I deadass think steve rogers ending was character assassination and conservative rhetoric (send the progressive man back to the decade epitomes with traditional values for a white picket fence life) but it was also just cruel to steve and bucky. “oh ur just mad ur ship didn’t go canon” no im mad the friendship that was the most important thing in both of their lives was tossed aside and the audience was gaslit into believing it didn’t matter despite three films proving otherwise. steve dropped the shield twice for bucky and would have died rather than live in a world where bucky didn’t remember him. bucky broke thru 70 years of brainwashing at the sound of steve’s voice. their catchphrase was essentially “til death do we part”. the fuck
Sherlock isn't stupid. He's a lot of things--lazy, messy, and awkward to name a few--but stupid isn't one of them.
He overhears the conversation in the morning, presumably when John was convinced he'd be settling down to sleep, but something kept him awake. It had sunk into his bones and tickled inside his ribcage, itching down his spine before settling in his heart. He's glad now that he listened to himself, a feat he often comes up short with. He's also glad John's voice carries, clearly unafraid of being heard. More fire to the flame.
It's clear to Sherlock that John's being scolded, an audible wince in his tone. "I know, mum. I just-" a sigh. "You don't know what it's like living with him. He's so lazy. Constant mess. Everytime I clean, I turn around and there's something new."
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at this, a snort that would seem humorous in any different situation overcoming him. John only cleans when he has to.
"And he's so awkward. Can't meet a new person without him staring them down. It freaks people out, mum."
He stops listening, tearing himself away from the closed door between the two men. He wasn't sure if he could handle much more of it, the weight of the words stuffing his ears with cotton, ensuring nothing else could get through.
It's not like John's wrong, though, Sherlock realizes, as the distant mass of guilt buckles down on his shoulders. It's enough to send him stumbling back to his bed, sitting on the edge and thinking back on recent events.
The messes. That was something John had always assured he understood. The overwhelming and looming presence of a meltdown post outing, resulting in scattered objects and a rush to isolation. He never thought much of it, and it was always tidied once he emerged, each resident of the flat becoming increasingly familiar with Sherlock's aversion to the destruction left in the wake of meltdowns.
He supposed the laziness was accurate as well. Without the rush of a case, noon would creep by before he woke, falling asleep along with the rise of the sun. He wouldn't chalk it up to laziness, though. It was how he operated, and John's newfound ignorance stung more than he'd ever like to admit.
He didn't even have to ponder the awkwardness. He had known since he was young that people tended to find his mannerisms strange, distant from the sense of normalcy most people resided in. He knew he was different, and he had been under the impression that the podcaster down the hall knew as well, but cared for him regardless.
To find out that someone he had reluctantly begun to call his best friend held aversions to his nature--much like those of his youth--struck something deep inside of his heart. It felt as if the life he had begun to build was cracking around him, the chippings of fresh paint caked underneath his fingernails.
Hearing John's voice begin to ebb, the world around him fading in and out, he slipped under his covers, sunlight just barely peeking through his windows.
He wasn't entirely sure when he fell asleep, mind simultaneously running a mile a minute, yet also slowing to the point of numbness even on the cusp of rest, but he eventually awoke to the quiet sounds of the flat. His body felt unnaturally heavy, skin weighing down on his bones and eyes sunken into his face. John’s words rang in his mind, a cacophony of chants in the same tone, all barreling down on Sherlock.
For a while, he sat in the silence of his room, occasionally straining to hear the tip-tap of Archie’s nails along the tiles. He found himself lost to his thoughts and the aching loneliness of your best friend revoking his compassion, clouding anything else attempting to penetrate his consciousness.
How long had he waited for this? A safe corner of the world, surrounded by people who understood him. People who looked at him with something other than pity or fascination, like he was some sort of discovery to be studied. People who accepted him how he was rather than forcing him to oblige by the rules of a standard he had no interest in participating in.
It felt as if it was all shattering around him, caving in and rupturing his lungs in the aftermath, the lingering debris of faith and of hope suffocating his airways. He truly thought this would last, exceeding expectations and breaking down the methods of navigating humanity, the ones he had crafted since he first noticed his misplacement.
Unfortunately for him, though, he was still stretched along the bed within the very flat his world fell into. Next to his bed rested some cheesy mug, one with a bad pun and the remnants of whatever he had filled it with in the nights prior. His ear defenders were sprawled on the floor, a safe distance from his bed, attainable from an arms length. A faded, scratched vinyl sticker of the podcast’s logo stuck to the wall next to him.
He couldn’t sit here like this anymore, he decided, swiftly shifting to an upright position with a grunt and a shake of the head, hoping to straighten himself out a bit, though it only resulted in him stumbling as he stood.
Once adjusted, he made his way to his door, taking a deep inhale before opening it and venturing out of his room, his eyes performing a quick sweep of the surrounding area for any signs of John or Mariana, coming up short. He proceeded to the living room, the heat of embarrassment tickling behind his ears at the leftover mess from the last time he was out here.
It never bothered him before, but with the knowledge of John’s aversion towards it, he now felt shame burrowing in his chest. It forced him into tidying, returning everything to its designated home in the quietest way possible, a stuffy stillness settling in the air that continued to grow increasingly uncomfortable.
It was awkward, to say the least. Awkward like the way John described, staring at the objects he picked up like he was lost. The sinking realization that he was only proving the shorter man right dropped into his gut, and he chucked the shoe in his grasp at the couch as if it personally offended him.
As if he had some sort of curse placed upon him, Sherlock heard the floorboards creak, indicating John’s presence along the short hall. He ducked his head and straightened his shoulders, posture winding tight rather than his typical relaxed state within the flat walls. He turned like he was caught doing something he shouldn't have, something worse than the gentle toss of a shoe. Some unspoken sin tying back to the conversation Sherlock overheard earlier.
