.
Name: Tina Years: 20 From: Bulgaria Living in: United Kingdom I am a devoted Sherlockian and Benedictian. Law student. Writer. Football is an enormous part of my life. Drama and Theatre addict. Foreign languages lover. Addicted to London. Just a... dream-girl. |
4/6 gifs of John Watson. requested by Thais <3 John being happy.
Martin, y u so precious & fluffy & perrrrrfect? <3 xxxx asdfghjkl… <3
BEYOND ANY EXPECTATIONS
In reply to hundreds and hundreds requests about Sherlock learning how to play violin
Aaaand another fic, dear Yuri! <3 xxx
THIS IS NOT ‘GOODBYE’
John can’t leave me now. He is the only person I can rely on. He is the only thing I can trust. He is the only one. No, no, nope. You can’t leave me, John. Tell me you are joking. Please, John. Tell me this is a nightmare!
But he doesn’t. His dark-blue eyes stare at me apologetically and I swear – I swear, swear, swear – that if I walk out of the room at this very moment, he would cry.
No, John! Don’t do this, stupid John! You can see it too – you don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to leave. No one wants you to leave. Except your dull parents.
‘Are you really going to leave?’
I want to add some ‘me’ at the end of the sentence but I know perfectly well this is going to sound awkward and so out of space. It’s better to preserve my status of ‘an annoying dick’ and my self-esteem high enough. Sentiment is not for me. It’s a chemical defect found on the losing side. I am not a loser. Not yet.
He nods and I feel a whole massive planet – not just a stone – in my throat. I am afraid that if I open my mouth, there would be no sound coming out from it.
‘But… why?’
My voice is weak, barely heard, almost a whisper. John shrugs.
‘Because of my parents. They want to live in the centre, to have stores nearby, theatres, to go to concerts…’
Dull parents, as I said. They can go to those stupid things if they live here. No reason for moving.
I sigh and John responds to me with a quiet cough. He is trying to suppress his tears, I can tell.
Don’t leave me, John…
‘I’m so sorry, Sherlock. We’re leaving in a week. I-…’
But he doesn’t finish. He just shrugs once again and walks out of the room. I curl up (John would say ‘sulk’) in my small sofa. Then jump off it and approach the window. It’s so quiet now – without John. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. It’s disgustingly hateful.
—-
It was a strange thought of mine, I am sure about that. But Ma and Mycroft kept telling me that the best way to avoid those gloomy and depressing thoughts was to engage in something else rather than my deductions.
What else?
My whole life has been going around deductions, deductions and nothing else but deductions. I thought they were the perfect remedy for boredom and for relaxing but I was wrong. They did not get rid of the pain in my entire body. They did not fill up the hole in my chest. They did not bring my partner back. John was not here; not with me.
Probably, he found another Sherlock. Maybe he solved crimes with another kid. Or eventually, he started taking firing practices before getting to the military school. He deserved all that. I did not deserve him.
So… here I am. Sitting in front of the music teacher’s office. She is an old lady but she is a friend of Mummy and she owes her a lot, since our family took her out of the misery. She is a renowned musician now. She seems… ok. If John was here she would have said she was lovely. No, John is not here. I should not think about him. Never again.
‘What can I do for you, dear?’
Oh, no. Not dear, just not dear. Dear is what Mrs Watson used to call me. No dear.
‘I want to learn to play violin.’
I am trying to be as positive as possible. It is an awfully hard thing to do. Especially right now.
‘Excellent! Come here, dear. Follow me.’
No dear, I said! Grrrr…
‘I want to learn to play this composer.’
Somebody once told me that Paganini has some of the hardest violin concertos. He has all the techniques of a violin virtuoso. I want to be one. I want to be perfect. I can play the hardest composer. Whatever it takes.
‘Fine. This will take a while.’
No, it won’t. It will take just seven days. Exactly seven days – no more, no less.
‘I have one week only.’
She frowns. Stupid teacher. I can’t understand why Mummy is her friend. She is dull.
‘But this is impossible.’
Impossible? I don’t know what this word means!
‘No, it’s not!’
‘But, dear…’
‘I am not dear and it is not impossible! I will learn to play this composer! I will be per-fect! Understood?’
