Loneliness on a Quiet Night

It was quiet now, quieter than it had ever been. He was alone now, by himself. The boy and his box drifting through time and space. That boy’s eyes canned the, now empty, control room. No fiery intelligent companions were there anymore. And it hurt his hearts. He had no one to keep him company. No one to lighten his heavy, guilty hearts. He had to lock away all his emotions inside himself. He kept blaming himself for some ridiculous things but he knew they could only be his fault. He was the reason that everyone left him. He was the reason that so many people had died. He was the reason that he had rules. He was the reason that people got harmed. He had so much blood on his hands and he was trying to cope with it. But he couldn’t. The infamous Doctor couldn’t deal with the pain he had caused people. That pain had caused Amy and Rory to leave him. He hated himself for that. They were his only friends. And had had many other friends before, he never forgot them. But they were the only ones who mattered now. And, they too, were gone. Amy once told him that he was dangerous when he traveled alone. Was that going to happen now? Was he going to start becoming merciless and cruel now? Would he slowly descend into insanity like The Master did? He honestly didn’t know. And that killed him, not knowing. He didn’t want to resort to that, he didn’t want to become that. He knew that he had no control over the rage and sadness of a Time Lord. It could become prominent any moment. And now that he was alone, he didn’t need to hide it. He didn’t have to hide behind witty remarks and a funny bow tie. He could remain solemnly alone. And, he didn’t mind. He always had to hide behind a mask, a wall. Sometimes it slipped and people saw what he really was, a monster. He had tried to tell Amy, that he was a monster, but she wouldn’t listen. She still believed that he was the wonderful Raggedy Man of her past. She believed that he was a hero. When, honestly, he wasn’t. He looked down at the console controls, tears misting in his eyes. He was devastated, lost. he made people believe that he was okay, when he really wasn’t. And now he was truly, utterly alone. He looked up slightly and whispered, “I’m sorry, Pond. I couldn’t save you. I’m so very alone without you. And I am so very sorry.”

The Origin of Hamish Watson-Holmes Part 1

Baker Street was normally quiet at night, but not tonight. Tonight there were angry, annoyed voices coming from one of the flats. If you were standing outside of the building that contained the flat 221B, you would have heard the argument clearly.

“Sherlock, you cannot put sheep hearts next to actual food without me knowing!” One of the angry voices yelled.

“It’s for an experiment,” an annoyed, male voice, Sherlock’s, replied. “You should be prepared for anything to be in my experiments, John.”

“At least warn me,” John yelled back, his temper escaping him.

“Fine! I don’t care. I’m going out,” Sherlock retorted, grabbing his coat and rushing out the door. He thundered down the stairs, thoroughly annoyed. He whipped open the door to the street but stopped before he stepped on something. It was a young boy, huddled in the doorway. Sherlock lost all of his anger and called up the stairs. “John…I found a kid. He’s on our front step and he looks sick.

John rushed down the stairs quickly, his anger melted away too. He looked over him quickly. “Bring him inside,” he whispered and dashed back up to get his medical bag. Sherlock picked the boy up carefully, not wanting to disturb or hurt him any further.

“He was just laying there, John. I nearly stepped on him,” Sherlock said as he laid the boy on the sofa, gently. John looked over him again.

“Do you think this is a message from Moriarty,” John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I think he just got into a bit of trouble with his family. Look at the bruises and smell the alcohol. Most likely abused by his alcoholic father.” John winced at that, he knew what it was like.

“Can you get me some water? He’s dehydrated as well,” John said. “And, quickly!” Sherlock had already rushed over to the sink and filled up a glass of water. He handed John the glass and scanned the boy.

“Look at his wrists, John. He was bound to something, and recently. Dear God, he needs help,” Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was a delicate situation, after all.

“His ribs are broken too. We need to get him to a hospital immediately. It’ll take forever in a taxi though.”

“I can phone Lestrade. Would that help?” Sherlock looked at John, confused. He didn’t really have any knowledge of what to do in this kind of situation.

John nodded, though clearly distracted. Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialed the familiar number. “Lestrade, John and I need you. We’ve found a boy on our front step, he needs a hospital,” he said, urgency clear in his voice. “Thank you so much.” He hung up and rushed to John’s side. “He’s on his way.”

