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Summary
The average human brain at rest experiences sufficient neuronal firing to entertain fantasies, to encounter terrors, to build entire worlds, all in the course of an evening’s REM sleep.
The exceptional mind, in contrast, can tear itself apart in dreams—can burn the heart it prompts to beat.
Sherlock Holmes, of course, is of the latter sort.
Bookmarked by strangelock
11 Mar 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
"And then John’s mouth is on his, soft and tender and fond, all affection and heat and terrifying familiarity, and Sherlock’s stomach swoops for a whole host of reasons that rise again and thread through his ribs until his heart feels pressed to collapsing, because Sherlock is selfish, Sherlock is weak, and Sherlock is a broken thing who cares little about everything and everything about very little, about this one man before him who cannot be here, cannot be his, who Sherlock does not deserve and has no right to touch, who, if not a figment, is a mistake for all that he is perfection, but Sherlock is a fool, and more than that: he is a fool who kisses back."
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I am Disappeared by pandoras_chaos
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
09 Feb 2013
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Summary
He’s never felt like this. Grief is too small a word, too incomprehensible for the venomous tide of pain radiating through his flesh. He hates Sherlock, just as much as he loves him. He hates that he took the easy way out, leaving John to clean up his messes and apologize for his actions yet again in a world that will never understand his genius. In a world that will always use him and spite him for his help. A world that will not mourn him, that will believe it was all a lie, that his life was a lie. That John is a lie.
Series
- Part 2 of The Sleeping Soul of the Country
Bookmarked by strangelock
04 Feb 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
'He can still smell him on the pillows. John finds himself burying his face in the cotton, inhaling the woody scent of his absurdly expensive aftershave and choking on his own tears. If he immerses himself enough, doesn't let himself breath anything but the smell of Sherlock, he can almost pretend that he's just gotten up for the day and that John will find him in the sitting room, working through a concerto or just sitting in his chair, staring, winding through the pathways and vast rooms of his Mind Palace. If he doesn’t allow himself to breathe anything but the remembered scent of Sherlock’s skin, the overwhelming grief can be held at bay. If he doesn’t allow himself to breathe, the ache in his chest feels more like oxygen deprivation. If he doesn’t allow himself to breathe.'
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Smeared Black Ink by pandoras_chaos
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
30 Jan 2013
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Summary
Pulse racing, pupils dilated, finding it difficult to breathe normally. Can he smell the pheromones? Thumb slides gently across pulse point. Sherlock curses his traitorous body. Distracting.
Bookmarked by strangelock
04 Feb 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
'Endorphins rage out of control. Pituitary gland spews out unacceptable levels of oxytocin and Sherlock can feel the heat exploding up his chest, onto his neck and across his cheekbones. John’s hand stills. Pulse racing, pupils dilated, finding it difficult to breathe normally. Can he smell the pheromones? Thumb slides gently across pulse point. Sherlock curses his traitorous body. Distracting.
Heavy breathing, not sure from whom. John still hasn’t removed his hand. Fingers running delicately through the curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck and he shudders. Eyes fall shut, shoulders relax. Just give in.
Lips against his ear. John’s labored breath puffing humid air onto his neck. Tentative tongue swiping gently around the shell of his ear. God, John. Lean in, tilt head up, lips soft and pliant. Too much, not enough. John. Taste of tea and Hobnobs , wet slide of tongue and clatter of teeth.
The angle is all wrong: neck cramping, too much teeth. Lean back, brace head against John's sturdy abdomen. John.
John's hands, slightly chapped, sliding into dark curls, intensifying the kiss. Smell of Darjeeling, the outdoor London scent of rain and car exhaust, clinical tang of antiseptic. The kiss softens somehow. John is pulling away, breathing hard. Rests his forehead against Sherlock's. Distracting.'
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Summary
John knows exactly how Sherlock functions. Sherlock constantly needs to know where John is.
