WOW! I'm here! It's a miracle! (I thankee for thy applause, thankee, thankee). In all Siriusness (sorry), wow, it's so nice to be back. As always, I will pass the blame to my new fandom because I can't accept taking responsibility of something… Everyone, throw apples at Sherlock. Okay, um- OKAY THAT'S ENOUGH DON'T BRUISE BEN'S BEAUTIFUL FACE… Thank you.
Ok, I'm done with joking. I'm super sorry for being so inactive… ever since being introduced to Sherlock, I've been out of the writing funk. I am writing a bit of fanfiction here and there, but they're god-awful and I usually never finish them, but a little insomnia and a more-than-a-little head cold can do wonders for writer's block. Righto: here we go :)
Content: John has written a book on his life with Sherlock Holmes. Basically some angsty stuff, a layer of fluff, and closure, I guess. Oh yes. Loads of Johnlock too, so if you're homophobic get off my story..
Warnings: idk mate. It's rather sad? Deals with major character death.
Credit: Moffatiss and Sue, of course, and probably would throw Will Shakespeare in there too.
And off we go!
There was always this one quote, Shakespeare, of course, that has struck me every time I hear it. 'The course of true love never did run smooth'. (Lysander to Hermia, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'). How true it is, for all lovers around the world. How true it is for me especially. After all, the course of anything never did run smooth when you were with Sherlock Holmes. (Quoted from the first paragraph of John H. Watson (MD)'s latest book, Holmes).
John remembered the first time he had mentioned the book to Sherlock. They were beginning to grey by then, filled with smile lines and trembles and forgetfulness, but Sherlock still had the vigour of his earlier days. They sat where they always sat, Sherlock in his posh, dignified chair reading the Times, John in his plushy armchair with a cup of tea.
"I'm writing a book," John had mentioned.
"Good for you," Sherlock replied absently.
Unperturbed, John plunged forward. "It's about us."
"Us." Despite his apparent nonchalance, John could detect a hint of amusement in his baritone.
"Yes, us." He took a sip of tea. "I've been thinking about calling it 'Life and Love with Sherlock Holmes'. What do you think?"
"Too cheesy," came the instant reply.
"Careful," John warned, "you might sound...interested."
"We couldn't have that, could we?" For the first time, Sherlock looked up from his article and smiled fondly.
"Never," John replied, pressing his left hand on his husband's leg.
And that was the end of that. He never mentioned the book in depth anymore, aside from Sherlock dropping comments over his shoulder to change a statement. He had always meant for Sherlock to be the one to read it first... but then came the stroke.
John always blamed himself for that. Perhaps if he had stopped Sherlock from doing the drugs back in '17... Perhaps if he had hidden the cigarettes better... But John knew better than anyone that when Sherlock Holmes did something, he didn't stop for anyone. So it came to be that in late August, a coffin in ebony wood was lowered into the ground with the name SHERLOCK HOLMES in gold on the front. John stood stoically at the grave ("soldiers?" "soldiers") with Rosie's hand gripping his arm and Molly's wane face in her wheelchair beside him.
He didn't shed a tear that day. Not one, which maybe made him cold hearted, but he couldn't bring himself to cry. What would Sherlock have said? It seemed like he had taken all of John's imagination with him into the dark earth. For days on end, he would stand at the kitchen counter making two cups of tea on autopilot over and over. Rosie came to check on him sometimes. But it wasn't Rosie who snapped him out of it. It was the book.
About a month after, he got an email that said a publishing company was willing to look at his book. He jumped to attention because he was a soldier and he had a job to do. He tacked a final paragraph to the end of the book and a dedication at the front and sent it off. It was the waiting game again. Another month staring at the blue light of his laptop. Another month fruitlessly trying to convince Rosie that really he was alright. Another month with nothing but memories crowding his mind.
And then came the answer.
"Doctor Watson," it said, "we are pleased to tell you that we would love to publish Holmes." And that was that. The next month was a whirlwind of copyrights and paper work and decisions. Every night, John would brush a kiss to the top of a frame and tell Sherlock that he missed him but he was ok. And that was the truth.
/\\/\\
"Doctor Watson!"
"Erm, yes... Amelia, yes."
"What was it like living with Sherlock Holmes?"
Bright spots dazzled in John's eyes. Perhaps press meeting weren't the best idea, but Rosie knew how to get him to do anything. So here he was, standing in a room full of reporters who asked him complicated questions.
"Doctor Watson?"
"Yes, sorry, could you repeat that please?"
"What was it like living with Sherlock Holmes?" John looked her over. She seemed to be around her late 20s, with ringlets of brown hair brushing her shoulders, a pen poised in her hand and a look in her eye that was not quite unlike Sherlock when he was on to something.
"You'll have to read my book to find that out, I'm afraid," John said kindly. "Next-"
"But sir!" the girl called, "I want to hear it from you."
John hesitated. There was something about her that reminded John of all the people he had met in his long life. Harry, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mary, Rosie, Sherlock. So he told her. "It was the best thing I ever knew," he said quietly, "and you can't quite imagine what it was like: the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through our veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world..." He smiled at the young reporter. "But I'm afraid you'll have to read my book to really know. Next?"
/\\/\\
The course of true love never did run smooth, of course, but loving Sherlock Holmes was the best choice I ever made. Though it wasn't perfect, it was what it was. It will forever be Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, the mad consulting detective and his bumbling blogger sidekick, just the two of them against the rest of the world. (This is quoted from the last paragraph of John H. Watson (MD)'s latest book, Holmes. This book is dedicated to Mike Stamford and Mrs Hudson, without whom our life together would be nonexistent. And of course Sherlock Holmes. Till death do us apart, my love).
Feedback appreciated :).