Author's Note: This message...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note. Well, I'm not going to jump off a hospital and eat it after I write this particular note, but I might go sob in the corner out of both sheer adoration for you readers and debilitating exhaustion from cracking out this MASSIVE chapter over the last couple days. It's a big one. There was really no way to break it up, so here you go: the very last chapter in The First and Last Trilogy. Onward, my darlings. I love you so.
Sherlock shook his head, a hapless smile curling his lips.
"What?" John asked. His brow furrowed as he glanced sideways at Sherlock's profile.
"I don't understand you," Sherlock said. His grin faded into a tight line.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock admitting that he didn't understand something, especially John, was about as jarring as if the man had confessed to a secret career as a mail order bride.
"There is no logical reason why this arrangement should be 'worth it' for you."
With a deep breath, John tucked the photograph back into his pocket and folded his hands together on his lap. Pursing his lips, he thought about his next words very carefully.
"'Logic' doesn't really have much to do with it. I care about you, very much actually, and as long as you put in effort, I always find that I get out of this as much as I put in."
"And you believe that I've put in an acceptable amount of effort." His tone was skeptical.
"Well, no."
Sherlock nodded. The corner of his mouth turned down. He looked dejected.
"But that doesn't mean we can't fix it," John added carefully.
Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nose, pulled his feet up onto the bench, and wrapped his arms around his knees. John always thought he looked ridiculously childlike, and admittedly adorable, when he sat like that.
"I don't know how."
The words sounded so lost, so hopeless, that John had to fight against the urge to wrap Sherlock in a hug and tell him to forget the whole business altogether. Yet, he resisted, knowing that if he didn't hold his ground he would never forgive himself.
"How about we just start with some simple honesty, yeah? And not because of a game or because we're drunk, but real honesty. As in, I ask you questions and you bloody answer them."
Sherlock nodded minutely.
"Okay. Why did you leave yesterday while I was sleeping?"
Sherlock swallowed, clearly rallying his resolve, and answered.
"I was very bored and I didn't want to wake you. I knew that I had deprived you of sleep when I shared your bed on the train."
"Where did you go?"
"To the lobby. I encountered Victor and a few of his business partners who were incidentally classmates of ours at Cambridge. They told me of a strange scandal they'd witnessed in the local village regarding a deceased girl and her two seemingly insane brothers. The rumor was that the 'Devil' was involved."
"Sounds interesting."
"Yes, I thought so. I went to the village to investigate."
"Why didn't you tell me before you left?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and stared down as his knees.
"Sherlock…"
"You said no cases."
"And you thought I would be angry with you if you told me, and that I'd keep you from going."
"It was a perfectly rational conclusion to draw."
"And you couldn't just say no to the case, could you." John knew he was pushing now, but it had to be done.
"I was so bored, John. I could feel it closing in on me, the 'black mood', as you call it. I thought if I just solved one case quickly, before you woke, I would be fit to return to you and enjoy your company without distraction."
"But you didn't solve it quickly."
"I lost track of time."
John groaned, knowing that Sherlock's excuse was weak, but found himself unable to ignore the raw honesty in those words. Sherlock did have a long-standing tendency to ignore time completely when he was caught in the throes of a case. Once he hadn't even noticed John had been away at a medical conference in Dublin until he got back. It was careless of him but not spiteful.
"Alright, fine. When I found you, though, you were with Victor. Drinking."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I had reason to believe one of his business partners, and my former classmate, was involved in the murder. I was working him for information."
"And you took no pleasure in 'working him' at all, I suppose," John asked cynically, feeling the familiar itch of jealousy flare.
When he glanced over at Sherlock, he found the detective smirking at him, clear eyes watching him through delicate lashes.
"Victor is good company. He is clever and courteous, not to mention intrigued by the work I do."
John gritted his teeth together.
"But there is no imaginable scenario," Sherlock went on, "where I would prefer his company over yours. The idea is so absurd it's laughable to me. It's why I find your jealousy so amusing. I suppose the reason I don't consider Victor a 'friend' of mine, while you might, is that the partnership I have with you is on such a different plane that I could hardly use the same terminology to describe my acquaintance with any other person. It simply wouldn't fit."
John blushed, feeling his chest flutter at Sherlock's words. Alright, so maybe Victor wasn't really a problem.
