

Sherlock grinned and John grinned back, sliding his hand from Sherlock’s wrist to link their fingers together. 

“Brilliant.”

*screams* YOU ROCK

bastiles:

Sherlock Holmes was a great man

stravaganza:

autumnimpala:

castielock:

1. no
2. no
3. no

things that are not okay

• this

havetardiswilltimetravel:

thescienceofjohnlock:

imjohnlocked:

sherlockedart:

They didn’t talk, because John didn’t talk anymore. He spoke, yes, but didn’t talk. 

When Sherlock returned after two years, John opened the door and blinked, once, twice, the muscles of his jaw tight. 

“John,” Sherlock said, and if his voice was unsteady, John wasn’t. His posture and shoulders rigid, John pressed the door open wider and turned to go back into his meticulously tidy bedsit. 

“Tea?” He asked, not waiting for Sherlock to answer before flipping on the electric kettle. He sat on the edge of the bed to wait for the water to boil while Sherlock  wandered unmoored around the room. When Sherlock began to talk, explaining why, explaining how, John watched him, listened, nodded, but his face remained a study in tight suppression. 

When Sherlock finished, John said, “Okay,” and handed him a mug of tea. If Sherlock’s chin crinkled slightly, if he blinked in rapid succession, John didn’t mention it. 

They sat in silence until Sherlock had emptied his mug. He put it carefully on the desk and stood to leave.

“Baker Street?” he asked.

For a long moment John didn’t reply, didn’t move at all, but eventually he turned his face up towards Sherlock. “When?”

“A week, I think. I’ll ask Ms Hudson. “ 

John nodded, a small motion, almost imperceptible to someone other than Sherlock, and Sherlock felt relief unfurling in him with such abruptness that he had to grab the back of the chair in order to remain standing. “Good,” he said, “good.”

In the end it took nine days, the previous tenants being unwilling to move, but Baker Street was theirs again. During the interim Sherlock didn’t see John, but he texted him. He learned that John would not reply to general statements, but he would answer questions, so Sherlock texted endless questions. Questions he already knew the answer to. Anything, just to hear the soft ping and see John’s name on his mobile. 

The first night, Sherlock heard John pacing in his room, the sliver of light beneath the door visible until nearly sunrise. 

The second, John fell asleep just after dinner, and Sherlock spent the evening alone. When Sherlock woke at four in the morning he found John sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, so he made two mugs of tea and sat there with him until John needed to dress for work.

The tenth night, Sherlock heard a small shuffling noise and put down his laptop. When he opened the door he found John curled against his bedroom doorframe, his left cheek and ear slightly pinker than his right. Sherlock realized he had been listening, face pressed against the door. John didn’t look embarrassed; he looked the same as always, blank, hemmed in, carefully, fearfully composed. 

Sherlock no longer closed his bedroom door. Ever.

On the fourteenth night Sherlock woke from vivid, tangled dreams to the silhouette of John sitting on the end of his bed, facing away from him. “John,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “Here.” He pulled back the duvet on the empty side of the bed. John was still for several minutes, but in the end he settled himself in Sherlock’s bed and faced the wall. Neither of them slept.

The next night John didn’t make any attempt to sleep in his room. He came down the stairs in his pyjamas and curled up in Sherlock’s bed while Sherlock played the violin in the living room. When the last note faded into the muffled sounds of London at night Sherlock put the violin down and joined John.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep, hadn’t imagined that he could, but he woke at two and knew without opening his eyes that John was behind him, propped up and leaning over him, his breathing slightly uneven. Sherlock kept still, kept his body relaxed, even when a hand brushed lightly down his back, even when John pressed the side of his face against the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. 

They stayed like that for several long minutes, all of Sherlock’s attention focused on the slight shift of John as the sharp tension of his body softened against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock reached one arm behind him and caught John’s hand, pulling it forwards and threading his fingers through John’s. 

“Sherlock,” John said then, and if his voice was thick and wavering it was still better than the study in emptiness it had been. 

“Here, John. I’m here. I won’t leave you again. I promise.”

And if John talked to him, face pressed to his back, his words of loss and pain and fear burning in the darkness, then Sherlock was silent, imagining each broken syllable rising from them like embers, bright and hot and fading to cool gray ash. If John cried then, if he clenched Sherlock’s hand until Sherlock could no longer feel his fingers, then Sherlock let him. And when the ragged edges of his breathing smoothed into the rhythms of sleep, Sherlock smiled. 

Around them the currents of London shifted, above them the sky pooled with clouds, but they lay still on one side of a big bed, curled together, two halves, dark and fair, brain and heart.

This is the saddest reunion fic I have ever read. ;_;

Beautiful, all of it.

My heart…

havetardiswilltimetravel:

Fantastic!