A/N-Please note that at the end of the chapter, there are a few translations (courtesy of issyapir) and a great quote by Libby Bray (sent on by Darkhearted243.)
Chapter 4
John had boarded the bus in a confused daze. Fortunately, somewhere between the airport and Siam Station, the AWOL army captain had finally recognized that he had been to this city twice before, although it had been five years previously. He was in Bangkok, Thailand.
It wasn't a big help, since he didn't know anyone in Bangkok, but at least he felt a little less lost. Just knowing helped to ground him and control his growing panic.
The doctor let the masses pull him along, away from the gleaming Sky Train station. He carefully avoided the train station with it's security cameras. He didn't want to show up on the CCTV cameras that could alert the CIA, the Thai secret service or God forbid, the Russian mafia to John's presence.
So, for now, he tried to merge with the busy crowds. In order to hide most of his injuries, John still wore the oversized hoodie, which he had ransacked from some poor sap's luggage. He also hid his face under the brim of a stolen ball cap and some pilfered sunglasses. Dear God, he now resorted to common thievery. How had he fallen so low?
A Tuk Tuk* narrowly avoided running into John as he crossed the street. More Tuk Tuks, motorcycles and cars filled the streets.
He wandered between the outdoor vendors selling everything from sandals and dresses, to food and drink, to electronics. John began to feel shaky, as the reality of his plight sank in. He was a sitting duck for anyone who wanted to kidnap him. Heck he was a sitting duck to be arrested since he was technically in Thailand illegally.
John's thoughts whirled around futilely trying to decide his next move.
I can't call Sherlock, without dragging him back into this mess. Oh God, what is that man up to anyway? Is he back in London solving cases? Does he wonder where I am? Does he worry? I should just call him, but then he might get hurt. I can't call him. Bloody hell.
I can't call Mycroft, because God only knows what he'd do to me. Hell, what am I thinking? I can't call anyone because I don't have a bloody phone. I'm an idiot
Right, so stop worrying about making stupid phone calls already.
OK, I have no passport. I could contact the embassy, but I can't even trust my country's bloody embassy.
As if I could find the bloody embassy. Where was it anyway? Brama road, Rama road. No. No, it was on Rama 1. Who cares? I can't go to them for help. The embassy would just turn me over to Mycroft, who'll sell me to the Israelis or the Yanks or someone.
Besides which, I keep forgetting that I'm AWOL, and there's probably warrants out for me. And don't forget, I'm a common criminal now.
I'm sure knocked out some kind of policeman at the airport. Assault on an officer of the law, that's probably good for twenty years to life in prison. And I'm a thief. I stole clothes, money, a camera and even some woman's personal toiletries. And what the hell does that say about me?
Yeah, I'll probably have to spend the rest of my life on the lam, like the Fugitive.
Life on the lam sounded exciting, liberating even, when it was Harrison Ford on the big screen, but now John was living it. Already it just really sucked.
Then his mind started chasing itself in circles all over again, like some mad dog. God I wish I could call Sherlock. Shite, I don't have a phone. I should call the embassy; nope too dangerous….
John threw himself down, in an untidy heap, against a storefront. He gave it three minutes before someone charged out and shooed him away. He had to get control of the situation. He had to make a plan.
Christ, Watson, buck up. Remember you brilliantly and single-handedly escaped from the Russian mafia, not to mention some heavily armed storm-trooper types. Yes. I was very brilliant.
Honestly the whole escape was a blur; John did remember bullets flying everywhere. At least he recalled striking down that monster Dimitri. The memory of Goliath falling to his knees made John's inner soldier fist pump wildly, amidst the rubble of John's battle-damaged Mind Fortress. The Mind Fortress took a serious beating yesterday and needed some major reconstruction, thought John.
After bashing the stormtrooper/policeman, John remembered that he jumped through a bloody window like he was freakin' James Bond, nearly slicing his arm apart and almost breaking his freakin' leg.
Which reminded him that his head throbbed, his shoulder ached, his left hand burned, his leg… OK. Lets see what doesn't hurt. His right foot didn't actually hurt and his left ear was relatively pain-free. Otherwise everything either ached, burned, or cramped.
An older woman, grumbling in Thai, scooted him away from her shop. John smiled apologetically at the woman, and murmured "Khob Khun"* which was about all he could say in Thai. He got up slowly, marching off down the busy sidewalk. Eventually, he decided to take his chances walking in the busy road to avoid the vendors and shoppers.