—-
It’s been three days and a half now. I am getting somewhere, I know that. Just the final notes are bothering me. C’mon, Sherlock, you can do this. You can prove them you are born for every job there is in this world.
‘Sherlock, dinner is ready! Oh, for God’s sake, what is this crap?’
‘This. Is. Music.’
‘Doesn’t sound like that. More like shrieks. Anyway, Mummy and I are not going to wait for you a century.’
They sent me to those lessons. Why don’t they understand then?
I put the violin down, grab a blue crayon (John’s crayons – he forgot them in my house while packing) and a piece of paper. I open the door slightly and stick the sign to it. Mycroft will know now.
Go away, My-cr-oft!
Mycroft chuckles.
‘Oh, dear God, Sherlock! You could have said it. Your handwriting is appalling.’
‘Go away, stupid Mycroft!’
—-
Day Seven.
That’s it. Now I’ll show John what a virtuoso I am and he’ll throw all those boxes and packages aside and he will stay here with me. Forever.
‘Look, John! I can play violin!’
He turns to me with red eyes and inquiring look. Deduction: he has cried his eyes out last night.
‘I’ll play it! I’ll do concerts for your parents! There’s no need for you to go anywhere else – in the stupid City centre. They don’t need to leave in order to listen to good music. I am capable of good music too.’
The silence is awkward. I am starting to think this was not the best idea I’ve ever had. John’s red eyes become watery again. No, John. No, John! Don’t cry, John! Don’t…
‘I’m really sorry, Sherlock. I have to go now, it’s getting late.’
No, you don’t have to…
‘I promise you, Sherlock. I’ll listen to you and your violin when I come back…’
You’ll never come back, John. We’ll leave me here: alone and lonely, and you’ll never come back for me.
‘Ok?’
It’s not ok.
John takes the last box full of toys and stupid and unnecessary and ridiculous stuff. He walks out of the room.
‘Goodbye, Sherlock.’
I’ve always been thinking that it would be me who would say those words: ‘Goodbye, John!’ In this stupid Winnie the Pooh book of John’s it was written – I remember – something like that… ‘If you live to be 100, I hope I live 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live a day without you.’ Now I get the meaning of it. I thought it was all rubbish till now.
I know he’ll not come back. And I want to ask him to. I want to grab him, to hug him, to never let him go. I close my eyes, as to save the memory of this hurtful ‘goodbye’ of his, which seems more like a ‘farewell’ to me. You will always be my friend, John Hamish Watson. Till the very end of my dull days. My best friend. My only friend.
I don’t need this violin. I’ve never needed it. This whole idea was as ridiculous and stupid as I am now. Lonely and forgotten. Useless. Damn you, violin!
I want to throw it away but I will harm it. Mummy has once told me that we should not harm the things we like. And I used to like this dumb violin. Even if it was for a week only. It was my only way to get to John. Unsuccessful, of course.
—-
One year later…
I heard the sound of a violin nearby: I think it was coming from the new neighbours. It’s a girl, I think – I saw her white ribbons once, when she was coming from school. She is good. But I am better.
Shall I…
No, I shan’t. I can’t. This violin was for John only. For John. I can’t play it now, when he’s not here. Though he’ll never come back.
—-
Five years later…
Mummy has put the violin in the lumber room. It’s ok: I don’t need it at all.
The girl with the white ribbons went to New York. She took her violin with her – I saw her departure. It was a cold and snowy December evening but I caught a glimpse of her violin. Hers was more expensive, I presume. But mine was still better and way more beautiful.
Shall I…
No, I shan’t. I was absolutely right. John did not come. I asked Mycroft just yesterday about John and his parents but he shrugged. If Mycroft did not know anything, then no one knew. Or he knew but he did not want to tell me. Either way, John was not here. He’ll never be.
—-
Ten years later…
The music teacher at school wanted every single one of us to show some skills with a musical instrument for the graduation. I refused to play any. But stupid Mycroft and way too proud and crying Mummy told her I can play violin pretty well.
I can’t.
But she still hands me a violin and forces me to join the rest of the class.
Fine. I’ve never said I won’t play violin. I won’t play my violin. I can play all the other violins in the world. But my violin is for John. John who never came back.