"So that's why you wouldn't come up to the room with me? You were focused on the case."
"I admit now that it was extremely foolish and shortsighted of me to stay with Victor instead of going with you, especially when I saw you purchase an entire bottle of scotch."
"Shortsighted," John repeated, unable to keep his displeasure from the word.
"I have a tendency to be…oblivious to the feelings of others when I am involved in a case."
"Understatement of the century."
A short chuckle broke from Sherlock's throat. John was a bit too sore to reciprocate.
"You hurt me," John said quietly, and maybe a bit childishly.
The smile fled from Sherlock's mouth in an instant. His eyes darted to John's face.
"That is never my intention."
"Sometimes I feel as though you…you forget about me. Even when you're with me. It's as though you forget that some of the things you say, the way you say them, can hurt me. And I know you're like that with everyone else. It's just…I thought it was different with me."
Sherlock's forehead set in a deep frown and his gaze focused on the horizon. John pensively watched his profile, observing the unique curve of his nose and the moon-pale contours of his skin. He wondered how Sherlock might reply.
When the words came they sideswiped John, splitting open an ache in his chest and draining the air from his lungs:
"I am so much less than you deserve."
John tensed and bit his lip between his teeth. Sherlock was a man who shone with endless confidence, never recognizing his faults or deficiencies, even to the point of endangering himself. Yet here he was, proclaiming himself unworthy of John. John who could never, in his mind, compare to the legacy of Sherlock Holmes.
"That's not true," he said, reaching out. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's thigh.
"I am not…good, at this, John. And whether you think it's 'worth it' now, there will come a day when your patience runs dry, and you will leave me. You were close today."
"I wasn't…"
"You were, and you would have been right to. I-I cannot change who I am."
"I'm not asking you to."
"But without change, I cannot make you happy."
John shifted on the bench, charged with determination. He leaned in close to Sherlock.
"Listen to me, Sherlock, and listen very carefully." Sherlock turned his head, sad eyes locking with John's. John's grip on his thigh tightened. "I never, ever want you to change who you are. I fell in—I mean I came to care about you, all of you, because of your...eccentricities, not despite them. When you try for me, even in the smallest ways, it means so much more than anything another person could give me. The thing is, at times I feel as though I don't deserve you either, when you're being particularly brilliant or particularly difficult, but I do. We deserve each other, in every possible way, and that is never going to change."
Sherlock's eyes, with pupils pinhole thin, were burrowing into him. His gaze was unflinching and utterly open.
"With that understood," John continued, "I still need work from you. I need you to, at the very least, attempt to see how your actions or your words affect me. I don't expect you to always succeed, but I have to know that you're trying. And I need to be strong enough to call you on it when you're being insensitive. I don't always push back when I should."
Sherlock blinked, finally breaking their eye contact. He raked a hand roughly through his hair.
"I—" his voice cracked. He took a breath before attempting speech again. "I ruined the holiday," he said, which wasn't exactly the response John was looking for, but somehow it worked just the same.
"There's still half of it left."
"How do I—how can I make this up to you?"
Slowly, John's lips curled into a grin.
"I might have been drunk off my arse at the time, but when I said this whole thing wouldn't be a waste as long as we had sex again, I meant it."
Sherlock let go a short laugh.
"Am I to understand that you wish to have what I believe couples refer to as 'make up sex'?"
"I really don't care what you call it as long as you let me fuck you."
Sherlock's head snapped to him, his eyes ridiculously wide. It took everything John had not to burst out laughing. He leaned close so that his lips just brushed the shell of Sherlock's ear.
"Kidding," he whispered through a smirk. He nipped Sherlock's earlobe.
"You really weren't."
"I was half-kidding."
"You were five percent kidding at most."
"And you're one hundred percent flustered at least."
"How can one hundred percent be the least of anything?"
"I don't know but you're pulling it off marvelously."
Without warning, Sherlock took John's face in his hands and kissed him, hard. All his thoughts whited out in an instant. Little stars fluttered behind his closed eyelids, and a small, surprised sound escaped his throat.
When Sherlock pulled back, it was only to press their foreheads together.
"I will," he breathed into John's mouth. Two words that could have meant anything, could have promised anything, yet John knew exactly what they meant.