“Good,” John said, barely glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock moved over to the window to watch for Lestrade. His mind was racing, trying to process why he was helping. Was it sentiment? Why did he care for an abused, homeless boy? His thoughts were halted when he saw the police car pull up.

“Come on John. Let’s go,” Sherlock said, picking the boy up gently. He walked slowly down the stairs, John trailing behind him. John rushed ahead of Sherlock and opened to door to allow him and the boy to sit inside. “Don’t ask questions, Lestrade. Just drive,” he ordered, once John had gotten into the car. They weaved their way through London traffic, the boy’s fair skin catching the light of the streetlamps.

John turned to face Sherlock. “You need to get him in there as fast as you can. He’s in poor condition. I’ll sort everything out, just make sure he gets attention,” he explained quickly. Sherlock nodded. It would have taken common sense to figure that out. John looked back out the window, trying to judge how far they were from the hospital. Sherlock already knew that they were only 3 blocks away from it, but he didn’t mention it. He felt a little odd; he was experiencing something new. And it felt good.

He pushed it from his mind when they reached the hospital. He muttered a quick ‘thank you’ to Lestrade before rushing into the hospital. John ran in right behind him. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John at the front desk, talking to the nurses, but he didn’t care. A doctor noticed him; it must have been his wild eyes, dashing around the room.

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded. “Help him. He’s thoroughly injured.” The doctor tried to take the boy from Sherlock’s arms but he pulled back. “I’m coming with him. Don’t try to stop me,” he growled at the man. The doctor nodded and showed him to a room. Sherlock laid him down carefully on the hospital bed and watched him while an IV was given. John was just entering the room when he noticed something.

“John! His eyes are open,” Sherlock called softly. Piercing blue eyes opened under his mop of dark hair. At first the child looked calm, but panic flashed over his face. His eyes darted around the room, taking everything in. When he tried to sit up, John was at his side.

“Take it easy. You aren’t well enough to be doing that,” he said, the doctor in him taking control. “What’s your name?”

It was a few minutes before a small voice croaked, “My name’s Hamish.”

3 July 2012    Reblog    
The Profile of the Writer, Caitlyn

Well, Emily did one, so I might as well write one as well.  Hmm…agh have you ever noticed how it’s extremely difficult to write about yourself?  Seriously, where do you start?

Anyways, might as well start telling you random stuff about me.  Hi, I’m Caitlyn!  I originally started this blog, but then Emily came up with the brilliant idea to make it one belonging to the both of us. :)  I’m an equestrian, so I’m usually really busy…hence the reason I don’t have a lot of time.  I play the violin and played in the International Youth Orchestra last summer.  I’m a perfectionist and can be extremely stubborn some times.  I’m terrified of spiders.  Like Emily, I’m a part of many fandoms.  I’m a proud Potterhead, Nerdfighter, Sherlockian, Whovian, Avenger, and Starkid, and I love the BBC Merlin show.  I think that’s all…if you want, go ahead and give us ideas to write about.  We’ll make sure that we do them.  Yup.  Bye!

3 July 2012    Reblog    
The Profile of the Writer, Emily

Well, um..hello there. I’m Emily, one of the writers on this blog. My personal tumblr is deducethetimelord if any of you care. I honestly love Caitlyn for accepting my idea to join this blog. I’ve been a part of the Sherlock fandom since early 2011, a member of the Doctor Who fandom since April 2011, and a member of the Harry Potter fandom since 2001. I adore writing, particularly Johnlock fics, but I love to test my limits. Although, honestly, I always have the feeling that my writing isn’t good enough. I would love to take requests for fics from people if you want to submit them. Otherwise, I’ll go off on my own. Caitlyn can tell you that it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’ll tag my fics as “Em”, so you know who has written it.

#Em  #bio  
3 July 2012    Reblog    
I’m sorry John…I’m so sorry.

Hey, it’s Caitlyn.  This is the first fan fiction that I’ve completed and it’s based off of a role play that I did with my amazing friend Emily.  It’s a bit choppy and not nearly as good as it could have been, because I kind of wrote it in a rush…that’s what you get when you don’t have much time.  It certainly didn’t help that I had to rewrite it from memory, because the word document didn’t save the first time.  :P  Oh well.  Here it is!  Feel free to review, in fact, I encourage it.  Just send it to me via my inbox.




