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Three Months chapter 1Three months have passed. Three months since Sherlock died. Three months since a life filled with more excitement, severed body parts and casually brilliant deductions than he had ever imagined ended with brutal suddenness.
He is almost used to it now. The silence, the worried looks, all the pauses he makes waiting for Sherlock to say something that they notice but never comment on. He knows he will always make those pauses, because that is a way to remember how Sherlock was every day.
There was never any sexual attraction between them. Sure, Sherlock was handsome, brilliant and mysterious, all the qualities people usually fall for, but they were just friends. Still, when Sherlock died, it was worse than when his parents died.
They had somehow developed a bond of trust and friendship deeper and stronger than all other relationships he had ever known about. A week after Sherlock died he had been aimlessly surfing the internet when he stumbled over a comment on a page he couldn't remembe
DriftingHe can hear Sherlock pace in his room.
It is going to be one of those nights.
Why on Earth did he move in with that brilliant madman?
He thinks of all those times he is the sleepless one.
Sherlock plays his violin and then he sleeps after all.
John can't play the violin.
He played clarinet when he was a kid, but that was long ago.
He has probably forgotten how to by now.
Anyway, he doesn't own a clarinet.
Drifting, the bed is a soft warm sea.
He wants to help Sherlock sleep.
He could give him drugged tea.
The world is soft and warm.
He could hit him hard over the head.
He doesn't want to get up.
He starts sinking.
He could send Sherlock a playlist and hope the madman doesn't blast it.
He is hovering in the soft warm sea.
The pieces flit through his mind.
He reaches for his phone.
Come to me
Dream in an Open Place
Song of the Seas
From Where I Am
Tea House Moon
Once You Had Gold
Athair A Neamh
A Day Without Rain
Amid the Falling Snow
AuroraThey are totally unprepared for what happens next.
They unlock the door to the last cell, expecting this one to be empty as well. And at first they believe it is. But then a shadow unfolds and sits up on the hard wooden cot in the corner.
"Did you come to save me?" The girl asks. For it is a girl. Her voice, weak from disuse and illness as it sounds, is soft and melodious, unusually deep yet with an undertone that shows promise as a great singing voice.
Watson approaches her even as Lestrade shines the light in her direction. Crossing the small cell, he observes the girl.
She looks to be about fifteen years old, long-limbed, with breast-long mahogany brown hair. Her face has exotic lines with very slightly slanted chocolate brown eyes. Her skin is goldenbrown yet pale from months, if not years, indoors. She is amazingly thin, just skin and bones with a minimum of muscles. Her face has a slight grey pallor and her eyes, squeezed halfway shut against the light of the lamp, are bright, to
SeagullI saw a seagull today coloured orange and red by the sunset.
It was beautiful in a strange way. I have never really liked seagulls. They are noisy, aggressive scavengers, and actually I find them quite ugly. But this one was beautiful.
I saw it for just a few moments. It flew across the street as I looked out he window, free and proud and beautiful. It beat its wings efforlessly, the undersides purple-grey and the white feathers goldenred. It was so free and beautiful and graceful and I have rarely seen anything like it.
So now I dream about flying in the sunset like it did, graceful and effortless and free.
A Pink Singing BuffaloDr. Leonard McCoy was a pink singing buffalo. No-one knew why he was one, or how he had made it through Starfleet and onto a Starship, but there he was, Chief Medical Officer on the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Because he was a buffalo, there were certain things that just weren't mentioned, the main thing being the "cakes" he left everywhere. Everywhere but his Sickbay, actually. Buffalo or not, he was fanatic when it came to hygiene, and forced his massive body into the shower at least once a day. No-one knew how he fit in there, or in the turbolifts. But then again, he was a pink singing buffalo on a starship.
No-one knew how they understood him when he spoke. His voice entered their ears as a series of musical moos and was somehow deciphered into a grumpy Southern drawl. Mr. Spock, being half Vulcan, had superior hearing and was a touch-telepath, and had tried to figure out how they could understand him. In his personal log he had stated that it seemed like the Doctor's human voice entered th
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