"I know," he whispered back. After pressing a small kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose, John cleared his throat. "Now, take me to bed this minute before I defile this bench."
"You want to defile the bench." Sherlock stated, confused. John huffed.
"I meant defile you on the bench, but you know, now that you mention it, this is a rather saucy looking—"
Sherlock cut him off abruptly by gripping his collar and hurling him to his feet. He set off back towards the hotel in long strides, dragging John, sputtering, behind him.
"Slow down, will you?"
"No chance. I'm taking you back to the room and you are going to fuck me, and I promise you, John, I am not any percentile of kidding."
An elderly couple, who passed them on the path at exactly the wrong moment, gasped in abject horror. Though John could hardly spare a glance back with his collar held so firmly in Sherlock's clutches, he was at least fifty percent sure Sherlock had just given one of them a stroke.
Sherlock crowded John up against the door to their suite as it shut behind him. With forearms braced on either side of John's head, he caught his mouth in a penetrating kiss.
"I think…you might have…killed that old woman…back there," John gasped between kisses, grinding his hips down and dragging his fingers through dark curls. Each swipe of Sherlock's warm tongue against John's own sent a searing frisson of arousal down his spine, melting his balance away in its wake. "Just so you're aware." Sherlock wedged his thigh between John's legs and hiked him up.
"Irrelevant."
"It's like the perfect crime," John mumbled against plush lips, "murder by scandalous dirty talk."
Instead of replying, Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's waist, the other beneath his arse, and picked him up in a demonstration of unexpected strength. Despite his undignified yelp, John wound his legs around him automatically.
"I am quite capable of walking," he groused, holding on tight as he was gracefully carried to their bed.
"The way your knees were shaking would suggest otherwise."
John couldn't help but flush a little as he was laid on his back and Sherlock draped himself over his body.
"Too many clothes," he said by way of a deflection, fumbling to yank Sherlock's coat from his shoulders.
"I concur."
Pushing up onto his knees, Sherlock stripped his coat, jacket, and dress shirt. John had only managed to pull his own coat off by the time Sherlock joined their lips together again.
"Oh," John gasped when he felt the warm, smooth skin of Sherlock's bare back beneath his palms. He'd had an unacceptably minimal amount of time to touch Sherlock's nude form considering how many orgasms they'd shared. Savouring the opportunity, John ran his palms in slow circles. After imagining how all that creamy, fair skin would feel for so long, the reality seemed particularly astounding. Soon though, Sherlock tugged at John's jumper impatiently. He dragged it up until John was forced to relinquish his touch to help remove it.
"You're not nervous," Sherlock stated, with only the faintest hint of a question, as he tossed the jumper aside and set to work on the buttons of John's shirt. He eyed John curiously.
"Not really, actually, no," he agreed, surprised to find it was the truth. While he'd been steadily growing more confident with every sexual encounter they had, it was startling to feel so entirely comfortable with any and all possibilities. Perhaps it was their conversation by the sea, with such unadulterated honesty, that crumbled down the walls between them as never before.
In demonstration of his blossoming self-assurance, John clutched Sherlock's narrow hips between his hands. He held them down with a firm grip, and undulated up in turn. They both moaned softly at the contact.
"Do that again," Sherlock commanded, plucking the last of John's buttons free and pulling the shirt from his trousers. John gladly obeyed. He could feel his length swelling rapidly, matched by the obvious bulge between Sherlock's legs.
Surging upright, John shrugged the shirt from shoulders as fast as could. Sherlock, now straddling his lap, adjusted so that his legs circled John's waist, and linked his ankles together.
"Come on," John growled. He grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's arse, reveling in how paradoxically plush and taut it felt, and thrust up as he simultaneously guided Sherlock down. Sherlock grunted into his ear. His arms were tight around John's shoulders.
"John," Sherlock murmured against his neck before nipping and sucking the side of his throat.
"Lower," John managed to object. "I can't cover a mark there."
"Precisely."
The word so deep, so possessive, the protest died on John's tongue. He rocked them together with renewed vigor.
Soon, though, the barrier of fabric between them lost its novelty and became unbearably frustrating. John needed more contact.
"Trousers. Off. Now."
He unceremoniously pushed Sherlock from his lap, dumping him on the bed. Undeterred, Sherlock made quick work of his trousers, pants, shoes, and socks, tossing them aside. Though John tried to keep up, he couldn't seem to get his fingers to work properly.