John spent some of his precious funds on a hot cup of tea that tasted like ambrosia, even with the sugar he dumped into it. You need the sugar for energy, quipped his battered inner doctor. Christ, I really hope I don't look that bad, thought John.
He also purchased some cigarettes that at least reminded him of Sherlock, even if they didn't help him think. Maybe nicotine only helps geniuses think. Maybe my mind is more traumatized than I thought. A bit not good, that.
He really didn't have much money. John's foray into luggage larceny had netted him a stolen camera, twenty-six American dollars and perhaps around 2000 baht, which he thought was equal to about forty dollars. It wasn't enough to get him a hotel room, let alone help him get to India. He felt the vague stirrings of panic in his belly once again, mixing with pangs of guilt for stealing any money in the first place.
Or maybe, he thought, maybe these are hunger pangs.
Despite his dwindling funds, John splurged on bowl of Keow Teow Tom Yam*. He awkwardly shoveled the noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. The hot, spicy noodles burned his injured mouth and split-lip, but they tasted wonderful.
John rested on a bench, in front of the noodle vendor in a patch of sunlight. He savored every morsel of food. It had been a long time since one of the Bigs gave John the stale sandwiches and water. He'd had nothing to eat for at least a day, except some of the stolen chocolates more than two days really, since he hadn't eaten more than a mouthful of sandwich.
And what would his foster-father, Mr. al-Masri have said about stealing? John could easily picture the disappointment in his dark eyes.
Christ, everyone was going to be disappointed with John's new career of crime. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Sherlock all of them would feel let down…Of course, Sherlock would probably only be disappointed that John had become a dull, common, ordinary thief instead of an interesting criminal mastermind.
John could practically hear Sherlock's baritone in his head, 'Really, John? You bothered to steal cheap clothes, women's toiletries and money worth less than £50 Sterling. Not really worth my time, John. DULL.'
The exhausted army doctor caught himself nodding as he sat. He was worn out from fear, torture, beatings, more fear, more torture and oh, yeah, how about some plain, old, ordinary jet lag.
It would be so easy to just give up. Just curl up into a ball and ….
No, no, no. A soldier never gives up, never surrenders, What would your Army mates say if they heard you trying to giving in? What would Sebastian say? What would your father have said?
As a matter of fact, he knew exactly what his father would have said. 'Don't be such a cry baby. Now get up and march, before I give you something to cry about.' Most likely followed up by a stiff punch to the side of John's head.
So John got up and straightened his stiff shoulders. At least he had food and tea in his stomach. That helped. He pretended to be interested in the racks of tee shirts and rows of hats.
Bangkok was even more crowded now than the last time he was here with Colonel Moran and the rest of their team.
John tried to think back to when he was on leave in Bangkok, back when he and Seb were still good mates. And I had my other mates with me to, Micky, Chas and Cam. And Stewart, Christ, I can't forget Stu.
But what the hell did we get up to in Bangkok? Mostly I just remember we drank a lot. We chatted up girls, well, Chas chatted up guys instead of girls. Same idea. We drank some more. We bought black-market Cuban cigars and black-market arms, like Seb's specially modified L115A3.
John cudgelled his memory. And I picked up that beautiful model, Pailin. John smiled at the memory of the tall, thin woman with dark wavy hair. John and Proy, as she had liked to be called, had laughed a lot at nothing in particular. They had gotten on quite well during the their weekend together, much to the astonishment of John's very jealous mates.
Hmmm, John hummed to himself, maybe I do have a type after all...tall, dark and mysterious. And bossy. Pailin was almost as bossy as Sherlock, come to think of it. And just what does that say about me?
John had stopped walking and tried to imagine what his Sherlock was doing. Maybe he was chasing a serial killer through the streets of London right now. Maybe he was sleeping on the settee, with his unruly curls falling into his eyes. Maybe he even thinks about me, just a little, when he's not working on that case with Lestrade.
I wonder how Sherlock got back to London so fast. Unless they're not in London...No, of course they're back home. It's not as though Lestrade would join Sherlock in America. And surely Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock come after John, not with Dimitri running around kidnapping and torturing people…
John felt a tug on his shoulder as someone tried to make off with his small duffel bag. John whirled around and almost punched a seven or eight year old boy. John held back in time and just gave the young thief a stern look. Hell, the kid was no worse than John, just another thief.
