Sherlock Sherlock John
Oh so very gay oh dear
yum yum yum yum yum
I hate you- chapter 3 I remember when frank presented me with the idea of getting his lip pierced. The summer after his 10th grade year had just started, and the dog days were creeping up on our shitty little home. Which meant more time for watching tv, more time for the internet, even MORE time for watching tv, and a lot more time for frank to get a new idea-egg that would somehow explode into another idea egg, which in the end would always get me in a shit. Well this time frank came up with the marvelous idea that it was time for a facial piercing. (Which was actually a pretty good idea, I just really wanted to act like it got on my nerves.) And after a few cruel jokes and some bribery, we were on the road to lip-ring-ation.
We ended up at some place that Frank had researched on the internet, and were both browsing a wall of lip rings. Well, more like he was looking while I was standing beside him and watching. But none the less, he was looking damn well har
I hate you-chapter twoI was pretty sure my brain was spilt into four different parts. The first part being anger. The second part being anger as well. The third was guilt. And the forth was whatever amount of compassion I had in me. A very, pitifully small part of my brain. My heart was probably about the same size, actually. I was like that from the time I was born.
I sighed, and looked down at Frankie, who wasn't returning the look in any way, shape, or form.
"Dear lord, Frank ..You scared the shit out of me."
Mind my French, but it was true. And at the moment I found it unfair.
"Where the fuck were you? I was out there waiting on you, and you never came .."
I said this as I walked over to sit against the wall across from where he was lying. In moments where I was madder then usual, I'd take one of my hands and put it on my forehead. I'd always done that, and Frank knew it was a bad sign.
I rolled my eyes.
"Dammit frank, do you have any idea how worried I was about this? You could've died, or go
You completely owe us dinnerListen up.
It was the middle of the desert near Battery City, California. And this young Killjoy, by the name of Fun Ghoul, was ready for anything the world had to throw at him. A determined soul, so long as he had a few friends, and a reason to go on. Today was part 6 of his reason. Mission 6: Steal a BL/ind H-airpoint plane, and make his way over to Japan. Now, I know what most of you are thinking; A kids gotta be crazy to try and pull this one off. Well, maybe Ghoul was a little crazy. But you gotta be a little crazy to survive in the wild wild west. And let me tell you; Ghoul was a crazy little Freedom Fighter. So long as he had his reason waitin' for him all those seas apart. Ghoul was a freedom Fighter, let me tell you that.
The sun pressed down on a mid-day desert floor for the Freedom Fighters, a new day and a new mission. He kept his hands on the handle and his eye on the prize, proudly and loudly cutting through the desert sand with no mercy on good ol' Lab
I hate youI was always the first one to say something irritating to him. I was the one who would forget get gas and leave us stranded in the middle of the road, already an hour late for school. I was the one who would steal the last cookie he had, partly just to bother him, but the other part because of the fact that he refused to share them with me in the first place. (So over all- just to bother him.) But either way, you can see the trend. To this day I still have no idea how the hell he dealt with me- will power? A dart board with my face on it? I have no idea. All I know is that I loved him more then I've ever loved anyone one in my life, my life before that, and probably the life after this. And I'm not even a cheesy person.
He went to KCS east high. The building was covered with bricks that were at least fifty years old, and the side walk was in need of replacement. There was a garden, (Which later got destroyed. In all honestly, that was probably the least amount of damage we
And it hurts, tooI woke up this morning and heard somebody being sliced in two.
Yesterday I woke up to the sound of rips, from a mans chain saw.
The day before that, i woke up to the sound of a hanging man in the great war.
And tomorrow, who knows what I will hear;
But someone will die.
Now now, I know what you are thinking;
People die everyday, yes? Every minuet, yes?
Every second of the day, someone dies.
So what is the difference?
Well this is one thing i yet to know; yet to try to know.
Yet to think about.
And there is much work to be done.
But until i start that, i just lay here and listen to the sounds of death.
The wonderful sound of entering the last few seconds of life.
And the joys, more or less, of living,
dieing down, quite ironically.
I woke up this morning and heard someone being sliced in two.
I will know why one day.
Just not today.
Why? Well, i don't know why.
But i just lay.
And listen. Just like i've done my whole life.
But until i find out.
I remain hearing
All Frankies go to heaven. After the depression, I often found myself wanting to blame things for myself. I'd want to blame the depression for the way I ended up. It was my mothers fault, of course, she raised me wrong. Or maybe it was my brothers, for pretending to push me into that river so many times. Maybe even Gods fault for making my fall into the river, right? Right. Of course. It was anyones fault but mine. Sometimes I even believe that, too. I even believe that I could've changed everything, and anything. I believed i could have made everything so much better then it is now. For my name is Gerard, and I know whats happening in Lourince, France 50 hours, 36 minuets, and 8 seconds from now.