—-
Twenty years later…
I am a detective now – just as I promised John. I know from Mycroft that John is an army doctor. So, he kept this promise of his as well. He didn’t do the same thing about another promise of his, though.
—-
Twenty-seven years later…
I gave up. I am 35 now; I can’t go like this forever. In the late hours of the night, when the Yard does not need me and when it’s so awfully peaceful around, I can’t stand like a ghost till the dawn breaks. I get it: I am a freak – I’ve always been. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe properly – all of this is painfully boring. I tried drugs – been a junkie for years. Still thinking over the idea of starting them again. I can’t shoot Mrs Hudson’s wall again – she will kick me out of the flat. And 221B is the only place I know – the only place I can call home. It was her and her husband – who is, thank God, away now – gave it to me as a present. Can’t give it up.
There’s only one thing I can do now – play the violin I brought with myself.
Shall I?
Yes, I shall. Finally. John will never come back – I get it now.
‘Hello.’
I turn my face just to see a short man in a fluffy jumper. He has golden hair and dark-blue eyes, just like the boy I used to know and love 27 years ago. He reminds me of him so much, it makes me open the door of the lumber room and take out the violin and play. Perfect timing, mate.
‘Hello.’
‘I am your new flat-mate. Has Mrs Hudson-…’
I nod in response.
‘Yes, she has mentioned about you. Come. Sit. Although it is a psychosomatic one, it may hurt…’ I smirk. His eyes are widened, ‘It doesn’t, right?’
I point with the violin bow at his leg. He is using a cane.
‘How do y-…’
‘Flatmates should know the worst about each other.’
‘I agree with that.’
‘How do you feel about the violin?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I play it when I am thinking. Would it bother you?’
‘While you are-… No. No problem at all.’
I smile. He smiles back and sits on the chair I just pointed out. The resemblance is killing me. Can’t be…
I grab the violin. I can play Paganini. The man behind me will most certainly appreciate it.
‘Fine then…’
‘Damn my leg!’
The man exclaims as he pushes his traumatised leg forward. My bow has not even touched the violin strings. Once, 27 years ago, when he broke his leg – this very same leg – John exclaimed ‘Damn my leg!’ with frustration. With the end of my eye – somewhere between my lashes – I can notice the wrinkle of the chubby nose and the dark-blue eyes getting even darker.
John is here. John is finally here. Just as he promised.
‘Wait!’ he interrupts my thoughts, as always, ‘Wait… We don’t know a single thing about each other. The violin is the last thing I-…’
I smirk.
‘I know you are an army doctor – you’ve always wanted to be one – recently invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a sister – precisely five years and four months younger than you, named Harry – who’s concerned about you but you won’t go to her because you don’t approve her – certainly because she is an alcoholic; not because she recently walked out on her civil partner. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is at least partially psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid, as I’ve already mentioned. Enough to be going on with, don’t you think?’
‘How-…’
John knew. John understood. John was aware of this language and this specific attitude. He remembered it from somewhere.
No.
Light-blue eyes, curly black hair, tall and muscular body, long fingers, and those razor-shaped cheekbones. He knew a boy like this one. But he hasn’t seen him for… 27 years.
I see that John is a bit confused now. Probably he remembers something – no, I am certain he does. I smirk once again and play the initial accords of the violin concerto.
‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes, John. Consulting detective. The only one in the world.’
‘The name has always been Sherlock Holmes,’ was John’s first thought, ‘And he has always been the only one in the world.’
This fic was requested by slytherindoctorsat221b. <3 :)))
HAMISH AND ALEXANDRA
His ice-blue eyes smiled at the girl in front of him as his lips curved into an arc. She sighed, making small clouds against her mouth. It was devilishly cold. She didn’t even know why she consented being here when it was such a terrible winter outside (one of the rarest in London) but she knew one thing for sure – she had to meet Sherlock Holmes and to start meeting him more regularly in order to get more and more information for her father. Otherwise, he would be extremely disappointed.
His ice-blue eyes followed the girl’s short hair and frowned. He licked his upper lip, thoughtfully leaving the tip of his tongue there, then clicked it. Sighed – a sigh of a desperate and anxious man rather than of a frustrated one. Tapped the dimmed window with his long fingers several times.
‘Could you please stop doing that, Sherlock? It’s annoying. And I am trying to read!’
