Normally, I am quick to react – it has saved my life on several occasions. This time, it was of no lifesaving consequence, which was good, because I would no longer be among the living.
Afterthought and reflection regarding me as a person, had never been something I had given much thought. Almost everyone seemed to think that I was a freak and/or a psychopath, so my belated reaction to John Watson could very well be explained by my utter befuddlement when he called me amazing and extraordinary.
“You do realise that you are saying that out loud?” was my delayed response.
I wanted to kick myself for being so rude to this man who had praised my deductions about the dead woman dressed in pink.
His murmured apology did unspeakable things to my heart.
“Caring is never an advantage, brother mine.”
Mycroft’s voice and sound advice kept me from embarrassing myself by telling John that I was quite flattered by the praise. So, instead I ran from the crime scene and left John behind.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
***
I had no idea what I had done to make Sherlock run from the crime scene. Could it be my uncontrived outbursts when he disclosed the minutiae regarding the dead woman and her life? He did seem a bit conflicted about it. Incredulous, pleased, and nervous.
The DI looked at me like I was some sort of rare specimen, but he was too busy trying to make sense of Sherlock’s analysis to pay me any more attention after the man’s departure.
Outside, the female officer made more snarky remarks, which I tuned out. I walked around the corner to find a taxi I couldn’t afford. Instead, a black limousine stood waiting for me.
“Come with me Doctor Watson,” a woman said politely.
“Why would I do that?” I challenged her. “I’m going to – “
“It has everything to do with Sherlock Holmes. You will be driven back to Baker Street later. There is nothing to worry about, doctor.”
“And if I refuse?”
“John!”
Before my eyes, Sherlock appeared with a pink suitcase, glaring daggers at the woman who tapped furiously at her phone.
“Tell my brother to leave Doctor Watson alone, Anthea,” Sherlock chided.
Anthea just shrugged and slid into the back seat of the limousine. Seconds later it was gone.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“My brother is quite overprotective of me. His default reaction to people connected with me is to kidnap and interrogate them.”
“Is he the British government or something?”
The bright smile Sherlock gave me, lit up the entire street.
“Precisely!” he exclaimed.
***
When I realised who had shot Jeff Hope, I swore to never again underestimate John. He stood some feet away from me and Lestrade, looking so innocent and benign. The urge to take him out to dinner, to learn everything there was to know about him, to maybe kiss him, overwhelmed me to the extent that I failed to register Mycroft’s arrival.
John stood and watched us bicker about Mummy, raising an eyebrow when he ascertained who Mycroft was.
“Doesn’t look very intimidating to me,” he murmured when we walked away from the ambulance.
There was only one thing to say after that.
“Dinner?”
“Starving”
***
My conclusions regarding Sherlock’s and Lestrade’s reactions to my praise, proved to be valid. Apparently, no one had ever given the man positive feedback, hence his surprise and scepticism when I poured my heart out, so to speak.
“It’s a scandal,” I told him when he explained himself.
“Don’t be so dramatic, John. That is my role,” he smirked.
God, I wanted to kiss that smirk off his face so badly.
I licked my lips while letting my eyes linger on that perfect cupids bow across the table at the Chinese restaurant. A blush graced his prominent cheekbones, and I balled my fists so hard it hurt. I wouldn’t put it past myself to pull him towards me for a proper snog if I relaxed.
“Home?” I inquired some ten minutes later when our plates were empty.
“Yes,” his husky voice replied.
Neither of us wasted any time once the door to 221B was locked behind us. It was a passionate collision of limbs which made me see stars. His lips were addictive at first contact, and I kissed him like a starving man, tugging at his curls, moaning into his mouth, pulling him closer, which at that point was an impossible feat.
“John,” he panted when we broke the kiss, looking flustered and baffled.
“You alright? What do you need?”
“Do you really want this with me? Because, if this is only an afterthought, or convenient – “
I put my finger on his lips to stop his ramblings.
