Hi! This is a wonderful idea inspired by LordofCamels (she wrote some great Supernatural ones, if you want to check those out!) where you set your ipod on shuffle and just write fanfiction for only that amount of time. That's why these are so short, if you were wondering. Two minutes isn't a whole lot of time to make anything gorgeously long. And the first two are One Direction songs because my little sister insisted on it. She's a big fan. :) Hope you all enjoy!
Through the Dark, One Direction
Mary looked John over carefully. Sarah had told her that he'd been having a rough time lately, and Mary could see how true that was. His eyes were heavy and sad, and his left had trembled incessantly.
John looked up from his untouched plate of pasta and smiled bitterly at Mary.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not much of one for a dinner date tonight."
Mary smiled reassuringly.
"It's all right," she said. "Me neither. Do you just want to watch a film?"
John smiled.
"That'd be nice," he said.
Mary grinned. Yes, she could tell that John might be better soon.
You and I, One Direction
Another death. Another broken family. Sherlock sighed internally. He would never say or voice how much this world broke him. Sometimes he lost hope in it.
Which was why he had started on the drugs again.
He went from the high to the low, always finding himself alone in an alley. Alone.
Then, one day, when he had been beaten by a dealer, he lay bloodied on the pavement, shivering and bleeding. Alone.
He heard footsteps, felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Sherlock, it's me, it's Mycroft."
Mycroft.
"I'll get you out of here, Sherlock, and we'll make it through this. Together."
Gone, Gone, Gone, Phillip Phillips
"Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."
Sherlock's breathing heavy and labored, he turned his grey eyes slowly and disbelievingly on John.
"J'hn?" he slurred.
"Yeah, Sherlock, it's me, it's John."
John. . . he could hardly believe it. Sherlock slumped against his friend, exhausted.
John wrapped his arms around his friend. He'd been missing for days and John had been terrified. Absolutely terrified. Then to find him like this, but safe. . . oh, God.
"Sherlock," John murmured. "I'm here. I've found you."
Ordinary Miracle, Sarah McLachlan
The violin music woke John and he turned over and rubbed his eyes. It was one of John's favorite pieces- and Sherlock only played his favorites when John had nightmares.
John shuddered and pushed the nightmares out of his mind.
He could sometimes scarcely believe that Sherlock was alive, was safe. John had never treasured those sarcastic comments, the baritone voice, the blue scarf- until they were gone.
It was strange how those ordinary things had suddenly become miracles.
The violin music continued to play throughout the flat.
Risk, Paul Brandt
"You'd risk your life to prove you're clever," John had accused Sherlock once, long ago.
But now, looking at his world-weary friend after thinking he'd been dead for two years, John realized that Sherlock risked his life for so much more.
He'd risk his own life:
To save three precious lives,
To destroy a criminal web that would hurt innocent people,
To come back home,
To prove how much he lived,
To desperately show how much he needed others,
To show he cared.
Because he did care. He did. Sherlock looked at John carefully.
"I couldn't risk hurting you, John," he said. "I couldn't risk losing you."
All Cried Out, Kree Harrison
John ran his fingers over the cold black tombstone sadly. He wanted to cry- for the life lost, the mind forgotten, the reputation destroyed- but he couldn't.
The tears would no longer come.
That was when John knew he couldn't go back to Baker Street.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he whispered. "It seems I've accepted that you're gone. I'm so sorry- I never really wanted to believe you were dead- but my hope has fled with my tears."
Healing Begins, Tenth Avenue North
John watched as the blood dripped from Sherlock's nose onto his broken lip. He trembled.
John didn't know how he felt at first- disbelieving, furious- but as he watched Sherlock's nose drip blood, as he watched the grey eyes regard him carefully, warily, he suddnely knew how he felt.
He threw his arms around Sherlock, nearly throwing the slender man off his feet.
"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock," John murmured. "Thank God. Thank God."
Bless Me Indeed, MercyMe
Sherlock Holmes was many things. He was arrogant, pompous, overbearing, rude, intelligent. The man was many things, but only one person thought of him as a blessing.
Because he was a blessing- a good person, a dedicated friend, and a refuge from John Watson's war-torn life.
John had never had the greatest of lives- not the most fantastic childhood, a few difficult years in the army, an alcoholic sister. But now, with this strange and unique blessing, it was finally beginning to make sense.
Storm, Lifehouse
John woke, gasping. He had had another dream- another drowning dream. Yet another where Sherlock's black head had disappeared under the water- where his white hand had been just beyond John's reach.