Thinking about Sherlock was a very bad idea. It made John lonely, worried and, worst of all, distracted. Not a good idea at all. Thinking about his dead mates was just depressing.
OK, so who did I know in Bangkok, besides my mates? I knew a fashion model that probably wouldn't remember me now. And then there was the arms dealer.
Well, that arms dealer, O'Brien, might actually still be around. The former US army soldier used to run a pawn shop , selling black market guns on the side. In fact, Colonel Moran had fenced some loot with O'Brien. The two got on well together because they were both in it for the money and not too concerned about petty morality.
Maybe O'Brien is still in business and still interested in making a profit. Maybe O'Brien would remember Captain John Watson, RAMC? It was worth a try.
It took a couple of hours to find O'Brien's pawn shop, located in a less savory part of Bangkok. It was 2030 hours, but the dark streets were still populated by people, out walking in cooler evening air. Families spilled out onto the streets, as neighbors chatted in the cool of the evening.
The street smelled of diesel exhaust, cheap perfume and cheap alcohol. It was a strangely familiar smell. The sudden wafts of cigarette smoke made it feel like home. It reminded him of the back streets of London chasing after a certain consulting detective.
John cased the somewhat shabby pawn shop; yellow light spilled into the street from the two open doors. A large man stood guard at the door. Like everyone else today, the guard, who had vivid snake and dragon tattoos, eyed the doctor suspiciously when he finally entered through one of the two separated doorways.
The shop looked exactly the same as it had when John had first seen it, half a decade ago with Sebastian and the rest of their team. The items for sale were behind vertical metal security bars as was the shop clerk, a young Thai with a shaggy goatee.
Of course, he also watched John suspiciously. Well, maybe John did look a little ragged. His jeans were stained with blood; he was unshaved and his hair probably still had blood in it. Then too, his hoodie obviously didn't fit, and his face was banged up a bit, his hand was bandaged in strips from a tee-shirt and he was wearing a woman's tee-shirt (But he had to choose between the woman's tee or the extra larger man's tee and only the woman's tee fit and it did not mean he was a cross dresser and you can't really tell whether a tee was made for a man or a woman anyway, can you? And the only make up he used was the concealer to hide the bruising and maybe some lip gloss but only as a substitute for lip balm and only because of his lips were bleeding for Christ sake, and yes, yes, I'm gay but still not a cross-dresser, which would be fine and I guess I really am suffering from brain trauma if I'm seriously worrying about this right now.)
After fidgeting for several minutes and testing out several different approaches in his imaginary Mind Fortress, the army captain finally decided on a frontal assault. The frontal assault was almost always plan A for Captain Watson anyway.
"Sawadee,* I'd like to see Ms. Alisa O'Brien," said John. The skinny young man shook his head and began talking loudly. Naturally, John did not understand any Thai other than hello and thank you.
So is Mr. Goatee'd angry because he didn't understand my English, wondered John? Or is he angry because he did understand and doesn't want me to see O'Brien? Sherlock would have known by the way the kid leaned or from the pen he held in his hand. John was just too stupid and too tired to figure it out.
Pushing on, "Look, if you'd only let me speak to her for a minute," John replied loudly, over the young man's loud protest. "Look, I met her a few years ago. I have a business proposition."
The young man only yelled louder, so the tired and stressed out army doctor increased his own volume. "Could you not yell at me? I've had a Very Bad Day. Could you just tell her that Captain Watson, who used to work with Colonel Moran, has an easy way for Ms.O'Brien to turn a profit."
The large, tattooed man leaned in through the door on the right. Oh yeah, he had bouncer written all over him. The small, injured doctor could already imagine the pain he would suffer when the bouncer finally threw him out into the street.
"Look, sorry, I'm very sorry, but does anyone here speak English?" said John desperately. "Look, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot."
The young man behind the counter focused his eyes on John's feet, looking confused.
OK, deduced John brilliantly, he understands English but not the idiom, Sherlock would be so proud of me right now.
Sherlock would also advise a change in tactics. How about a flanking maneuver?
"OK, how about this camera?" the fledgling thief pulled out the purloined camera from the pilfered duffel. "I'd like to pawn this camera. How much for it?" asked John, switching to plan F, for flanking manuever, aka fencing the loot. Although plan B, run like hell, might just be in the offing.
