#after reichenbach

[onthecrosslook]

John: I was Sherlock’s right hand arm. Man.

John: I was Sherlock’s everything. His confidant, his best friend.

John: His silly hedgehog.

Mary: His what.

John: His silly hedgehog.

Mary: His silly hedgehog?

John: Yes.

Mary: Is that what he called you?

John: No.

[of-tea-and-cardigans]

Take my breath away, make every day worth all of the pain that I have gone through.

The Sun {Maroon5}

[vivlavidaagentcarter]

A Broken Reuinion

(It broke my heart writing this.)

I stared at the grave that marked where my friend was buried. He was dead, I was too late. If only he had known that I wasn't dead, that I had faked my death to save him. Maybe then he wouldn't had taken his own life. My brave soldier. My blogger. "When you believed me to be dead, you gave me a speech," I said in a soft tone, resting a hand on the cool marble. John H. Watson it read. I sighed, "You know I'm terrible with words, emotions at the right time and place. I like to think this is the appropriate time to finally say this. John...I-I love you. And I am sorry I destroyed you to the point of taking your life. Maybe if you had known the truth I could say this to your face rather then this damned piece of marble with your name." Salty tears ran down my face, a sob breaking from my lips. I stood up, hours later having nothing else to say besides one thing, "I'll see you very soon ok John? Wherever that will be if heaven or hell exists."

Mycroft Holmes hadn't heard from Sherlock in a few days. Normally he'd be okay with this but with the path his little brother had taken this worried him. He contacted Mrs. Hudson and she confirmed his worries, Sherlock hadn't been home in a few days. Mycroft knew where the younger Holmes would be. He took a detour home, stopping by the cemetery. He walked slowly towards the soldier's old grave. He stiffened his lip on the sight. "Dear Sherlock ..." He laid a hand on his brothers shoulder. Tears ran down his face as he knelt down beside him. He held his broken body towards him, smelling the traces of alcohol. "Well, John Watson it seems you are not alone now."

[caressthosecheekbones]

"Watching someone you love kiss another is a bit like listening to your favorite song in a language you don't speak. The beat is familiar but the melody never quite fits like you think it will." found in "Upon the Removal of a Finish Line" by the talented ASongofSixpence/starfleetofficial (graphic under the cut)

[thestoriesiwouldtell-blog]

Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing… rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same…

It’s not often that I fall completely in love with a story. This one, I did. It is so well written that you will feel both Sherlock’s confusion and John’s emotional spectrum. I will certainly be downloading a copy to make sure I never lose this story of friendship, angst, and most of all, love.

[sweetnkindanerdy]

I winder if you realize how much "after Reichenbach" fits us

[girlwhowontshutup]

One Year Later- Same Girl, Same Coat, Totally Different Look

[amazingpowersofdeduction-blog]

Haunt Me ((is it too late for this? <3))

((not at all)

 I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours

also on AO3 and FF.net, rebloggable here

While the elder Holmes brother was best known for his affinity towards surveillance, this does not mean that he was the only one of the brothers gifted with such skills.  While it was certainly true that Sherlock preferred the less legal routes of gathering information, in this case, Mycroft turned a blind eye and indeed hushed up the almost perpetual monitoring of John Watson by someone not in his office.  It had helped that Mycroft had installed the cameras in John's living spaces, no matter where they were.

It had been months since Sherlock had been forced to leave London.  Six long months since last he saw his best friend in person.  It was hard, even for someone like Sherlock who divorced his emotions as soon as he felt them creeping up on him, and he knew that if the camera lines should be traced, his position would be given away (sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side/caring is not an advantage), but he didn't care because this was John.

Boston, Singapore, Lisbon, Cape Town.  No matter where it was he was staying for the month, Sherlock was watching John.  Watching him cry at idiotic films, watching him go into spells of depression, watching him laugh with the latest girlfriend, watching him talk to the detective who was not there to be talked to.  And Sherlock would reply.  He'd berate John for being a wuss, try his best to comfort him, point out all the faults of the girl, and fill in the other half of the conversation.  And once or twice, when he could tell John was at his darkest point, he'd call him.  He'd never say anything, of course, just listen to his friend's voice, desperately trying to interrupt the blackest of moments, to make sure he had a John to come home to.

It became part of Sherlock's mo(u)rning ritual.  Turn the computer on, get through Mycroft's firewalls, make his breakfast whatever it was John was eating (he timed it so he could see, and it didn't matter if it was Chinese takeaway at what, for Sherlock, was six in the morning--he ate it), read the newspaper while John was away, all the while wishing he could still be there.

After some time, Mycroft began to get wary, pointing out that there would only be one of two people monitoring John after a tragedy like that, and that it wouldn't be too hard to deduce who it was if the line was traced.  Sherlock saw the point in Mycroft's words, but didn't heed them.  Sherlock was Sherlock, and if he was anything, he was protective of his best friend.  To a fault.  He had to know that John was okay, every single day, to know that he was surviving at the very least, if not thriving in adversity as John was known for doing.