Sitting on his big chair, John was holding a newspaper and was scanning through rather than reading it, paying much more attention to the crimes of the week as he probably should have. He closed the newspaper and directed his eyes at his husband. Stood like this for several seconds.
‘What?’
John supposed Sherlock was looking at Hamish down there. Their boy left the house an hour ago and it was freakishly cold out there, so the logic proved Sherlock was getting a bit uneasy about his son’s health. Or at least this is what a normal father would do. Like John. Sherlock was thinking about an entirely different thing, most probably.
‘Hamish is outside.’
John smiled and put his head back, continuing to smirk. He placed his hands under his chin and entwined his perfectly shaped fingers.
‘He is ok, Sherlock. He is wearing the warm coat you bought for him last Christmas. He is fine.’
Sherlock sighed once again. He knew Hamish was fine and he could not argue over that with a doctor. But there was something else troubling him.
‘Talking to a girl.’
John let out a confused look which closed down Sherlock’s spine. Right. That was it. That was the ‘other thing’ Sherlock has been thinking about. He is desperately jealous that his son – his one and only – may leave him and may go mad for a girl. The anxiety on Sherlock’s face was slowly fading away now, just to be replaced with an odd look of curiosity. John knew Sherlock wanted to know more about the girl but was afraid – no, Sherlock Holmes was never afraid – but was unsure that his methods won’t do a lot on a 10-or-something-year-old girl. He can deduce her, of course, but what good that would do? Only getting Hamish angry, which Sherlock knew perfectly well would be the result.
‘When can I meet your dads?’
Her voice trembled and shrieked a bit out of her whisper. Hamish sighed and shrugged. It was ok for her to meet John – he was friendly and would have welcomed her at 221B any time she was around. He would have boiled some tea and would have given her Mrs Hudson’s biscuits. He is alright – children tend to adore him.
But Hamish knew perfectly well that all those children are more desperate to meet his Dad called Sherlock Holmes. They’ve heard plenty of stories about him – some real, some not so – and for them he was just like the hero from the fairytales. Except they knew they could meet and touch him, talk to him. Hamish has suddenly become the most adored kid at school. And not because he was a nice friend – no, all of the children were talking behind his back that he was strange and a freak. It was all because he was Hamish Watson-Holmes: his father was the infamous sleuth who might deduce anyone just by a look at their face. Probably Alexandra was one of those kids.
‘Soon, just not yet…’
Hamish did not know how to respond. He liked Alexandra; liked her a lot. But he knew that if his father were to meet her, it would be a terrible experience for all three of them. When meeting a new ‘friend’ of Hamish’s, Sherlock tended to be ridiculous and extremely crude which resulted in crying children and angry parents.
‘But why? Are you ashamed of me? Am I not good enough?’
No, of course not. She was the perfect friend and the perfect girl. It was not that. How can she not see he was not ashamed of her but of his father’s future reactions?
‘No, no, no. Just it’s… My father is not good with… uhm… people.’
Alexandra frowned. Her father has warned her that this might happen. Sherlock Holmes was not easy to get and one should be really calm and very patient. Meeting Dr Watson would be a success too – after all, he was the key to Sherlock Holmes’s frozen heart. Hamish and Dr Watson. If she has a control over them, she can easily control Holmes as well. Father would be proud of her.
‘Can I meet your other Dad, then?’
Hamish swallowed and looked up. He noticed his father’s contours behind the transparent curtains. Sherlock stepped back, realising the boy was staring at him.
John sighed once again and clapped with his hands.
‘Fine. Shall I go and say ‘hi’?’
John knew Sherlock so well that he was able to decipher at any second what this great mastermind of his was thinking and calculating. And despite all Sherlock’s refusals that John cannot understand and cannot help even a bit, John knew that without him Holmes was no one. For instance, in a humble situation like this one. John handled all of this type. The ‘ordinary life situations’, as Sherlock used to call them.
Sherlock smirked in response. There was no one better than John. He knew how to handle those stupid things and how to take the best out of them. He heard him jumping out of his comfy chair, putting on his favourite green jacket and popping out.
Sherlock stuck his nose against the cold window once again and his eyes followed John who was now approaching the children with both his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
‘So… You must be Alexandra, am I right?’