The young man grabbed the digital camera thorough the slot in the gate, and examined it closely.
I bet he knows it's been pinched. Oh God, I'm pawning a stolen camera. I'm fencing it. I'm a hardened criminal now.
In the midst of John's renewed identity crisis, a woman came out from the back room. She was a few centimeters taller than John, and about his age, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth revealing that a good portion of her life had been lived outdoors. Her long, lustrous, dark-brown hair, was worn back in a ponytail.
"I don't think know you," she said in perfect American accented English. "I don't remember any Watson. And the rumors I heard, said that Moran was dead, killed right before he assassinated some guy in London."
"Yeah, well, you heard right, Moran is dead," confirmed the army doctor.
"You sound very certain," said Alisa O'Brien, formerly a sergeant in the US Army. She wore tight jeans, a plain white tee. She had half a dozen diamond studs in her left ear.
"Yeah, I'm certain that he's dead, if that's what you mean," said John defensively. "Considering I took him down." Right, maybe that was too much information. "We were mates, but we had a bit of a falling out. Um, right after he tried killing me and my, um, friend and…"
"You? You took down Colonel Moran?" she sneered. "I find that hard to believe, Watson. I knew Moran; he was a true warrior."
"Ms. O'Brien…" he began.
"O'Brien, just O'Brien," said the ex-pat American. "I don't get off on Miss. and Ms. And since I'm out of the Army, I don't need to be called…"
"Sergeant. You were a Sergeant in the US Army and a weapons expert, as I recall," said John speaking quickly. "A few years back we had a little wager, you and me, that you could shoot better than me. I outshot you with both a handgun and a rifle and won fifty bucks from you. I was serving with Colonel Moran at the time; maybe you remember us partying together. You and my friend Cameron hooked up for a couple of night. Which was fine," he added seeing her scowl. "Anyway, you might, maybe recall me by my nickname, uh, names. The guys called me Doc or Baggins or Hobbit." John tilted his chin and gave her his friendly 'I'm just a nice, friendly hobbit smile.'
"Doc? Baggins? You're the hobbit? The sniper-doctor, with Moran's special ops team?" O'Brien asked suspiciously squinting her eyes at him. "I also heard your whole team died. How come you're not dead?"
"Moran got the others, except Stewart; the Taliban got him. The Colonel tried to get me a couple of times too, but I guess I'm hard to kill," said John shrugging. "So you do remember me, right? What would it hurt to listen to what I've got to say? Seriously, I do have a business offer."
"You look like something the cat dragged in," said the woman leaning against the counter on her crossed arms. "You're here because you need something. You're in some kind of trouble. From the look of your face, the way you favor the left side of your body, you're hurt and in bad trouble. I bet it's dangerous to help you, Doc. Can you give me a reason not to tell Lek to dump you back out into the street."
Bloody hell, she's bloody deducing me. I don't remember her being another ruddy genius. Still, I have to convince her; she's my last chance. "Look, can I please have two minutes of privacy with you? Just two?" asked John.
O'Brien played with her long hair for a moment, considering. "OK, Tony, you go outside and have a smoke," she said, unlocking the steel cage and waving the young clerk through the exit door. She shut both of the doors and began tapping her foot.
"He doesn't really look like a Tony," said John.
"My brother, he's half Thai, half American, like me, Doc. And you're wasting your two minutes."
Bloody hell, she's right. "Colonel Moran, Sebastian Moran, when he died, he supposedly left a couple of weapons stashes behind. Stashes with money, possibly stolen loot and some guns. No one knows where. Some, um, some people think that I might be able to find them. And so, yeah, I got in a spot of bother with some people the other day," said John, afraid to overplay his hand.
"Some people?" asked Alisa O'Brien. "Some people, who? Gangs? The mob?"
She deserves to know the truth. She needs to know it's dangerous, thought John swallowing, "As a matter of fact, yes. The Russian Mafia is quite keen on the idea.
"In the backroom, Doc," she hissed, abruptly pulling him past the gate. "God almighty, you're standing there in plain sight with the Russian mafia after you. You're such an noob," Alisa chivied the shorter man into the back, passing into a darkened storeroom. "Wait here, idiot. I'm not saying I'm in, but I gotta hear your story now."
She hurried up front, giving terse instructions in Thai. John noted the many guns hanging on the walls behind locked cages. The smell of gun oil was soothing. John missed his Browning.
