28. Female. Ohioian. Nerd. Artist. Writer. Reader. Gamer. Nutter.
Here you wil find:
Sherlock. Doctor Who. Supernatural. Community. Misfits. Benedict Cumberbatch. Simon Pegg. Art. Corgis. Foo Fighters. Jon Stewart. Books. Johnlock. Muppets.
I feel like an older sister to a lot of you on here, so please feel free to start up a chat if you ever need someone to talk to. I promise I've got the time and nothing is ever too embarrassing/stupid/scary to bring to me. Besides, I've got experience on my side.
Despite his best efforts, Sherlock wakes one night with a cry and a horrible, burning pain in his chest. It feels like panic and desperation and like being found in a shower with the back of his head bloodied (delete) or waking up in an ambulance and knowing he’s alone (delete) or realizing as the haze envelops his vision that he lost count of how many pills he’d taken, he lost count of all people.
Sherlock is relatively certain he’s not having a medical emergency, though when he thinks of what else it might be he firmly chases off all relevant chains of thought. So he goes out onto the terrace of his non-smoking apartment and chain-smokes half a pack of Parliaments. All the same, the ache in his chest doesn’t leave for days.
Seven thousand kilometers away, Captain John Watson bleeds out in a helicopter over the pale desert sands.
this fic is tugging at my heart like fucking woah. it’s omegaverse, so yeah, if that’s not your bag baby, avoid this, but i’m very picky with my omegaverse and this is good so far
links in the source~~~