John's heart raced. He couldn't bear the thought of losing him again. He'd lost him once- he just couldn't lose him again. Not again.
John shivered and brought his hand to his chest. Relax, he reminded himself. It's all right. He's downstairs, pacing, working on that case. Everything is all right.
And for the first time in two years, John Watson believed it.
Footprints in the Sand, Leona Lewis
"Sherlock, hey, it's me, it's John, can you hear me?"
Sherlock tossed his head towards John's voice and felt a slight pressure on his hand.
"I'm here, Sherlock, and I need you to relax for me."
Sherlock tried to, but a sudden pain lashed across his chest and he tried to pull away.
"Stay still, Sherlock. Be still."
"Where . . . are we?" the detective stammered.
"Hospital."
"Are. . . are you. . . okay?"
A squeeze of the hand.
"Of course, Sherlock. Fine. You, on the other hand. . ."
Sherlock could hear John's voice tremble slightly. Worried, he thought.
"What. . . happened?"
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"It's better that way, I suppose," John said quietly.
Sherlock started to argue, but John squeezed his hand fiercely.
"It doesn't matter what happened to you. All that you need to know is that I was there."
"And that. . . you're. . . here."
"Yes, and that I'm here."
Barton Hollow, The Civil Wars
It had been a year. A year that Sherlock had spent miserably in boarding school. Now he was finally coming home.
He stepped out of the black car as it stopped outside the Holmes estate. A thrill of fear went through his heart at the sight of the mansion, but he shoved the feeling down, locking it in his mind palace.
Home is where the heart is, isn't that what the old phrase said? Too bad I haven't one, Sherlock thought. His father had reliably informed Sherlock that he didn't have a heart long ago.
A heart was a dangerous thing. It was easily damaged. Easily torn apart. Sherlock should know that better than anyone. So as Sherlock turned the doorknob, he locked his heart away, for here lay one that could hurt it most.
Paris, Yael Naïm
"Where are you taking Mary for your honeymoon?" Sherlock asked idly one morning, plucking at the strings of his violin.
"Paris," John called from the kitchen.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
"Paris. How. . . nice."
John poked his head out of the kitchen.
"Don't be condescending, Sherlock."
"I'm not!"
"Yeah, you are!"
"John, I truly think Paris is a good place for a honeymoon, albeit a bit. . . traditional."
"You mean boring," John suggested.
Sherlock nodded.
"Of course I mean boring!" he said. "It's so boring, John!"
"Good thing I'm not marrying you, then," John joked.
Be OK, Ingrid Michealson
John was visiting the graveyard again today. He held two bouquets in one hand, his cane in his other hand.
He hobbled over to a small patch of grass under an oak and placed a few clusters of baby's-breath on the tombstone.
In loving memory of Soo Lin Yao
Then John walked to another part of the graveyard and placed dark blue violets in front of a black tombstone.
Sherlock Holmes
John sighed.
Ooh Ahh (My Life Be Like) [feat. tobyMac], Grits
"Would you like something for the pain, Mr. Holmes?" a nurse asked calmly.
Sherlock gritted his teeth and nodded furiously. John rubbed Sherlock's back in small circles, providing as much comfort as he could.
"Codeine," Sherlock gasped.
The nurse looked at Sherlock's charts and shook her head.
"I can't give you that, Mr. Holmes," she said. John blinked. "I'll talk to the doctor and find something else for you."
"I'm a doctor," John said. "Can I see his charts?"
The nurse nodded, handed him the charts, then left for the doctor.
John flipped through the charts nervously until he came upon the words he'd been dreading. History of substance abuse, he read.
John's blood ran cold.
"Sherlock," he said. "Do you have something to tell me?"
Sinnerman, Nina Simone
John was sure Moriarty wouldn't escape justice, but Sherlock knew he was wrong. It was only too easy.
"Where could he run too?" John asked triumphantly. "We've got him."
"But we don't," Sherlock replied cryptically. He knew they wouldn't have Moriarty until they started playing his game.
So Sherlock began weaving a trap for the spider- a trap so elaborate there would be no escaping it alive.
Sun, Two Door Cinema Club
John thought that the English language was stupid- it simplified many ideas that were so complicated and confusing and destroyed words. One of those words was love. The Ancient Greeks had four words for love- how perfect. If John told someone that he loved Sherlock, they would automatically assume he was gay. But if he said he loved his friend using the words philos and agape, they would perhaps understand. Perhaps they would finally understand.
Philos, friendship. Agape, unconditional.
Unconditional friendship.
Reviews are much welcomed!