Robyn. 16. Aspiring artist. Christian.
Lord of the Rings. Sherlock. Cabin Pressure. The Avengers. Doctor Who. And whatever else tickles my fancy.
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A Post-Reichenbach Fic: you see the face in the darkness, John Watson, and you hear the unique sounds of woe, Sherlock Holmes, and something in both of you snaps inside and then do you know if you’re alive?
The grass was trampled, but he wouldn’t stare at it. He watched the sky instead. If it had been night-time, its view might have upset him. Almost anything could upset him, because now the whole world had been tinged with shades of Sherlock; everything was explained through Sherlock’s eyes, nothing ever the same as it was before him, back when Sherlock’s essence hadn’t yet seeped into every crack in John’s soul and formed ugly, smelly scabs over them that, nevertheless, kept John whole. Sherlock was everywhere, had left his fingerprints upon everything John touched, and John didn’t think he could bear living with a ghost covering his ears and eyes for all time.