i officially want aidan turner to father my children.
I tried to scroll past this i really did
no you didnt
I’m so fabulous.
Well, considering this man is the one who stopped the apocalypse; I’d say it’s a pretty good count.
“In year 7 you were already uncomfortable around me, so I manipulated our teacher into putting us together for a project and when you didn’t want to come to my house, instead of meeting in a neutral place like a library, I did the entire project so that you’d owe me. In year 8 I gave you a bunch of gifts, a really inappropriate quantity, and continued to do so even after you made it abundantly clear that you didn’t want them. By the time the school disco rolled around in year 9, you knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you made up an excuse and left the whole dance to escape from me, and somehow it’s me and not you who got the worst end of that stick. In year 10, I bought you another grossly inappropriate gift that required you to spend time with me in order to use it, and when you misunderstood how I wanted you to use it I didn’t say anything but just stewed on that information. And now, in year 11, I’m going to publish my victim complex and the entire history of how I’ve stalked you over the past five years, comfortable in the knowledge that because I’m a man, I will be taken seriously and you’ll be vilified.”
She has every right to think boys are dicks. Here’s example number one. This post is really really gross. He shouldn’t get a certificate; he needs to get a restraining order.
commentary.
Wow, Toby Walters needs to get his shit together. Poor Zoey. Hope she defriended his ass. Clearly won’t be enough of a hint, but at least it’ll free her from having his douchery on her personal online space.
P.S. I bet you $100 he’s a Nice Guy (tm)
Weather he was too over the top with his affections or she rebuffed him thoughtlessly - she should have recognised he was keen on her halfway through their time as friends and told him straight that she wasn’t interested. That is the true key to the situation.
It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.
Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.
He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.
There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.
It was Sherlock.
It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath. For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.
But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.
“SHERLOCK!”
For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.
The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.
~
Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.
“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”
Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”
He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.
Take care of him.
- SH
He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.
Please.
- SH
Seconds later, his phone chimes.
Already picked him up. Have been following him since he left Baker Street.
- MH
And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.
He’s crying. I don’t know what to do.
- MH
There is anger that message. And desperation. And remorse. And most of all—there is guilt. The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone.
Neither do I.
- SH
He never sends that last message.
He’s been a fool, about Jane… about so many other things. But then so have I. He and I are so similar. We’re both so stubborn.
sabellart