Captain Watson leaned against the wall, sighing. Well at least she was listening, unless she' secretly calling in her underworld contacts. In which case, I'm fucked, and she's probably fucked too. God, I hope she's not that stupid.
Alisa O'Brien swept back into the back room after locking the steel gate, "OK, Doc. If you're telling the truth, and that's a big if, then maybe I'm interested," said O'Brien, whipping her ponytail behind her. "But you know, and I know, there's more than guns and some jewelry involved. There's gotta be a lot of cash or drugs to get the Russian's interested."
She cut off John before he could answer. "And you said people. Who else is looking for this treasure? More gangs? Or are some official government agencies involved?"
John was impressed; she didn't miss anything. Great, I have to deal with another genius; no wonder the Colonel respected her.
"I have a friend who said that everyone, and their mothers, are looking for me, so that I can lead them to the caches. I was originally supposed to work for the CIA, officially on loan from my friend the British Government," replied John, sinking down to sit on the bottom step of a stairway to the second floor. A small sigh escaped when he settled.
"And now? Who are you working for now," demanded the woman, her dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed with distrust.
"I'm freelance, O'Brien," answered John, he really was tired and the pain, well it was best to try to ignore the pain for now. "I was originally reinstated in Her Majesty's Army and seconded to the CIA, but I am now AWOL. Turned out I couldn't trust the CIA, someone in the Agency was selling intel to Dimitri, the Russian, as in the Russian mafia. In fact, the way the news traveled, intel was being sold right and left. And I don't know who I can trust. So my new motto is, don't trust anyone, not the CIA, not MI6, no one."
"But you trust me?" she asked curious.
"That depends. From what I know about you, which isn't much honestly. I trust you to want to make an honest-dishonest profit. I figure you'll be trustworthy so that you can get your money. Turning me in to the CIA or any government will get you exactly nothing, except unwanted prying into your activities. Turning me in to Dimitri would be very risky for you, possibly fatal," said John, actually pleased that he sounded so reasonable and even intelligent. Must be all that practice keeping up with Sherlock. "I figure you'll either lend me the money so I can find the caches, and I'll repay you double what you loan me. Or you'll tell me to get lost, so that you don't have to get involved."
She smiled faintly. "OK, you got me there. I have no intention of turning you over to anyone. Like you said, too risky. Maybe you're not a complete idiot," she said, pacing slowly as she considered her options. She barely remembered this man. He had served with Moran, who she had respected. Then again, Moran turned out to be a nasty piece of work, wanted for drugs, gun running, assassinations and God knows what all.
Alisa did not like to get too involved with crime. Oh, she might fence some goods for a few steady customers. But her pawn shop was on the up and up, most of the time. And her weapons business was mostly legal. It's not like she dealt in drugs, and she wasn't a gun runner or anything. And while she wasn't afraid of a little leg work, she never got involved with hits.
This guy Watson seemed to be OK, but in way over his head. Why should she get pulled under with him? What was he doing it for; why would the CIA get involved for some cash and a few guns?
"What are all of you after anyway? And don't lie to me. If I can't trust you, we can't be business partners," she warned him. "There's got to be more than what you're telling me."
Time to lay the cards on the table. "Rumor has it that Sebastian got a hold of WMD's, nukes. I intend to find them, and see that they get into safe hands, probably US or British military before the Taliban or the mafia gets to them," said John, his voice firm. "Or I'll die trying."
Shit, this is way out of my league, thought O'Brien. Shit. "Shit. And you want me to lend you money for what?" asked the former sergeant.
"I escaped from the Russian mafia, but I have almost no money, no weapons, no passport and so no way to get to any of the Colonel's stashes. I want a couple thousand dollars and a fake passport," said John. "Some dinner would be great too. Then I'll leave. When I find the first cache; I'll pay you back double, plus some, for your trouble,"
"What if there's no money? What if the stashes were just rumors? What if you die before I get paid back?" she asked, biting her fingernail.
"I'll give you an IOU. My flatmate in England will be good for it or my sister for that matter. In fact, if I die, you can have first dibs on my estate. You can draw up a contract and I'll sign it," he smiled disingenuously.
"I remember that smile, Doc," she said finally. "It cost me fifty bucks and my cousin, Pailin."
"No. No, I won that money, fair and square. And your cousin and I were friends," explained the army captain shaking his head. "We dated a couple of times, your cousin and I. We went to the movies and dancing. Proy knew what she was doing. Hell, she was seven years older than me. She almost…I…it's not like I stole anyone, um, anything." John muttered.