"Not my fault!" John chirped when Sherlock fixed him with a surly glare upon seeing how little he'd progressed at disrobing. With a few clever tugs, he divested John of the rest of his own clothes before the man had a chance to blink.
"How did you get so good at undressing people?" he asked, unavoidably curious, as Sherlock spread over him. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of so much warm, uncovered skin. Sherlock's intoxicating scent flooded his senses, familiar and dazzling.
"Corpses," Sherlock replied blandly, before pressing his mouth to John's throat.
"Why did I even ask?" John mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes.
Taking hold of slender arms, John turned them over until Sherlock was on his back. He fit his legs between Sherlock's, adjusting in increments until their erections aligned. Only then did he realize Sherlock had something in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at it before staring sideways at Sherlock's face.
"Lubricant," Sherlock said by way of an explanation.
"I didn't know you'd brought that."
"I predicted penetration was imminent, for which lubrication is necessary, once further sexual exploration with me afforded you your confidence."
"Ah…and you, uh, don't mind…being the one to…you know…"
"I had assumed you'd want to penetrate me initially, since you are accustomed to being with women and fit into the role more comfortably. I, myself, am ambivalent. It's all transport. Of course, I'm confident you'll eventually desire to try receiving since you are rather adventurous and possess that inherent desire to please. Once I convince you that 'topping' and 'bottoming' has little to no required correlation with dominance versus submission you're likely to be more receptive to experimentation."
"Right. That sounds…right."
"Perhaps I am over-thinking it."
"Yeah. I mean, honestly, I just want to have sex with you in a way I'm not shit at."
"Ah, I see. Definitely over-thinking it, then."
"'Over-thinking' is generally your default state of being. Now give me that bottle so I can shut you up properly."
Without waiting for a reply, John snatched up the lubricant, popped it open, and began generously coating a few fingers. Setting it aside, he reached between them, canting up his hips for enough space. They both gasped when his digits made contact.
"It's been a while since I've done this," Sherlock admitted breathily as John drew circles with the damp pads of two fingers.
"Well, I've never done it, so I'm sure we'll be perfectly awkward together."
"I'm never awkward in bed," Sherlock bit back defensively.
"Of course you're not." John punctuated his sardonic tone by pressing his middle finger in to the first knuckle. Sherlock's whole body shuddered at the intrusion, his legs coming up to wrap around John's torso.
Soothingly, John planted a series of gentle kisses from Sherlock's shoulder to the side of his neck. He licked at the pulse point, letting Sherlock grow accustomed to the stretch, before coaxing his finger in deeper.
"Alright?" John asked, voice hoarse, once Sherlock had managed to accommodate him to the knuckle. Sherlock nodded. His face was flushed prettily. "Now, this I have done before, though the purpose was strictly medical, but if I'm not mistaken this is supposed to feel pretty g—" Sherlock cut him off by arching off the bed as soon as John's fingertip made contact with the small gland inside him.
"—good," John finished, grinning and pleased with himself. He let Sherlock come back down onto the bed before he slid his finger nearly out then in again several times. He coerced moan after moan, crooking his finger on every other thrust until Sherlock's flush spread down to his chest.
"A-another," Sherlock ground out, and John delicately obliged.
"Did you happen to bring condoms too?" John asked once he thought Sherlock might be capable of speech.
"I am clean. Mycroft insisted I get tested after my last…well…episode with the-"
"Right."
"And I know you are as well."
"We should still—"
"John. I made sure. We don't need one."
Though it chafed against his better instincts as a medical man, John conceded. He hoped the fact that he desperately wanted to be inside Sherlock with nothing between him didn't have too much sway on his surrender, but at the moment, with so much bare, beauty marked skin before him, it was hard to argue the point.
Once Sherlock was stretched enough to comfortably allow three fingers, and only after many minutes of leisurely preparation, John sat back on his haunches.
"Ready?" he asked, removing those fingers and slicking himself up. He added perhaps more lubricant than necessary, but figured too much was always preferable to too little.
"Of course I'm ready." Though Sherlock's tone was acerbic, John did not fail to catch the shudder behind the words.
"Okay then."
