RedRangerJayden

John always went to Sherlock's grave alone. At least that had been the case as of late. Mrs. Hudson had stopped coming after the first two weeks. But not John. Even after three long years, he never failed to show. This time wasn't different. A fresh bundle of flowers in hand, he walked somberly towards the black marble headstone. He picked up his head. There was someone there. A tall thin man in black pants and a tweed jacket. When he turned at the sound of leaves crunching beneath John's shoes – it was the middle of autumn – he could also see that the man wore suspenders and a bowtie, both a matching dark blue. He looked like an

"You know what this is." The object being held in front of him is terribly familiar. But it isn't. He can't possibly know what it is. He doesn't know why his hand reaches out for it but it does. He doesn't know why the object – a sonic screwdriver the holder called it – feels right in his palm but it does. In his moment of inexplicable fear towards the item, he shoves it back into the man's hand. "I don't," he lies. The Doctor grins. "Oh, but you do. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes, Sherlock." And he tries to give it back. Sherlock takes a step away. Instead of trying to force Sherlock to hold the screwdriver, the Docto

one.     When she cries herself to sleep     six out of seven nights a week you must     say nothing. You must simply take     her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,     pale cheeks and wait for her to     slumber at the sound of your heart. two.     On the days where she wishes she     were part of the stars, tell her     no. Tell her that there are too many     lights in the sky and that just one     would be forgotten the moment you looked     away from it. Tell her that she is perfect     the way she is: completely human. three.      Don't let her think about the scars      that no one but her can see. If she      says