Right now, He's flying a Kite all by himself over a cliff. In 68 seconds, he's reeling the kite in, and smiling like a fool. After that, he's going to walk back to his house and get scolded by his mother. Just like Frank does everyday. I would know, I've been watching.
Gravity A last day of school could've been looked at several different ways. For some, it was a day of celebration, that the despised finals were over, as was that year of school. For others; a disappointment that their childhood was slipping away from them, or something overly dramatic like that. But others, however, are not like Frank. Frank, Mr. Frank Iero, was Different. As Frank usually was, of course. But on his last day of school this year, was the same day, of the last time he would ever see his Gerard. His love, and the only one that could ever deserve the title of being his own; That was Gerard. The last day, the very last day, he would see the most beautiful man on the planet, maybe even in the whole universe; That was Gerard. An angel in his eyes, and a savior; Mr. Gerard way. And the only thing he had ever cared for in life, Gerard, was leaving him. On the last day of school, he was getting on an H-airpoint jet, and flying so far away that it could've
ChildrenOh, How these children have to teach us.
With the knowledge that they have,
Little, which is not much at all.
To stand in there little shoes,
Littler then my own,
Must I say,
Not very much at all.
To give a child a pencil,
How impossible, really droll!
How imaginative, in a continues stream,
Of god's confusing flow.
This flow of the world, the flow of things,
A child wouldn't know.
But if you give a child a pencil,
And not your downward glare,
Oh, How these children have to teach us.
With the knowledge that they have,
Little, which is not much at all.
House of wolfs ?? Ch5**FRANKIEPOV**
Did what just happen really just happen? It sure didn't feel like it. Had he really NOT gotten punched in the face? It'd be the first time. It had happened so fast, his mind couldn't even think about being confused. Not like that was a new thing for the boy, but still. I mean, one minuet you've got some fucking creepy guy with his hands bein' all creepy, and the next a really cute guy punching the creepy one in the face. Stuff like that didn't happen in Frankie's world. He didn't mind, though.
Frankie was being pulled out of the building with a hand stronger then his own. Paler, too. Yep, It was Mr.P-- Er . Gerard. It had taken a little while to process for Frankie, but that was definitely Gerard. He had never been so happy to see him in the past two times' they've spoken.
The feeling of danger was still in the air, as he was being practically dragged out of the place. He was empty minded for the firs
Here Without You- JohnlockIt had all become too much. John just couldn't handle it anymore. The looks, the comments on his blog, and the constant visits from Lestrade and Mycroft making sure he was "alright". He couldn't take it. He was going to lose his mind if it continued.
The dreams were the worst. Dreams about Sherlock, about their life together. There were cases, real and imagined. There were quiet nights alone together in the flat just eating dinner or watching the telly. There were the things he had wished he'd said about his feelings and what could have happened if they had been returned. Then it would all go dark. The happy moments would twist and suddenly he was on the street watching Sherlock fall again and again. He held the body in his arms and felt the warm blood dripping onto his fingers. He would awake, screaming and crying with his sheets drenched in sweet. He hadn't had a decent nights sleep in months.
It had taken him ages to decide how to do it. Poisoning had been his first inclination but
Look At Me- JohnlockSherlock, a little friend of yours stopped by - JM
What have you done this time? -SH
Well, he just stopped by to... chat - JM
Do I bother asking who? -SH
Let's see you guess - JM
Please tell me it's Mycroft. -SH
Wrong! - JM
Of course not. I should be so lucky. -SH
When do you think you'll pick him up? I just want to be ready - JM
You're going to just let him go? I don't buy it. -SH
Thats why I said I want to be ready. - JM
Doesn't this get old? The same old jog around the track? Why not, just once, kidnap
Anderson? Just to shake things up? -SH
I guess I should... This time, you have ten minutes or his brains are my new wallpaper.
Ten minutes to what? -SH
Get here. My apartment. He's crying. He still thinks you're dead - JM
God damn you. I'm already on my way. Don't touch him. -SH
Jim smiled and put the phone in his pocket. He held his gun towards John, who was forced with his back into a corner and his hands folded behind his head.
John couldn't believe it, or rather, wouldn'
JohnLock: A Whole New WorldJohn Watson walked through the store, gathering food as he did daily to make dinner for himself and Sherlock. He walked through the aisles of fresh produce, his ear caught a familiar sound drifting through the air.