Dark blue eyes caught with pale grey. John leaned over him, lining up and hooking his elbows behind Sherlock's knees to bear him open. Taking hold of John's cock with a trembling hand, Sherlock guided him until he was just barely inside.
"Come on," Sherlock growled, squeezing his legs against John's arms to draw him closer.
"Always so impatient," John muttered through clenched teeth.
Their eyes were deeply locked, mouths breathing warm, shallow breaths against each other.
Slowly, bit by glorious bit, John pushed inside. The hot, tight drag was nearly unbearable, rooting an overwhelming flutter of emotion within the cage of his ribs. He felt it with each pound of his heart, igniting at every place where their bodies made contact. When he was finally sheathed to the hilt, they were both panting wildly.
"That feels…really fucking good," John groaned, holding himself still.
"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, though his eyes were projecting far more potent affirmation. The sight made John open, soft, and maybe a bit stupid, so he let words fall from his mouth unchecked.
"It's never really…felt like this before." John winced at the confession. Sherlock found sentiment in at all its forms to be a deplorable weakness of humanity, pillow talk or not. Which was why he was thoroughly surprised when Sherlock's reply was not scathing in the slightest.
"Nothing feels the same with you."
Smile tugging at the corner of his lips, John rocked his pelvis in a shallow thrust, relishing the way Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head.
"That's the reason I—ah—hate it when you call me by that nickname," John confessed. His thrusts slowly grew in depth and pressure. "I don't like you thinking of me as that person. I'm—oh—not that person with you." It seemed that once his slip into honesty was allowed, a veritable floodgate was opened inside of him. He couldn't stop the words from tumbling from his mouth, especially when each push of his hips misted his thoughts in a haze of arousal. "There's only you."
"You said that I feel nothing," Sherlock whispered back, neither accusatory nor mournful. He held John as close as possible, one hand gripping his nape, the other splayed on his hip. They moved together in perfect unity.
"It's not true. I'm sorry." John let his head fall so he could suck a kiss on the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, though he quickly resurfaced to rejoin their eye contact. "You know I don't believe that."
"It was true. I don't feel anything for most people. But I—yes, like that, do that again—it's not the same with you."
Unable to resist, John crushed their lips together, effectively cutting off their sex-fueled honesty splurge. Somehow, he'd managed to keep his rhythm fairly consistent thus far despite their conversation, a feat he was rather proud of.
When he bent Sherlock a fraction more to better access his lips, he inadvertently hit that spot that had Sherlock arching, legs shaking with faint tremors.
"There. God, there," gasped the detective.
Immediately, their kiss amplified into a messy clash of tongues and teeth. John could hardly control the whimpers and groans he was making, nor did he bother when Sherlock was emitting similar sounds beneath him. Every time he thrust deep, hitting his target with surprising precision, Sherlock abandoned his composure a little bit more.
"I'm not gonna'…last much…longer," John panted, pulling back a fraction to see Sherlock's eyes.
"It's mutual."
John laughed. Sherlock met it with a wry smile and hazy eyes.
"Should I…should I touch you?" John asked hesitantly. Though he wasn't nervous he still didn't know the exact details of this kind of sex, or what was expected of him. Dragging his hand from its grip on Sherlock's flank, he worked it between their bodies and took Sherlock in hand tentatively. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking if the touch was acceptable.
"Yes. That's—yes."
Pressing a hard kiss to Sherlock's moist lips, John began stroking in time with his thrusts.
"Don't stop doing that."
"I won't."
John was sweating and his heart was pounding. His awareness of everything around him faded into a haze of building pleasure, blurring the barriers between his body and Sherlock's.
"Close," Sherlock announced, his words dragging John back to himself a little.
"Come on. Let me see you come. Give it to me, Sherlock."
"John."
"Yeah, that's it."
His hips became frantic, his thrusts ramming harder and harder. His grip on Sherlock's cock, slick from residual lubricant and a few beads pre-cum, was tight and unforgiving.
"I will, John," Sherlock growled, suddenly deathly serious, and he took John's face in his slender hands. Without explanation John knew where Sherlock's thoughts had jumped. He was repeating his promise from earlier, desperate and genuine.
"I know."
"I will."
"I know, Sherlock. I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know, it's okay. Come for me now."