She grinned, "Now Doc, Proy and I were close, still are. She told me about your dancing and, lets just say she thought of you as a very close friend," Alsia chuckled. "My aunt found out about the little field trip you took Proy on. She was the only one upset. She blamed me for introducing the two of you. Not that I cared."
Blushing a bright scarlet, John muttered, "Pailin and I parted as friends. We both had careers…"
"S'all right Doc. Proy remembered you fondly, especially your dancing," Alisa's grin grew as John's bush deepened, "Proy is actually a good judge of character so that speaks well of you. And anyway, my Aunt always hates any of Proy's boyfriends.
"OK, Doc," continued the former army sergeant. "I'll tell you what. Dinner is on me. I wanna hear the whole thing from start to finish, and don't try to leave anything out. I also intend to do some research on you too." She grabbed his un-bandaged hand and pulled him to a stand.
"First, you're going to take a shower, cause you stink like a grunt in basic. I'm going to get you some clean clothes and order us some food. We'll have us a little chat, but I'm warning you, I'm in it for the profit. Not for some quixotic quest to save the world," said O'Brien.
"I'm not doing this to save the world," muttered John. Climbing the narrow staircase was really painful.
"No?" she asked.
She really was too smart for John. "OK, maybe I'm trying to save the world a little bit," said John. "But I'm also tired of being pushed around. I'm doing it now, just to prove I can."
John shuffled into the kitchen, it was small and cluttered. A bit messy. It felt like home.
"Actually, O'Brien," began John, catching the can of cold beer the former sergeant tossed at him.
"Alisa, you can call me Alisa. But do not call me Lisa or Allie; I hate those nicknames," she said, taking a big sip of beer.
John downed half of his can. "OK, call me John but never Johnny. Anyway, the truth is, I have to find these weapons because people will get hurt if I don't. But I'm not going to give all the loot to any government because they don't deserve it. They don't give a rat's arse what becomes of me. So I need the money, it's become a treasure hunt, Alisa. I'm in it for the fortune and the glory."
"All right Doc," said Alisa smiling back. "I saw the movie, but I'm not so sure that you're Harrison Ford. For some reason, I think I like you. We'll talk some more. Still, here's to 'fortune and glory'."
A/N – A long A/N, sorry. (of course no one is making you read it :P) You might want to check out the quote at the end. It's very, very good.
Sorry, also for the delay in this update. It required lots of editing, I started two more fics, (one of which I posted) and Real Life got in the way. Oh, and my cat ate my homework, I mean my rough draft…er..anyway…
A great, big, Thank you to issyapir for her valuable insights and first hand information about Thailand, of course any mistakes belong to me.
*translations (also courtesy of issyapir)
Tuk Tuk-three wheeled motorcyle taxi. (Tuk Tuk tours on YouTube are a blast to watch. I felt like I had a chance to visit Bangkok with out ever leaving my house.)
Keow Teow Tom Yam-Thai noodles that are very spicy and sour and often sold by street vendors,(and I really need to find a local Thai takeaway because reading and writing about it made me
soooo hungry.)
Khob Khun means thank you in Thai.
Sawade means hello
Thank you to everyone who is reading my fic.
BTW, I assumed that everyone knew AWOL but assumptions are dangerous. In the US military it means Absent With Out Leave. I couldn't find out whether it's used by British military but I'm using it anyway. I'm sorry if it is used incorrectly here.
Extra big THANK YOU those who reviewed chapter 3 including, I'm Nova, issyapir,darkhearted243, Wicked Winter, Cremains, SamuelE8688. ruvy91, power0girl, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, foxeeflame, Sonia, Darkkira1. The encouragement, support and help that I get from all of you means the world to me. It also helps me to try to improve. So again, Thank You. (If I accidentally left anyone off this list, please forgive me, I have a cat sleeping on my arm and snoring; she's a bit distracting.
Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock or anything related to the shows, movies or books. So please don't sue me.
Darkhearted243 sent me this fantastic quote by the author Libby Bray (It's about books, but I feel it also applies to the fics we share with each other. Anyway, it made a big impact on me.)
"We're all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away-our stories. I guess that's what I love about books-they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or ever more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.'-
Libby Bray
Thank you, again Darkhearted243 for sharing that with me.