Updated my demonlock thing
first real chapter is up
only one in the world
WELCOME TO THE LITTLE HIDEY-HOLE OF MY BRAIN WHERE I LIKE THINGS
WELCOME TO THE LITTLE HIDEY-HOLE OF MY BRAIN WHERE I LIKE THINGS
Updated my demonlock thing
first real chapter is up
Sherlock relapses.
Or, really, he tries his damnedest to relapse and finds himself unable to because his dear flatmate cares too much and has restricted, if not entirely cut off, his access to vice.
He tears apart the flat and swears and flips John’s chair on its side.
He wants to hate John.
Wants to scream at him to leave because no one will ever get away with keeping his drugs and cigarettes from him— just ask Mycroft how his efforts went and the outcome of his pathetic interference— and he has nothing left to soothe the pain because of one stupid man and his idiotic, misplaced concerns.
Sherlock wants to hate him.
John comes home two hours later, tosses a duvet over Sherlock’s shoulders where he’s curled up on the sofa, and leaves him a plate of small sandwiches.
Sherlock chokes on a silent sob because the fight is being strangled out of him by what he thinks might be love.
“And there’s the freak, doctor in tow.”
“I don’t know how Watson puts up with him. Must be a helluva good shag.”
For the most part, they ignore Anderson and Donovan and their petty jabs, with the exception of a quick glare from John.
Lestrade is standing near, pursing his lips. He excuses himself to John, who nods thoughtfully, and pulls Sherlock aside.
“You know you don’t have to let them say those things about you and John,” Lestrade says in genuine concern, bless his foolish heart, “I’ve seen you tear them down for less.” And allow me a free slide every time, Sherlock thinks, because I am always right.
“I don’t care what they have to say about mine and John’s relationship,” he sneers at Lestrade, who watches him with learned patience, “our partnership is entirely professional.” He doesn’t realize how forceful and wrong the words sound until it’s too late to stop them.
For all this shortcomings, and there are many, Lestrade sees. He knows Sherlock, not as well as John does, but he knows. He’s seen him at his worst and in the clutches of a drug addiction, and he’s seen him at his best and solving cold cases that have stumped every officer before Lestrade. He knows Sherlock, and he knows exactly what line he’s crossing when he asks in a low voice, “Is there really nothing going on there?”
“There is nothing more to discuss on the matter,” Sherlock snaps, “John isn’t gay and nothing will ever happen to exceed the boundaries that our friendship has put in place.”
He hears Lestrade breathe, “Sherlock, you-” but he’s already storming away, fury and pain rattling inside of his ribcage.
I will utterly destroy you, don’t you realize that?
Don’t trust me, don’t ever trust me, because I wreck everything I touch. I leave a trail of destruction in my wake and I do not care who is caught in it.
I will take everything you have to give and everything you don’t and I will take and take and take until there is nothing left but a husk.
Your end will be my doing, and I will not feel a shred of guilt over it.
“You’ve been staring at the ceiling for some time now. Thinking about the case?”
“Yes,” he lies.
“Don’t strain yourself too hard. You’ll solve it like you always do.”
John leaves an overly sweetened, milky cup of tea on the coffee table and exits the room.
Sherlock digs his fingertips into the fabric of his shirt as something in his chest throbs and ignites sharp, burning pain throughout his body and he wonders if John will be the one to destroy him first.
In which people die and nobody ends up happy about it
So basically for a case, Sherlock needs to know if he’s attractive. And there’s only one possible person who can answer such a thing.
A 5+1
The five different universes Sherlock and John met in, and the one where John was glad they didn’t.
Alternatively, Jawn goes dimension-hopping.
It’s a series
it will continue
I will art
I REGRET NOTHING
This time, Jawn decides to have a little pilgrimage to High Hrothgar.
It’s just me testing the waters a bit. I’ve had a massive writer’s block for a while now but I really want to do some writing.
I love Smauglock but I know NADDA about The Hobbit so
Sherlock is an immature dragon who holds a far greater interest in the pursuit of mortal knowledge and solving mysteries than in attacking villages. John is an Imperial guard, just recently returned home from conflict against the Stormcloak legion, whose newest assignment is to investigate the rumors of a dragon sighting to the south.
“I guess that I don’t need that, though.”
When the Norse god of thunder of all the Avengers began to sing out-loud, Bruce had decided that it was the final straw and spun around from his position looking over a computer, glaring at the gathered team- minus one apparently- standing together on the helicarrier’s bridge. “What’s going on here, seriously? Everybody’s been singing this weird song and I swear it’s like you’re all working together on this.” He wiggled a pen at them, accusingly, while he swore he saw Clint struggling to hold back a smile.
“Now you’re just somebody that I used to know.”
Tony laughed when Bruce nearly jumped from his skin in surprise, and was still laughing after the doctor swore and punched him in the stomach.
“No, you didn’t have to stoop so low.” Clint’s voice was soft as he fiddled with the collar of his vest, walking casually by the glass pane separating Bruce’s lab from the rest of the helicarrier on his journey to the team’s armory.
Bruce’s attention snapped up from his tablet, and unlike the marksman, he was not so quiet. “You too?”
Clint paused and eyed him for a moment. “Have your friends collect your records and then change your number.” Then he was gone.
“But you didn’t have to cut me off.”
Bruce deadpanned at Tony, who flashed a smug smile before standing up a little straighter and flinging his arms out to both sides. “Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing!”
“Tony.”
“And I don’t even need your love!” He strolled across the room at a much too upbeat pace while Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly.
“Tony, really-”
“But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough.” He did a little twirl on his heels, strutting off and down the hallway and continuing his sing-song shouting.
“Where do you even hear these things?”
Not slash, sorry guys. No spoilers, either, but still under a break for the sake of saving sweet dashboard space.
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