As though his request pulled a trigger inside the detective, Sherlock tensed and spilled himself with a rattling moan over John's hand and his own belly. The sensation of Sherlock clenching around him in his pleasure, with such a devastating expression on his face, sent John over the edge in an instant. Biting Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, John buried deep and came so hard his vision blurred.
Pulse after pulse was wrung from him, bringing him down, as his thrusts grew shorter and shallower.
"Jesus," he gasped when the last of it trailed away. Collapsing on top of Sherlock's limp body, he rested his forehead against his shoulder.
For a long while they simply lay there heavily, panting and damp with sweat and cum. John was fairly sure he'd shorted out most of his brain cells, since latching onto any particular thought with conviction was proving impossibly difficult.
"John?" Sherlock asked eventually, rubbing his hands up and down his back. John nearly purred at the soothing contact.
"Yeah?"
"You stole that picture of me from my dresser, didn't you."
"I did, yeah."
"I think," Sherlock paused, swallowing and clearly trying to catch his breath, "that I'm a bad influence on you."
"Probably. But I like it."
Slowly, their breathing evened out. The physical connection between them severed when John went soft and slipped out.
"Sherlock?"
"Mhmm?"
John, with great effort, braced up onto his elbows so he could look into the detective's eyes.
"About that case…"
"Yes?"
"Did you solve it?"
A grin teased at the edge of Sherlock's swollen lips.
"Almost."
"Well, that won't do at all."
"No, not at all."
"I suppose we'll just have to go solve it together, then," John said through a smile he knew looked fairly ridiculous. He couldn't find it in him to care.
"Perhaps we should put some clothes on first."
"What a clever idea. You must be a genius."
"It's been suggested."
Then, simply because he could, John kissed Sherlock with as much joy and endearment and love as he could manage. He let everything he felt pour freely from him, inscribed into each brush of lips and graze of tongue. When he leaned back, Sherlock was watching him with glassy grey eyes.
"You'll have to teach me how to kiss like that," Sherlock said.
"Sure. We have plenty of time."
"Is that so?" There was a hint of a question, of apprehension in his tone.
"Obvious," John replied, and Sherlock kissed the smirk from his mouth.
By the time they boarded the night train home a few days later, a brilliant, perfectly solved case behind them, they both agreed that it was the best holiday they'd ever taken.
And as John drifted into sleep with far too much detective in far too small a bed, he knew that while it was the first time he'd ever felt so incandescently happy, it would hardly be the last.
THE END
Author's Note: ...or is it?
The thing is that while the actual story of 'The First and Last Trilogy' is irrevocably finished, I would like to write an appendix including a few short missing/additional scenes. For example: John's blackout in 'The Last Drop' from Sherlock's perspective, or the first time John bottoms post the end of 'The First Trip.' For this collection of one-shots I would absolutely love to take requests from you wonderful readers. If there is a scene you'd like to see or something you might want explored further, feel free to message me on tumblr and I would be happy to see what I can do. My url is rageofthenerd and there is a link for it on my profile page. And even if you just wanna come say hi it's probably the best place to reach me. I would love to hear from you.
Now that that's out of the way I can get a little shmoozy: thank you (yes, you) so incredibly much for your support on this project. You have made me a better writer in every way imaginable. There are simply no words to convey exactly how much your kind messages and constructive criticisms have meant to me, and I'm saying this after posting a 5000 word chapter so take my word for it.
I honestly can't believe I managed to finish this thing. It may just be fanfiction, but it's the longest piece I've ever completed, and finishing it gives me hope that the personal novel I'm working on now will be finished as well, and holy fucking shit is that invaluable. And the only reason it's done is because of you; the reader.
So, thank you so, so much for reading. You are the Sherlock to my John.
Special thanks to: bennyslegs, beautifulfiction, lepetiterik, eryberrie, agoodoldfashionedvillain, thislookslikeajobforme, plueschkissen, saysesydo, forianna, cumberbitchsandwich, alasse-m, causeimazombie, pati-79, adena-k, mildhorror, megaloo, a-cumberbatch-of-cookies, thescienceofobsession, kayjaykayme, frgreen, embersofimagination, ginger8lee, dtektive, idealistinside, andoneforyou, madridke, myheartisahammer, minuaileth75, wendalee, vash137, moranion, loxes, meganbobness, johnwatsonismyspiritanimal, and absolutely any single person who has reviewed or sent me a message.