What did your sister want to talk about? -SH

Something family related. -JW

Boring. -SH

I suppose it would seem that way to you. -JW

Considering my family doesn’t really care about me, yes. -SH

You know that’s not completely true.  Mycroft cares about you.  He tries to hide it, but he does. -JW

That’s what he wants you to think.  Deep down he resents me. -SH

I highly doubt that. -JW

You can believe what you want to, but Mycroft has never truly cared for me.  No one has, just as I don’t care about anyone except for you.  I’m not one for sentiment, John. -SH

Sherlock set his phone down and impatiently drummed his fingers on the chairs arm rest before stretching his legs out in front of him.  His hand automatically brought his mobile back up to eye level when he heard the familiar text alert.

If you say so. -JW

The tall man sighed before letting his fingers fly over the keyboard.  Why was John taking so long to come back?  He needed his help at the flat.  An hour previously, Sherlock had found a note that he was positive would lead them to where Moriarty was hiding.  It had been carelessly stuffed into the pocket of one of his now dead snipers.  Sherlock finished typing his response and hit the send button.

I know so.  When are you getting back, John?  I may have found a new lead as to where Moriarty is. -SH

I’m just getting some milk.  I’ll be back soon. -JW

Alright.  Hurry up though, it’s important. -SH

After a pause, he added:

Be careful. -SH

I will.  I should be back in at most fifteen minutes. -JW

Promise me that you will be safe.  Promise me, John. -SH

The time ticked by, and Sherlock still hadn’t gotten a response.  He silently rose from his chair and began pacing the room, resembling an agitated tiger trapped in a cage.  A couple of minutes of silence had gone by, when the audible crack of a gunshot sounded from outside.  Within seconds the restless man hopped over a small, disorganized stack of papers regarding past cases and reached the window, swiftly pulling aside the curtains.  The street was filled with alarmed pedestrians searching for the source of the sudden noise.  To anyone else, everything would have seemed a bit ordinary if they ignored the gunshot, but Sherlock’s bright blue eyes were not convinced as he continued to scour the street, looking for anything strange.

He strained to look further down the street and froze.  Painted across the windows about the café were three red letters; IOU.  Something had happened to John, he knew it.  Sherlock expectantly looked at his mobile phone.  Sure enough, the text alert pierced through the air.  He picked it up slowly, not quite wanting to read the message.  After a moment, he applied pressure to a single button meant to turn the device on.

Too late.  You see, he can’t say that anymore, now can he? -JM

He was trembling.  Good God, what was wrong with him?  He’d always been fine when he was on a case, excited even, so why was it different now?  He fumbled with his mobile before typing a response.

What have you done with him? -SH

Why should I tell you?  It’s not like he matters. -JM

He matters to me. -SH

You care about him. -JM

Why wouldn’t I care about him?  He’s my friend, my flatmate, my blogger. -SH

Are you sure that you don’t consider him as something more?  You always worry about him.  I read some of the texts you sent him by the way.  Cute.  -JM

Again, why wouldn’t I care?  Besides, whatever is between John and me is none of your concern. -SH

Whatever you say.  So how’s your day been?  Did you like the little note I sent you earlier?  I figured the excitement of a new case would distract you for a bit, at least enough for me to acquire your little pet.  Clearly I was right.  I can see why you like him.  He’s awfully loyal. -JM

I saw the note and my day was wonderful until this moment.  Now, where are you keeping John? -SH

Do you really think I’m going to make it that easy?  Deduce.  That’s what you do, isn’t it?  Examine the letter and figure it out.  I’ll give you a hint; It’s quite near you. -JM

Will you give me time? -SH

Take all the time you want, Sherly. -JM

Thank you.  But can you do one thing for me?  Don’t hurt John. -SH

It’s so fun though!  Besides, what else am I supposed to do while I wait for you to figure out my little puzzle? -JM

If you lay even a finger on him from this point on, I can assure you that you won’t survive the rest of the day. -SH

Oh, have we touched a nerve?  It seems as if you’ve grown a soft spot for Mr. Watson.  Interesting.  Very well, I won’t hurt him more than he already is. It’ll be boring though. -JM

Good.  Now shut up, I need to think. -SH

Go ahead and think, Sherly.  Try and think, think hard.  Where could your dear doctor be? -JM

Sherlock ignored Jims taunting and began pacing the flat, his fingertips finding their usual resting place against each other as his brow furrowed in concentration.  The note had been written on expensive looking glossy paper that smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol.  It was some place professional then, most likely in the medical field.  Moriarty would want it to be a place of significant to the both of them to make it more interesting as well.