“I can show you the world,
Shining, shimmering, splendid.
Tell me, princess, now when did
you last let your heart decide?”
He recognized the lyrics, where from? He thought it over and eventually came up with the answer. It was the Disney movie, Aladdin. He main character Aladdin sings this song to the Princess Jasmine. But even though he knew what the song was, he had no clue where it was coming from.
He looked around him in the aisle and walked to look around the corners but he couldn’t spot the source of the music.
He decided to just continue shopping and enjoy the music. So that’s what he did as he hummed along with the tune.
Sherlock held his phone up to his face, grumpy that John had
Johnlock - I believe in you, SherlockSherlock suddenly howled in frustration after four hours of deep thinking.
He had been leaning on his hands for the entire time, occasionally blinking and frowning, but still completely motionless. Even though the noise shocked me, I was relieved to know that he hadn't become comatose in his state of thought.
"You okay Sherlock?" I asked, not looking up from my paper.
"This case doesn't make any sense, John! Nothing fits together, there are too many variables!"
"Oh yes?" I murmured, only half paying attention.
"I wanted to get this case solved by tomorrow afternoon, but at this rate it'll take me days.. My brain isn't working, John!" He cried, spinning and falling onto the sofa with a winded exhale.
"You know that's not true. Perhaps if you went to bed or relaxed a little you could think more clearly."
Sherlock growled, facing the back of the sofa and curling into a ball. His tie and coat lay strewn on the floor from when he walked in, and his tie was hanging loosely from his shirt. He
JohnLock - Safe and SoundIt was, to the day, three years since Sherlock Holmes walked of the roof of St Bart's.
For John Watson; three years of pain and grief and misery; three years spent pushing everyone except Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade away. Even Mycroft checked in on him once in a while. Three years during which he had been the same person he was after returning from Afghanistan; the limp was back, he went to therapy, he tried to blog, but there was honestly nothing going on in his life that was worth blogging or writing about.
Honestly, who would want to read of the misery of an ex-Army doctor who still believed Sherlock Holmes when everyone apart from Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft and himself found him a freak; a fraud?
Still, there were signs out there that others believed Sherlock as well. Posters coming up all over London which said "Moriarty was real" and "Richard Brooke was a fraud", graffiti in the exact same paint that was used in their second case which stated "I believe in Sherlock."
JohnLock - I Did it For YouSherlock Holmes had never intended to hurt John Watson.
The consulting detective lacked social skills, and even though he'd lived all those months with his blogger, he hadn't managed to pick up enough to know what was right and what was wrong in those situations.
He did what he had to do in order to save his only friends.
He had learned that when it came to Moriarty, one had to expect the unexpected. So as soon as he figured out he most likely only had one way out, in order to save himself and those he cared about, he started planning. He gained help from Molly which he had not expected. He knew though that without her, it would have been harder to get his plan to work; no one else trusted him.
Sherlock never wanted to hurt John. Because it was HIS John, his in every way apart from the love of lovers.
They loved each other as brothers, as companions, true; but there would never be anything more than that. And it was fine; they did not care, because it is the best kind of lo
Johnlock - Speaking Silent Words - Fluff WarningIt's been about a week since me and Sherlock decided to go steady.
To be honest, nothing much has changed. I'd confessed my feelings over dinner 8 days ago, and received a frosty reception from the detective. Considering it had taking much mental convincing and building up to the point where I could confront him on my feelings, I found it hard to take. We spent the rest of the night in silence, as Sherlock zoned out to think (or just purposely ignored me) and I simply couldn't think of anything to begin another conversation.
I'd be lying if i said that I got much sleep that night. Well, neither did Sherlock. I woke up to him being in the exact same spot, wearing the same clothes as the night before, except this time, his fingers weren't pent, and his bright grey eyes weren't glazed over as they usually were when he thought. Instead, he sat crossed legged in his chair reading yesterdays paper. A paper he'd already read.
"Ah! You're up." He said brightly, folding his paper and placing it
A Songfic Request - JohnlockBarbie Girl
"I'm a barbie girl. In a barbie world!"
"Life in plastic, it's fantastic!"
"You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere!"
"Imagination, life is your creation!"
"Come on Barbie, let's go party!"
"John please stop that nonsense."
"But Sherly, it's the best song EVER!!!"
"John, you're drunk."
"No I'm not, even ask the pink elephant over there."
"You're drunk. Look you just threw up. Are you alright?"
