Alone On the Water by Mad_Lori
Read by Saraharah, Cover art courtesy of thenchiridon.
Pairing: Johnlock
50.06 Minutes 22.9 MB
MP3: Full Download
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Description: Sherlock Holmes never expected to live a long life, but he never imagined that it would end like this.
Have… fun?
I have a bit of an urge to write a BBC!Canon fic, sometime post-Reichenbach (but not about The Return) in which Sherlock and John grow closer, fall deeply in love, admit their feelings, and embark on a mutually satisfying and sexually compatible romance that they both assume will last forever, but after a few years they gradually come to the realization that no matter how much they love each other it isn’t enough, and Sherlock’s personality isn’t compatible with a long-term relationship, and John can no longer swallow his dissatisfaction, and with great regret they break up and go their separate ways, moving on but never really loving anyone else like that again, forever bearing the sadness that comes with knowing that their one true love is someone they just can’t have a relationship with.
But I don’t have time.
But I don’t have time
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“I’m here, Sherlock.”
“I’m afraid, John.”Fanart of the fic Alone on the Water, which I think everyone has read now askdhgfa. I’ve been sitting on this pic for a while now. It’s incomplete but shading in this style will be the death of me so I’d rather end it now ahaha.
This is exactly as I had envisioned this moment. And what makes this depiction so powerful and heartbreaking for me is that their faces are hidden. Even in this last moment, it’s just the two of them in their own world, together. And it’s beautiful.
In the hopes of spurring myself to greater productivity, and trolling the shit out of people, here is a teaser from the still-stubbornly-untitled Genie’s Blog Origin Story.
Sherlock watched his companion’s eyes as she sat quietly, mirroring his posture, legs folded under her and hands steepled beneath her nose as she studied the object on the floor between them. He found the transparency of her thought processes fascinating. This was supposedly an exercise for her, but it had proved to be endlessly interesting for him as well. The degree to which she had adopted his mannerisms but yet still retained her own, the beginnings of the ability to cloak her thoughts from showing in her expression, and the telltale signs she gave away when she’d hit upon something.
“Has she been to the zoo?” asked Eugenia Watson, age seven.
“Why would you think she had?”
“Look.” She pointed at a small chunk of something in the tread of the young girl’s shoe that was sitting on the floor between them. “It’s a bit of that food you can buy at the petting zoo, isn’t it?”
“What if it is?”
“Then that’s just weird.”
“Why weird?”
She looked at him like he was an idiot, an expression identical to the one her father wore in similar circumstances. “The zoo’s closed this month because they’re fixing the pavement,” she said, a subtextual “duh” in her voice. “So why was she there?”
“Maybe she was there before the zoo closed.”
“And this bit of stuff’s still in her shoe?” Eugenia looked dubious. “Only if she didn’t wear them much.”
“Maybe she doesn’t.”
She gave him another “duh” look. “C’mon. These are her favorite pair.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re sparkly. They’re pink. And look, they’re kinda wore out and she’s colored in the scuffy parts with a pink marker to hide it.” She picked up the shoe and looked at it. “They just found one shoe, huh?” she said, quietly.
Sherlock hesitated. Eugenia was a very calm child but much as John might accuse him otherwise, he was conscious of exposing her to things that might be upsetting or scary to her, and a five-year-old girl abducted and still missing might be scary. His logic was that exposure would lessen her fears and make things like this seem normal. John inevitably rebutted with the argument that such things shouldn’t seen normal to a seven-year-old. Sherlock had yet to come up with a convincing counterargument to this.
He heard the front door open and footsteps on the stairs. “Quick, who is it?” he whispered.
“Mummy,” Eugenia said, rolling her eyes with another unspoken “duh” at poor dense old Uncle Sherlock, who couldn’t even tell who was on the stairs by their footfalls.
I sense…that my fandom needs…FANFICTION!
I PUT ON MY ROBE AND WIZARD HAT AND OPEN GOOGLE DOCS.
“Performance” wedding fic, GO GO GADGETLORI.
I.LOVE.YOU
WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO WITH MY LIFE?!
Actual work?
Oh god.