His eyes bore holes into John, bundles of nerves igniting fires under his skin, an itch trickling down his limbs. He swallowed dryly before a huff of breath escaped him, similar to when he would hear a ridiculous joke and refuse to dignify it with a response.
John had the audacity to return the gaze, though his was full of concern and curiosity.
“Are you okay, Sherlock?’’ He questioned, brows furrowed and mouth in a frown. “You’re uh.. You’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am.” A quiet chuckle followed, though his face never quite moved from the tight lipped expression that settled there once he saw the distress in Sherlock’s eyes.
Silence followed, a long stretch in which Sherlock tried to figure out what to say. Maybe John didn’t know–maybe he was unaware that his flatmate heard him complaining about how he existed to his mother?
“I could’ve cleaned that, mate. Was planning on it once I got some editing done, but then Archie decided he needed to g-”
“I thought I did.” Came the interruption, the first indication that Sherlock had even heard John since he came into the room.
“Sorry- what?” The concern grew in his face, followed by twinges of confusion.
“I thought I knew who you were.” Was the only provided elaboration, leaving John even more confused if the crease between his eyebrows was any clue.
Before he had any time to express that confusion, however, Sherlock was shutting the door to his bedroom–rather swiftly at that–and abruptly ending what could barely be called a conversation.
He truly couldn’t find it in him to care what John did afterwards–whether he stood there unblinking and reciting the last month in his brain, or if he carried on with his day–and it only became his concern when he later emerged again. After a long day of isolation and overthinking, he needed some sort of subsistence, usually provided with a reminder from his flatmates.
As soon as he stepped foot into the kitchen, he heard the sharp refusal of Mariana, the assertiveness not going unnoticed as she led him straight back to the living room.
There he found John, unnaturally nervous on the couch, an expression Sherlock would never get used to seeing on him.
With a final gentle push for emphasis, Mariana crossed her arms and made her leave, calling out behind her. “You boys better figure whatever this is out!”
As if on cue, John took approximately five seconds before he began speaking. It was a flurry of words before Sherlock could truly make out what he was saying, cotton stuffed in the sides of his ears at the memory of this morning.
“I just don’t understand, Sherlock, mate. I’ve been trying to figure out what could have you so upset and I don’t know. Give me something to work with, I’m lost.” And with that, he stopped talking, the frown from earlier returning as he stared at Sherlock, a little desperate for his response.
“I heard you earlier. On the phone.” It was short, and maybe Sherlock should’ve given him more, but the conversation played on loop in the back of his mind, sympathy trying to peek its way through.
“Oh– yeah, my mum called. Sorry, was I too loud? Sometimes I start rambling and don’t realize how loud I can get. Should’ve realized you were trying to sleep.”
It was Sherlock’s turn to be confused now, head shaking minutely as he stared ahead of him. “I heard what you said, Watson. I.. I’m lazy, and messy, and awkward. I’ll be out as soon as I can. You don’t have to worry about it.’’
That got a reaction out of him. Immediately, John’s face fell and his brows shifted, mouth gaping open. “Sherlock, mate, no– my mum asked how Archie was doing. I was talking about Archie. What kind of friend starts loudly complaining about you in our shared flat? I’ve done some shitty things, but that is not one of them.”
“Oh.” Was all Sherlock could say, mind whirring with the effort of reversing the thoughts that had been bubbling since the sun rose this morning. It all made perfect sense, there was no way John was lying straight to his face. Archie was very messy, resorting to peeing on the floor when he wasn’t taken out at the exact time he wanted to go. He also spent most of his day lounging around the flat lazily, and had a habit of staring at strangers with the biggest bug eyes he could muster.
“...I apologize, Watson.” He swallowed, the shame bubbling up again–for an entirely different reason this time–combining with an embarrassing amount of relief. “I.. assumed.’’ He added, that pit of shame creeping into his tone. It wasn’t often that he was wrong, even when his feelings became intertwined. He wasn’t one to make assumptions, either. In fact, he was known for doing the exact opposite of that.
He suddenly felt very on edge, very uncomfortable in the space around him, like he was being suffocated with crushing reality and confrontation. He was convinced John would expect some sort of extravagant apology or explanation for his unjustified reactions, attempting to formulate some sort of response while standing aimlessly in the middle of the living room.
Sherlock, however, was cut short by Mariana ambling into the room, snacks in tow as she stretched out along the couch. “Good?” She glanced between the two, an observant eye that obviously already knew the answer before she asked the question.
“Good.” John confirmed, and Sherlock noticed the small smile that now replaced his previous expression, the tension along his spine finally shriveling up as he sat next to the both of them.
“Good.” He nodded, watching the tv flick on and shuffling around a creased shoe stuffed along the couch cushion.
As much as I like seeing Trump and Musk fighting, and as entertaining as it is, watching politics in the world lately taught me one thing.
Question it!
Often a spectacle like that is a sign, that somewhere else, something else is being changed quickly and quietly, in the hope that people won’t care. Sure, it might just be two huge egos having a public breakup, but there’s a chance that there’s more to it. It may just be a diversion tactic.
Ask yourself:
what are we not seeing?
what is happening in other parts of the government?
what is this fight distracting you from?
is it travel bans for poor countries?
is it the fact, that other western countries advise against travelling to the US?
what other issues are not making an impact on the media right now?
i love u disabled folks who can't go out and see people, who only have friends online, who feel isolated and who are. i love u disabled folks who wish they could go out more, i love u disabled folks who live in areas that are unsafe and inaccessible. i love u disabled folks who can't afford the care or aid they need and who aren't receiving what they deserve. i love u disabled folks who mask when others won't. i love u disabled folks who used to be able to do far more and i love u disabled folks who are going to lose things to their health. i love u
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