"There's too much blood in my alcohol system."
"I can see that John. Come on let's get you to bed."
"Mine all yours baby."
"Our bed John."
"Oh yeah. Oh, hey Sherlock."
"What is it John?"
"I put the STD in STUD, all I need is U."
"You're never drinking this much again John. Here we go. There, you're nice and snug in bed."
"Sherly, can I just say something?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
johnlockThere was something weird going on with Sherlock. He barely talked to me anymore, hadn't touched his violin in at least 2 weeks, was almost always somewhere else, rejected every case Lestrade offered him. It was weird. I was worried about him. Sherlock was about to go somewhere, when I stopped him.
'What's going on Sherlock?' I asked him. He ignored me. I grabbed his arm and turned him to look at me.
'Sherlock! What is wrong?' I asked. He looked at me with a pained expression. I frowned.
'What's wrong?' I asked again. He sighed and looked at his feet. Then he looked up at me again and did something I hadn't expected at all. He kissed me. My eyes widened and I froze. What the hell was he doing? He pulled back and quickly rushed out of the flat. But I had seen the tears in his eyes. Had that just really happend? Had Sherlock Holmes, the man with no emotions, just kissed me, John Watson? I sat down in my chair and thought about it. And about how I had felt when his lips met mine. I had fe
The text message comes around 2 AM one night, from a blocked number. There's no indication who it's from. John sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. 'Who the hell was texting him in the middle of the night?'
Who is this? -JW
The response, somewhat delayed after ten minutes or so of nothing, seems oddly diffident in tone.
You shouldn't be awake.
And yet I am. Now who the hell are you? -JW
Nothing and no one. This was a mistake.
He blinked at the texts, feeling a sharp pang in his chest. They sounded so much like Sherlock, but it couldn't- could it?
There's another long pause before his phone blinks with a response.
Consider it a pang of ill-advised sentiment.
Sentiment? What do you mean by that? -JW
It's strange how the saying goes. Familiarity breeds contempt. It doesn't seem to hold true.
John furrowed his brow a bit confused.
It's nothing, I'm just a fan. It was easy to find your number. Sorry to disturb.
My number is unlisted. -JW
JohnLock - His Broken Angel(Read the AN first please)
When John turns his head and sees Sherlock, he doesn't know what to do at first.
He doesn't know if he should believe him to believe or if he has finally gone complete bonkers after all those years.
But the hand on his shoulder feels real enough... Should he dare to believe?
Should he dare to believe that his long lost friend is back? That he was alive all that time?
John Watson's never been a believer of the supernatural, so that should by his normal standards make this very easy to decide. But his brain is foggy; it's not what it once used to be, so he does not know what to think.
At last, after what seems like hours, but in fact was mere seconds, his brain believes Sherlock to be real, to be there. And once his brain has decided that is the fact; so does his heart.
And when John Watson's heart decides on something, there's no going back.
Sherlock Holmes is real. He is alive and he is right there, behind Joh
MiscommunicationJohn had been acting strangely. Ever since the incident at the pool with Moriarty he had been skittish. He might have thought Sherlock didn't notice but of course he did. Every time they were in a room together John would make an excuse to leave. He would be sitting in his chair when Sherlock would come into the room and sit down on the sofa. Within minutes John would start twitching, his hands would clench and unclench and he would start looking over his shoulder. Then he would rise and go up to his room or leave to do the shopping. Or just leave, no excuse given.
At first Sherlock thought it was just normal nerves. The man had been strapped to a bomb, it was normal not to want to stay still for too long. Movement made you harder to catch. But he seemed to have no trouble staying still for long periods of time when the consulting detective wasn't within his range of vision. He knew because he'd followed him one day and watched him sit on a park bench for an hour and a half.
Only you can ease my painJohn winched and gasped as yet another sharp stab of pain pierced his shoulder, centering in his old wound from Afghanistan. Though it was nothing unusual at this time of year for his shoulder to act up (the cold weather always made it stiff and aching) it was still a painful and dreaded experience each time. The pain was often accompanied by small yet rough and ruthless flashbacks from that ill-fated day he had received the wound, the day he and his entire team had been ambushed and he, despite his greatest efforts, had lost three men at his own hands
Another wave of hot white pain hit the doctor. The hand, currently grasping his bare, left shoulder in a desperately tight grip tightened, if possible, even further and John couldn't help letting of a small cry of pain this time around. Normally these painful incidents didn't last long enough to grow this painful, normally a pair of long pale hands would come to his rescue and, without him even asking, gently massage and kneed his tense