I had a wonder if Sherlock had been fat as a child and how he got so slim and then it just sorta... my hand slipped.
Now available in Czech: s/11031683.
"It's just transport," the plump five-year-old shrugs as he devours his twelfth slice of cake in an hour.
"It's just transport," the obese eleven-year-old tells himself as the four bullies spit on him and give him one last kick each for good measure before turning away.
"It's just transport," the underweight seventeen-year-old whispers as he purposefully ejects from his stomach the heavy-sitting single biscuit and cup of tea Mummy had forced on him ten minutes before.
'It's only transport,' the twentytwo-year-old junkie thinks as the eighth man of the night shoves roughly inside of him, leaving his vision to jar rhythmically from where it was set on his baggie of powdered payment.
"It's just transport," the thirty-year-old amateur grinds out as he sews up the knife wound on his side begot by a slight mis-deduction and unwarranted over-confidence.
"It's just transport," the thirtyfive-year-old genius scoffs as his flatmate tsks and frowns and fusses over his second sleepless night spent working on solving the only vaguely-interesting level six.
"I-it's ju-ust transpohrt!" the thirtysix-year-old lover gasps as his one and only beloved presses so painfully slowly and fillingly into him, dropping achingly-sweet kisses to whatever pale skin was in reach.
"It's just transport," the thirtyseven-year-old ghost breathes as it watches the soldier crying crying over its grave.
"It's just transport," the thirtynine-year-old spy chokes in English as blood flies from his lips while a Serbian lays a pipe into his ribs for the third time.
"It's just transport," the thirtynine-year-old violinist croaks, setting his now-broken nose with nimble fingers as he watches his ex-lover get into a cab with someone else.
"It's just transport," the fortyone-year-old best man informs a room full of people from the wrong side of his blogger.
"It's just transport," the fortyone-year-old best friend attempts to comfort after the third miscarriage and the announcement of a uterine tumour.
"It's just transport," the fortyone-year-old bachelor shivers from sitting in the cooling water as the bloodied straight razor drops from limp fingers.
"It's just transport," the fortyone-year-old survivor discredits his widowed best friend's red-eyed reprimands from his hospital bedside, clutching at hands but avoiding white-bandaged wrists.
"It's just transport," the fortytwo-year-old chemist chides from the experiment in the kitchen as his widowed flatmate complains about the glasses he is already needing to wear.
"It's not just transport to me," the fourtysix-year-old doctor smiles as he presses a kiss to the gold band wrapped around his husband's long, pale ring finger, embracing and comforting when the sentiment is returned with uncontrollable sobbing from the fourtyfour-year-old detective.
I was going to make it end sad but I literally could not (as in I tried and had no idea how to make it work). I think I'm entirely incapable of sad endings.
During the Serbian torture line, I accidentally mistyped 'pipe' as 'pie' and somehow made a crack ending: "It's just transport," the thirtynine-year-old spy chokes in English as blood flies from his lips while a Serbian lays a pie into his ribs again. / "It's fucking apple! Everyone loves apple pie!" the Serbian screams back. / "I will never taste your baking!" / John is pulled into the room by a minion at gunpoint, the scantily clad woman holding a pie and a fork. "Either you taste my pie, Mr Holmes. Or your lover does."
Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought, good or bad, in the Comments, and if bad, please be constructive so that I may better my writing! :3 Also, if you liked the story enough to want to promote/rec it on tumblr, instead of creating a new post, please reblog my original post (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr, post/91958146553)! Thank you so much! You are, of course, also more than welcome to follow me on tumblr as well! :3 Tschüß~