Bookmarked by strangelock
28 Jan 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
"His other hand threatens to shake around the carton of milk it holds. No matter how routine this all is, John still finds himself unable to avoid anxiety after twenty-four hours. He can’t pin down whether he’s concerned that Sherlock will silently starve, quarantined away in his own mind, or whether it’s some sort of Sherlock-contact-withdrawal. He hopes for the former, as his online perusing has left him unable to find meetings for those addicted to charmingly insane consulting detectives."
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Miles and Miles of Mountains by pandoras_chaos
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
22 Sep 2013
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Summary
Sherlock makes a noise against his mouth. It sounds like his heart is breaking. Familiar. Pained. Different on Sherlock, though. John’s own noise is a mere echo, emotions warring and constricting around the enormity of the situation.
God, it’s like coming home. It’s Christmas and warm jumpers and earl grey tea and Jammy Dodgers and the first fire of the year. It’s sinking into a hot bath after a long day; it’s snuggling close to a warm body on a cold night; it’s folding into his favorite armchair with a good book and two fingers of old whiskey. It’s Sherlock, and John reels as he realizes he hasn’t lived these past three years.
Bookmarked by strangelock
28 Jan 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
"John wishes he could think, could speak, but the air seems to have deserted his lungs in favor of choking, wet sounding sobs. Blood drips onto his face, into his hair and over his eyes. Coppery taste of iron, of salt and sweat and life. John feels his sanity crack a little wider and he reaches a hand up, smearing his blunt fingers through the gash in the forehead of the phantom hovering over him. Fingers come away wet and obscenely red. He smears them together, rubbing the rust color into the cracks in his thumb.
'John.' That voice again, so alike it’s uncanny. This can’t be real."
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Softly Full of Rain by pandoras_chaos
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
25 Sep 2013
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Summary
“I should probably go back to bed,” John whispered softly, and Sherlock felt a pang of regret at the words.
“Don’t be absurd, John,” he said instead, minutely tightening his hold around John’s shoulders and keeping him firmly in place. “You’ll sleep better here anyway.”
John huffed a pathetic excuse for a laugh against his chest and Sherlock felt his own heart clench at the sound. John shuffled a little in a half-hearted attempt to break away, but Sherlock tugged him back into place, laying a firm arm across his shoulder blades and running his thumb along the nape of his neck. He felt John shiver at the movement and smiled quietly into the darkness.
“Stay, John. Please.” Sherlock took the chance and brushed his lips softly along John’s forehead. He felt John’s shoulders tense briefly, and clutched him tighter. “I want you to stay.”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,087
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Collections:
- 1
- Comments:
- 77
- Kudos:
- 1,319
- Bookmarks:
- 255
- Hits:
- 16,401
Bookmarked by strangelock
26 Jan 2014
Bookmarker's Notes
"Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and John felt his own body tingle in response. It sounded like relief and heartbreak, like longing and hope, like home and comfort, and John couldn’t believe he hadn’t identified these feelings before."
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Summary
Sherlock could use some protection against all the things that might kill him.
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
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Summary
John has a nightmare that makes him think about Mycroft's invitation from ASiB: “What might we deduce about his heart?”
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"But one must be careful what one breaks into; one might have to duck, get shot at, discover something one doesn’t want to see. Houses, devices, complex beings: One must be careful what one unlocks."
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Summary
““Here if you need me,” John says, (weary, redundant, because I love you, you stupid, stupid bastard; it hardly needs saying).
Well. It’s not the first time John’s made him call to mind the first law of thermodynamics (continual presence, of mass, of energy, of closed systems), and it will hardly be the last.”
Series
- Part 25 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"John has: a wicked (existential) thirst, a bruise shaped like a gun butt, a taste for scenes that fire the sympathetic nerves, but no god complex; no, he never has, he’s not that kind of doctor, not that kind of soldier, but he’s always looked both ways, you know, for more of a whirlwind than himself."
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Summary
A story, John.
A story? There are a lot of those.
The city's crime goes spine-to-spine with spring.