The girl nodded, making her hair go up and down, up and down. John smiled and hugged Hamish with one hand. The boy chuckled as he felt the warm body of his father pressed to his. He had to admit it was getting colder.
‘Alexandra, it’s getting late and it’s very cold.’
‘Yeah, you are right Dr Watson. I should probably get home.’
‘If you want to, Hamish and I can come with you. We can get a cab but we won’t leave you alone at this hour. Where do you live?’
‘South Kensington. But there’s really no need at all.’
Alexandra’s look got anxious. John knew children’s minds and thinking pretty well – he immediately understood she was afraid of something. He made a barely visible frown.
‘It’s not… far away from here… We can do that. Or…’ he paused, looking at her face getting paler, ‘Or we can go upstairs, have a cup of hot tea, and call your parents to come pick you up.’
Alexandra swallowed hard. This one was unexpected. She didn’t know what and how to do it. Father has not warned her about this. She thought Dr Watson was the easy one. If she was to go upstairs, she was to meet Sherlock Holmes too. And what would happen if they call her father? What would happen if they realise her father is their greatest enemy?
‘Fine. I’ll come with you and we’ll call him,’ Alexandra nodded and swallowed again. He was probably going to send a cab for her. Thereafter, he would shout at her and then cry and hug her, apologising for the quarrel. At least, she could gather some information. Finally, she was at 221B and she was about to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. The greatest enemy and the greatest thrive of her father. Alexandra Moriarty followed Hamish and Dr Watson as they quickly opened the door of the flat.
This RP of ours (with ‘becausenothingelsematters’/John/Liana) is getting dirty. I’m trying to keep it more romantic but… oh, well.
P.S. Keep in mind I wasn’t into ‘gay porn’ & whatever at all. At all. Till today.
‘We all do silly things…’
Finally, the promised story. :) <3
‘A MAGIC TRICK’
John took the old pistol his father has given to him and pointed it directly at me. I was standing right in front of him, most definitely not amused, with kinda bored and emotionless face – I could tell, by John’s exacting look.
‘C’mon, Sherlock! Put some emotion here!’ John’s little hands with the smallest fingers I’ve ever seen – pardon me, but mine are muuuuch muuuuch longer, didn’t even tremble. God! He had nerves of steel! It’s good that I’ve taken all the bullets out. He takes the idea of being a soldier rather too much to his heart.
‘Do you really think this is a funny game?’ I myself had a small pistol in my right hand – Mr Watson wanted to surprise both John and me about month ago, when he retired.
John stood there, with a blank face but with the most intense dark-blue gaze one has ever seen, still directing his bulletless little gun at me. I sighed – probably, a little bit heavier than I should have, for he pulled the trigger. It produced a creaking sound in the dead silent room.
‘If you keep complaining, you’ll be the first to die!’
Right. John was just too much into this stupid game. I had to deal with this somehow. Clever, clever, Sherlock – you’re not an ordinary boy but sometimes you should think like one-… Oh! Yes! Of course!
There was always too much jam in our fridge – an obsession of John that I still cannot fully understand. Mummy gave me a jar when John came today – to eat together in my room. I think I’ve put it somewhere here… Fine. There it is. Just somewhere beneath… all these clothes of mine… Disgusting.
Bang! Peew! Peew! Bang!
I pressed the small jar cap which opened a little, producing a ‘bang’ sound, mixing with the creaking of the trigger. The jam was poured all over me. Definitely disgusting.
‘Arghhh!’ John stood there – eyes wide-opened, motionless, ‘John, those weren’t fake guns!’
‘What?’ John jumped and slowly approached me, ‘O… Oh… Of course they are! You know Daddy gave us his oldest ones that are out of use! Sherlock?!’
Dramatically, Sherlock. Dramatic falling. Eeeeeeeeh… bam! Wonderful. You should practice that more often. Dramatic falling, you know.
‘Sherlock! Stop kidding!’
No, actually, now I’m thinking of a better and certainly higher place to jump off from… Good I’m laying now, so I can think about that while John is in his ‘Panic Palace’.
‘Aaahhh…’
Oh, Sherlock, this was the sound Ma makes when her leg is in pain – not too plausible for a dying person.