The consulting detectives eyes widened in realization.  Of course!  Why had it taken him this long to figure it out?  Sherlock swore under his breath before hastily sending a text back.

I’ll be there soon. -SH

Come along, Sherlock.  Come back for John. -JM

Sherlock grabbed his coat, turned up the collars, and strode out of the flat, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck to ward off the cold as he looked down the now vacant street.  After a moment, he took his phone from his pocket and called Lestrade.  It would be faster than hailing a taxi.  He barely waited for Lestrade to greet him before he spoke.  ”Lestrade, I need your help.  Moriarty has John.”

    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    -    

Several minutes later, Sherlock was climbing to the roof of St. Barts, his long legs easily taking two stairs at a time.  He rolled his eyes dramatically.  It was typical of Moriarty to choose the same location in which both of them had faked their deaths.  He should have expected this.  Sherlock reached the top step and exhaled slowly before swinging the door open.

Moriarty was slowly pacing back and forth along the rooftop, his phone in hand.  He looked rather bored, a dangerous expression for him to have.  Sherlock’s eyes darted over to where John layed behind his arch enemy, bloody and bruised.  An angry spark appeared in his eyes despite the mask of indifference that had been carefully plastered onto his face.

"Jim." His voice was tight as he gave a terse nod before stepping farther out onto the roof, the door closing behind him.

"Hello there.  You got here quite quickly."  A gleeful expression replaced Moriarty’s previously uninterested look as he pocketed his mobile and pivoted almost gracefully on his heels to face Sherlock.

The consulting detective momentarily ignored Moriarty.  ”Are you alright, John?” he called to the still body on the ground.  There was no answer.

"You’re not going to get a response from him.  He’s out cold."  Moriarty sighed.  "Despite my clear orders to keep him conscious, there was a slight slip of hand.  Sorry ‘bout that."  He chewed his gum slowly and tilted his head, looking down at John.

"Let him go."  Sherlock growled at Moriarty, his eyes cold.

Jim laughed, amused.  ”No, no, no.  You see, I can’t do that.  Not right now, we’ve only just started this little game of ours.”  Sherlock tensed as Moriarty spoke again.  ”And don’t bother thinking that I’m going to make it easy for you to take him by force.  I’m not stupid.  There are multiple gunmen ready to shoot, so if you happen to step out of line-”  He snapped once and a red light appeared on both John’s unconscious body and Sherlock’s chest.  His message was clear.

Sherlock hesitated.  ”What do you want from me?”

Jim sighed.  ”As if that wasn’t already obvious.  To hurt you, mainly.  But I also want something more; the code to your brothers computer.  I could have so much more then.  All the power to the government in one tiny computer code.”

"And what if I refuse?"

"Then you don’t get John back alive."  Jim smirked.

Sherlock tensed and brought a hand to the gun resting in his back pocket.  ”Don’t you have people who could get it?  Why bring me into this?”

The man before him rolled his eyes.  ”I do, but that would be too easy.  ”There’s no challenge in that.”

"There’s more to it than just that.  You want to play with me and my heart.  This is all just a game to you," whispered Sherlock, not taking his eyes off of Moriarty.

"Good," he praised.  "Now you’re catching on.  I wouldn’t sell myself short though if I were you, Sherly.  You’re enjoying this as much as I am."  He narrowed his eyes and shot a teasing grin at Sherlock, who looked away from him and towards John.  Jim relaxed slightly and changed the conversation back to their former topic.  "So, what’s your decision?  Have you made up your mind?"

Sherlock looked back at him.  ”I’ll make a deal with you.  Let John go, and I’ll get you the computer code.”

Jim looked at him curiously.  ”Do I have your word on it?”

"You have my word," Sherlock said quietly.

"Very well then, you can have your John back."  Jim snapped his fingers and the red lights shifted off the consulting detective and his doctor before vanishing.  Sherlock immediately rushed over to John’s side and looked over him, concern etched into his face.  "It’s quite amusing seeing you so desperate, you know," purred Jim.

"I don’t care how amusing I may be, but on occasion I do care about people."  Sherlock hesitated.  "Even you, Jim Moriarty, for the distractions you give me."