Series
- Part 24 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"The one where we looked up, and saw stars. (Not concussive stars; real ones; it's strange, what you remember.)"
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Summary
“You could get a storm up in those—or just the eye of it, gifted as you are.”
"There’s no real blue in blue: An absence of melanocytes, a scattering of light through humour; all structural, a trick of light, as notes, as genes: bb, Bb."
Series
- Part 23 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"There’s crosstalk in the cortex. Optic nerves fire in the midbrain; an injury can leave us blind, but still sighted with what we can’t see, the transport wrecked and mended all at once."
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Summary
"The ones they don't solve pile up, which means *they* pile up, pile on, corded one against the other no matter where they might be standing...
'Don't tell them about the unsolved ones,' Sherlock says."
They were born for they signify.
Series
- Part 21 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"Because love is vicious, sentiment a defect and caring not an advantage, but that's just one adjective, one verb, one adverb, two articles, two conjunctions, and five nouns. And only one of those is binding."
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Summary
"He’s dreamed Sherlock back at their breakfast table, where they might catch up...
I don’t like the present, he thinks.
Well it will be the past soon enough, John. Do be patient."
Series
- Part 18 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"The fuck, says John. He’s dreamed Sherlock back at their breakfast table, where they might catch up, the way time seemed to catch up with itself on his (former) blog, the tale and the conversation happening at once in the present, the future, the past. "
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Summary
"Mercy is not at all the same thing as pity, his least favorite lens, the one Donovan looked at him through at a crime scene in Brixton, the very first."
We think we can't have both, but we can.
Series
- Part 17 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"“I've never begged for mercy in my life,” Sherlock said, and close by a voice answered, oh, but you will. Because no paralytic, no stimulant, no anodyne in the world can protect you from assaults on organs you don't think you have."
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Summary
"John was eating some Chinese in Camden when a shadow fell over his chow mein.
'Mycroft' he said, without looking up."
Series
- Part 11 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
13 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
”It’s my brother's heart.”
“I don't happen to have that here,” said John, taking a bite.
“I don't want it back,” Mycroft said, “I just need to know that you’re … “
“It's in a safe place, and I’ve made copies.”
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Summary
"The city’s slipped past: All the Londons, all the Sherlock-and-Johns, reflected in the train windows, washed in the fluorescence of the station."
Series
- Part 8 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
07 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"At Bethnal Green, not long ago, an artist strung up stars for the London dead. The trains ferried sorrow through the Underground and halted, humming, at Baker Street:"
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Summary
"There's hell in high places. At first he could barely climb the stairs, but then he took them, all seventeen, at least two at a time."
Cast off the cane, and thank the Fates for second floors.
Series
- Part 7 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
07 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"He’s been so good at looking up: at Sherlock’s chin (oh,he’s not that short), at eight-foot hitmen, at Dartmoor mounds, at all their windows blown to hell, at the open door and the wounded wall."
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Summary
“Maybe Sherlock appears, keyless, at Baker Street with a book, a gun, a torch and an olive branch.”
“Maybe he burns up on re-entry, or shatters on impact, and John builds him up out of fragments and ash--after all, he’s only returning the favor.”
Series
- Part 3 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
07 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"Maybe he burns up on re-entry, or shatters on impact, and John builds him up out of fragments and ash--after all, he’s only returning the favor."
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Summary
“He doesn't like to use the word, except when it's other people.”
“I love the smell of crime scene in the morning. I love breathing.”
Sherlock considers the nature of…
Series
- Part 2 of Compounds or Stars
Bookmarked by strangelock
07 Dec 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
"Sherlock loves oxidation, skeletonisation, locked boxes, closed doors, and organic transformation in cordoned-off places."
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Bookmarked by strangelock
11 Nov 2013
Bookmarker's Notes
Sherlock, you cannot think that you will split your time between children and crime scenes.--MH
Obviously not. Children will help at crime scenes.--SH
Like Irregulars.--SH
With more legs.--SH
Good Lord.--MH