so what if I’m writing a Jimlock fanfiction based on Miss Jackson
I’m 827% positive that the reason Anderson doesn’t think Sherlock is dead is because Sherlock purposefully let Anderson see tiny glimpses of him the past several years, just to screw with his head. Appearing through Anderson’s window in the woods, standing across the street of his favorite coffee shop, leaving small traces of his presence in his office.
Because Sherlock’s a little shit like that.
Today, I read an article about a woman with HIV who was raped. The man that attacked her is now HIV positive. All of the commentary surround this was about how she should have told him she was HIV+ and that women with HIV should have a badge or special underwear so that this doesn’t happen to another man. It is 12:12am and I am already done with the world.
WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK.
so no one told you life was gonna be this gay
*scrambles to remember what the question numbers were*
11: Talk about the best dream you’ve ever had.
oh gosh right… I’m prone to having either nightmares or amazing dreams, like the best novel ideas or the best fanfiction I can hope for that I can see and be a part of <3
I’ll pick one so as not to bore you too much with a bazillion dreams… Okay so it was post-Reichenbach and Sherlock was just trying to settle back in, but things weren’t quite right. John was still distant, but regardless Sherlock had begun cases again. This was a few months after he returned and Mycroft phones him to come by and visit him, alone. Anyone who knows me well knows I fucking love the Holmes brothers and their dynamics, so this is already great. Sherlock arrives at the Holmes ancestral home and sits across from Mycroft, who informs him of a case in a huge mansion with missing persons who should not have left the mansion, and items vanishing without any trace of anyone entering or exiting. Sherlock is quiet, and Mycroft sighs, telling him that John will come round eventually, but he needed to be patient. Mycroft knew he was blaming himself, but he also knew that Sherlock wouldn’t talk to him about it. He implied that Sherlock had turned back to drugs in the time he was gone, which is one of my favourite headcanons, and Sherlock’s head lifted. He looked so tired. He insisted he hadn’t had any more and strode out.
Sherlock takes John along to the mansion and they start their investigation. In theory, they are the first to enter the mansion in years. Mycroft calls Sherlock and tells him he’ll have help… and it turns out it’s muthafukin’ me after uni with my criminal psychology degree awh yiss.
Basically I help the two of them out and we start to close in on the criminal, finding out it’s a serial killer with a network rising from the ashes of Moriarty’s empire.
But he’s where Hannibal starts to influence it. Sherlock closes in on the killer and John is shot. Sherlock, in a blind rage, chases the criminal with a gun, firing after him and they end up in a dark building. The criminal is cornered and Sherlock orders him to show himself.
The criminal raises his hands and turns slowly, only for it to be me, smirking, in some dapper suit.
Sherlock, having come to trust me over the course of the investigation, wavers, almost dropping the gun.
HEY LOOK IT ENDS ON A CLIFFHANGER NOBODY MENTIONED MY BRAIN IS MOFFAT.