Jim raised his eyebrow, looking flattered.  ”That comes as a surprise, considering I just threatened to kill your boyfriend.”  He glanced at his watch.  ”Well, I better be off.  I have better things to do than mull over the state of your relationship with John.  Until next time, then.”  With a little wave, he began to stroll away.

"So that’s it then?  Don’t you want the computer code?"  Sherlock looked up at Moriarty in bewilderment form where he was kneeling beside John.

Jim turned back around.  ”I’ll get it next time we meet, which I assure you will be soon.”  He gestured towards John.  ”He’s starting to come around, though.  You might want to tend to him.  I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock.”  Jim turned and shut the door behind him majestically, leaving Sherlock and John alone on the rooftop.

Sherlock turned his attention back to his blogger as Jim disappeared.  ”John!  Are you okay?”

The small man opened his eyes and looked around, disoriented.  He started to slowly roll onto his side, but a sharp pain ran through his body.  He grit his teeth together and stopped himself from yelping in pain.  ”I’m all right,” he wheezed.  After a moment he looked up in a daze.  ”Sherlock, what happened?  I can’t remember-” he shut his eyes and tensed as another wave of pain seized him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, eyes already flickering over his flatmate in rapid, sweeping movements, collecting data.  One thing was very obvious: John Watson was not “all right.”  In fact, he was anything but.  ”Moriarty knocked you unconscious, before setting a group of five of his men on you.  They messed you up a bit…”

That was an understatement.  Even Anderson would be able to tell that John had lost plenty of blood.  Too much blood, thought Sherlock grimly.  ”Let’s get you off this roof.  You’re already in bad condition as it is, and I don’t fancy becoming a target again at the moment,” he said without humor.  He propped John upright and supported him while trying to help him stand.

John was halfway up when the pain got exceedingly worse.  His face went pale and he clutched his side with one hand as the other sought for something to grab onto.  He found it, putting his arm around Sherlock’s waist and gripping the material from his coat.  ”Sherlock, I can’t…” he stopped, unable to finish the sentence.  All he could focus on was the pain as he tried to fight through it and get his breath back.

Sherlock bent down and within seconds John felt himself being effortlessly lifted off the ground by long, lanky arms.  ”Then I’ll just carry you back to the flat,” the detective said smoothly.

"You don’t have to.  People might talk."  John was ashamed to find that even now, when there was no one around to question the state of their relationship, his face was flushing from embarrassment.

Sherlock smirked knowingly.  ”People do little else.”

John chuckled but abruptly stopped when the pain increased.  ”So…” he started, trying to change the topic.  ”What did Jim want then?”  He bit down on his lip and tried to hide exactly how much he was hurting.  It was hard to keep anything from the world’s only consulting detective though, and when he cringed ever so slightly from the pain, it gave him away.

The man carrying him gently shifted John’s weight to make him more comfortable, causing a faint grateful sigh to come from John.  ”He wanted a computer key code, particularly Mycroft’s.  But that doesn’t matter.”  He looked over John and pointed out the obvious.  ”You need to see a doctor.”

John didn’t try to stop himself as he closed his eyes and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, ignoring the surprised look he received.  He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and for some reason found comfort in Sherlock in that moment.  He was in pain, and if someone looked at them and got the wrong idea, then so be it.  At this point, he just didn’t give a fuck.  ”God, I feel awful right now,” was all that was muttered into Sherlock’s shoulder.

"So do I.  I shouldn’t have let you leave."  Sherlock dropped his head to John’s and brushed his forehead almost affectionately.

John sighed slightly and leaned into the contact, still keeping his eyes closed.  ”It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t know that that would happen.  Neither of us did,” he said before locking eyes with Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head angrily.  ”But I can’t help but blame myself.  You’re my only friend, and I let you out of my sight which resulted in you getting severely hurt.  I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself it you had gotten killed.”  He started back at John determinedly.

John tilted his head to the side as he continued to watch Sherlocks face.  ”Don’t blame yourself.  I’m still alive, aren’t I?”  The corner of his mouth quirked into a thin smile before he nestled closer to Sherlock and drifted off into a light sleep.

Sherlock gazed down at John, allowing a pained look to cross his face once he was sure John was asleep.  ”I’m sorry John.  I’m so sorry.” he whispered before rushing down the stairs.  John needed immediate medical attention and he would make sure that he got it, no matter what it required of him.

1 July 2012    Reblog    
    source: caitlanafanfics