“I want this. Not as a one-night-stand, or entertainment for a few weeks. I’ve already killed a man for you, haven’t I? The mere thought of not being in your orbit, of not living here with you, makes me nauseous, Sherlock. I know it’s early days, and I don’t trust people easily, but with you…you are the exception, an anomaly.”
His body sagged with relief at my admission and his lips found mine again.
***
Some weeks later, I was summoned to Buckingham Palace, where I found Sherlock wearing just a sheet. My life with the world’s only consulting detective was exciting, intriguing, insane, and utterly addictive.
Apparently, it was not too late to find a purpose in life, even when said life, just a few months earlier, had been dull and grey.
Now, we solve crimes together, I blog about it, and we never had any use for that second bedroom.
Some days I feel like a chair in a crowded room everyone sits, everyone rises, but no one remembers touching me. They leave marks in the wood, and still, I am the one called empty. I keep wondering how it feels to be chosen without asking. To have someone’s eyes search for you across the noise, the way people search for exits in a burning room. Nobody looks. Nobody even notices the smoke curling out of my chest. I tell myself I am not unworthy, only at the wrong place. But the difference between the two collapses when silence answers louder than names ever could. It is strange—how I have always bent myself into shapes that fit others comfort, only to be told I take up too much space. How I’ve carried storms inside me but learned to rain quietly, so the world wouldn’t call me dramatic. Yet the thunder still echoes through my ribs, reminding me that the world does not listen to clouds, only complains when it rains. I hate this feeling of being the afterthought, the almost, the if-only. I hate how my shadow follows me more faithfully than people ever have. And still, I keep showing up, softer than I should be, hoping softness will make me seen. Do you know what it feels like to be haunted by absence? To be surrounded and yet untouched? It is a loneliness that claws without teeth, a hollowness that hums beneath the skin. And I keep asking myself—what is wrong in me that echoes louder than my voice? Why is my silence so easy to step over? I tried to be gentle, I tried to be careful, I tried to be good. But goodness does not anchor anyone. They still drift away, leaving me as proof that even light can be abandoned. I am angry at myself for always understanding, for always swallowing the shards others throw. I think I am bleeding from places even I cannot see. And when I hold the wound out, they say it’s small, it’s nothing, it’s for my own good. As if pain becomes wisdom simply by being dismissed.
I am tired of learning lessons I never asked for. I am tired of being told it’s growth when it only feels like withering. Sometimes I imagine standing in the middle of a room, screaming. Not words. Just sound. Just to see if anyone would flinch, or if they’d carry on as if the air wasn’t breaking. I imagine disappearing too, leaving my skin on the chair, my voice in the corner, and wondering how long it would take before someone noticed the absence.
Maybe never. Maybe that’s the answer.
But beneath it all, a small, unkillable voice whispers: I am not nothing. I am not disposable. I am not invisible. Even if no one looks for me, even if no one chooses me, I will not let them decide I don’t exist.
Hello! I just read Foresight for the first time and loved it! Like MHA meets Eminence in Shadow but the protag knows the danger he’s in. The AN said it might take a while for a sequel, but since it’s already kind of been a while I figured I’d check in.
It’s cool of not! Just thought I’d check.
I'm glad you liked it! Also I'm adding that to my list of shows/books/etc that people have told me Izuku's powers are similar to and you can't stop me, I'm making a collection and it's very dear to me.
As for the sequel...well, it's a work in progress. The problem is mostly that I have a job and social life that gets in the way of me being able to get obsessed with writing the way I used to (tragic). What I can tell you is that the portion I've written so far is nearly the length of Foresight and I'm only about halfway through my outline lmao
This is the 5th stage of grief talking, Mike also gets his happy ending by continuing to be the storyteller beyond their compaign. His thoughts on a happy ending was comfort and happiness. Storytelling being his source of comfort since childhood makes his path more meaningful. His happiness being, what he chooses to belief and stand by it- courage in narrating his friend's bravery and El being alive somewhere safe.