Silence. Fine – thank you, John.
Probably, when I become older, I can try jumping off a roof or something. But without the bungee stuff. Bungee jumping is boring.
Applauses, Sherlock, you’re just brilliant. You made him believe you’re dead.
John? Oh, for God’s sake! He’s probably mourning now. My stupid John!
‘Joking!’ I raise my right hand. I open my eyes and meet his grumpy red face.
He stands up and walks away – his legs slipping over the sticky raspberry jam. He’s angry. Pff…
‘John!’
No answer.
‘John! I was just trying to make the game more interesting! You don’t have any bullets in your stupid gun – how can I possibly be dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ he murmurs, ‘Is it iodine?’
He sits on the floor – at the other corner of the room, and wraps his arms around his legs.
‘It’s iodine!’ I lie, smiling just a bit. Ok, this was too much – I have to admit. I can feel pain in my chest when I watch John’s back in front of me. I know for sure he’ll start sobbing now. This would kill me.
‘John?’ I approach him. God! This jam is soooo sickening sticky!
‘John, what would you say if I was dead?’
Silence. Is he sobbing already?
‘I don’t even want to think about that!’
Why? Jumping off a roof was a good idea. I’ll take John to watch me. Though, I have to plan it more thoroughly… A jam won’t work.
‘Oh! Don’t worry, John! You’ll be dead years before me cause you’re older,’ Sherlock, no logic in that! ‘Or because of the tons of jam you eat!’
The jam was an over-exaggeration, I accept that.
‘Don’t be dead!’
Right. John is not in his best mode of thinking today. Not very creative, at least.
‘Well, this would be pretty remarkable, but if I’m dead this cannot happen…’
John shivers a bit and swallows back his tears.
‘Fine. Then…’ he wraps his arms around his tiny legs even tighter, ‘I was so alone… And I owe you so much.’
Silence. This is not fair. I’ve already written that in my will. Plagiarism!
‘No.’
John unwraps one of his hands and sniffs like a small puppy. Yes, finally he sensed it was a jam! He dips his small finger in the sticky dense liquid and then puts the finger in his mouth. His eyes widen once again.
‘Why not, Sherlock?’
‘Because…’ I can feel my cheeks redden. I hate when John makes me feel so miserable, ‘Because these were my words, John… Because these are the words Iwould say if you die.’
Without even standing up, John leans back, unwraps his other hand, dips his fingers in the jam flowing from my clothes, and draws a heart right next to me, on the fitted carpet.
‘And never ever spoil my favourite raspberry jam again! Understood, Sherlock?’ I can hear him chuckling. He is not that stupid – at the end of the day I can always see that. Cause he is the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. My best friend. The only one in the world.
Well, I certainly will.
Come, Johnny boy! <3
Let’s just appreciate the fact that Sherlock once again kind of ‘asks’ for John’s opinion. It’s just like, ‘Not good?’ ‘A bit not good, yeah.’
Sherlock knows John is so not like him, and realises perfectly well what John would think or feel at any precise moment. But as Sherlock mocks the others about their sentiments and emotions, he does not do so with John. He just nods, understands, accepts.
And if in ‘The Blind Banker’ John was surprised that Sherlock wants an opinion from an expert, then we should not be surprised that in every single moment when Sherlock has to face the complicated world of human nature & feelings, he does need an expert opinion indeed. And his expert is John: ‘he has his best man’ not only to send him for some data or experiment, but also for consultation.
John expresses his astonishment as to Sherlock’s deductions in every word available in English. Sherlock just nods understandingly. Not disagreeing, not opposing. Just a nod. Which is quite a lot, having in mind this is Sherlock Holmes.
That’s what I call special about the relationship Sherlock/John. They understand each other just with a word, just with a look, just with a… nod. Nothing else is needed.
And it’s not only from Sherlock’s side. It’s from John’s as well. ‘No, you don’t.’ He knows him so perfectly well that he doesn’t even make a judging face; he has accepted Sherlock the way he is: not really understanding human’s feelings.
And the last gif just shows the approving gesture of John, ‘Yes, Sherlock, sentiment. Excellent, you’ve passed the ‘human feelings’ exam.’ Which, I presume, is Sherlock Holmes’s most unintelligible subject.
