Ashley, 23; Supernatural, Sherlock, linguistics, editing, tea, the Hobbit, Cabin Pressure, Harry Potter, Avengers, Firefly, Jensen Ackles, Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, a number of other amazing people, and whatever else. I started cosplaying in November, so expect my face on a semi-regular basis. I tag everything consistently.
arasellle said: Ha. You’d attend your own funeral just to see who showed up, wouldn’t you?
Hell no. I’m not that much of an emotional masochist.
Do you still love me?
What if I said that I still love you?if you haven’t read anything from texts yet, you def should. also wow this turned out crappy but it’s really hard to pull shit off when you’re alone and not at home, I’ve learnt that now
Oh, right. Now I can finally post my favorite Victor/Sherlock-related song because the title is no longer spoiling it.
interlude #15
Warnings: death, violent imagery/gore, gun-related violence, drug use, detailed past sexual assault. Also available on LJ for ease of reading.
—
He can’t do anything to stop it.
He flexes his fingers. Gloved fingers. (His favorite gloves.) Dark, wet, shaking gloved fingers. Pressing down with them. They’re covered in blood. Pressing down harder. The blood is fresh and warm (how warm?) (estimate unavailable). Almost hot compared to standing air temperature (estimate unavailable). He can’t do anything to stop the blood from pouring out faster. More and more blood escapes through his fingers. Every breath seems to drain away even more color.
Stop breathing, he thinks (and begs, and breathes). That would be so much better. Death via hypoxia—who wouldn’t want that euphoria?
“John!” he cries, looking over his shoulder.
Visibility: still limited. Too much free-floating debris. Dirt. Dust. Flakes of wood. Sporadic gusts of wind and rain. He can’t see—he can’t do anything. Panic rises up to his ears: a harsh, droning hum. A thousand bees crawling into him, scraping inside him.
“John, I can’t stop the bleeding.” Almost chokes on the thickened air. Don’t panic. Panicking anyway. No. No. Not now. Don’t do this to him. “Help me, please. You’re the doctor, so do something.”
John’s grin fades away. “Sherlock?”
Hahaha, writing the warnings for tomorrow’s interlude made me tear up. Wow.
The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
The Past Three Days
I can’t even begin to describe the past three days.
I don’t need to tell you what happened – I know you all can read. We’ve had reporters from every paper you’ve ever heard of on our tails since the trial. Can’t go outside without stepping on one. They all want a statement from Sherlock.
It was worst right after the verdict. Not because of the reporters, but because I had to take the Tube back and when I got there, he was pulling away from the curb. Moriarty. Just like that, casual as anything. Blew me a kiss as he drove by, I thought for sure I’d go upstairs and find Sherlock lying dead on the floor.
But he wasn’t dead. I’m sure you knew that. A murder would really make the headlines. No, we’ve been keeping our heads down and plan to for a little while longer. At least, I do. Sherlock’s already getting restless.
Tuesday was also the anniversary of the day we met, Sherlock and me. He remembered. I didn’t. I suppose that’s just how it goes.
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