…I suppose I can finally post this, since I’ve seen more or less everyone posts their works here and there and it’s been almost an year now ;u; So here it is :)
AU: John is a mental patient who imagines his psychiatrist as Sherlock Holmes, a character created by Conan Doyle.
But, please… there’s just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be… dead.
“Tell your mutt to stop!”
This probably was the last thing you expected that wip to turn out to be. Enjoy the linework. Might colour it later.
This is adorable! Someone needs to write a fix for this!!
If anything was going to lift his spirits, it would be a day like today. A crisp breeze jetted through the trees, shaking the branches and rustling the last few remaining leaves while a warm, welcomed sun bathed the path in altering lines of shadow and light. Gladstone bounded back and forth over the trail, tugging on his leash. He was happily sniffing twigs and barking sporadically at falling leaves.
The sight should warm John’s heart; fill him with a mellowing sense of content that had eluded him ever since his return from Afghanistan. Coming home to a dreary bedsit, no friends or close family to help his transition from the active, adrenaline fueled life of the army to his now dull, “does-it-really-matter-what-day-of-the-week-it-is” existence. Ella’s recommendation of taking back Gladstone from his sister Harry’s possession had helped a bit at first. The feeling of purpose and that something back here in London truly needed him gave John a reason to get out of bed in the morning. When it was just John, no one would have noticed or cared if he didn’t leave his flat, hell, if he didn’t leave his bed for days on end. But with Gladstone, there was no getting around getting out and about London at least twice a day.
Now, as John walked along the trail, one hand stuffed deep into his coat pocket while the other had Gladstone’s leash wrapped tight, his thoughts were very slowly sliding back to where they’d been a month ago, just after he settled back in London. It would be easy to drop Gladstone back off at Harry’s. She’d done surprisingly well the first time taking care of the dog, despite her addiction. She could do it again. After that it wasn’t like he had many other affairs to put in order…
It was with a sudden ‘oomph’ that John was pulled out of his thoughts and found himself with a face full of blue scarf, the sound of two dogs barking loudly and the feeling of Gladstone’s leash tangled around him.
Not just Gladstone’s. John caught the glimpse of a large Dalmatian circling him as well, Gladstone jumping and nipping playfully at the spotted dog, who was sniffing a mobile phone that lay on the ground.
“Victor! Heel!” a deep baritone rumbled against John’s chest.
Struggling slightly, John pushed himself away from the other man far enough to look up into his face. John’s breath caught in his chest as his eyes met the others. A mop of messy black curls shadowed the man’s smooth pale face and dark blue-green eyes were narrowed, darting quickly over John. The intense scrutiny brought a warm blush to John’s neck and ears. He was suddenly very worried about the tall stranger feeling the unmistakable increase of his heartbeat.
John’s opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything intelligent, but his mind had blanked. He was chest to chest with a gorgeous stranger, practically bound to the man and had absolutely no idea what to say.
The other man did not seem to have the same problem.
“What is wrong with you?” the man grumbled, struggling to pull his arm up from where it was lashed to his side by the leashes. “Why were you not looking where you were going? I know it must be taxing for someone like you, but really-“
Luckily, John’s mind finally decided to kick into high gear. “Someone like me?!” John shouted, Gladstone’s barks continued from somewhere behind John. “What do you mean by that? And why weren’t you looking where you were going?”
The man rolled his eyes. “How can I be expected to look out for others while working? I have better things to do than dodge around you lot.”
John craned his neck as best he could to catch sight of his dog. “Gladstone, stop that!”
Gladstone decided to completely ignore John and continued barking at a butterfly that danced in front of his snout.
John turned back to the man. “Listen, mate. I really don’t care which of us is at fault, but I don’t really want to spend the rest of my day tied to some bloke in the middle of the park.” Even if he beautiful.
“Well, obviously,” the man huffed. He’d managed to get one arm free and was trying to untangle the two leashes. His dog, Victor, still sat quietly at his side, looking back and forth between his owner and beyond the pair to where Gladstone still continued to bark after absolutely nothing in particular. “Bloody hell! Will you tell your mutt to stop?!”
John cleared his throat. “When he gets this excited, I can’t. I have to run him ragged through the park to get any peace and quiet.”
The stranger sighed. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. “Can you at least pull him close enough to unhook him?”
“Unhook him?! I’ll never catch him if I do that.”
“Of course.” Cutting a glare towards the dog in question, he called his own dog closer. “Victor, closer.” The dalmatian shuffled next to his owner, tail wagging uncontrollably behind him. With a bit of shuffling, much to John’s chagrin as the man’s body rubbed against him, Victor’s leash was unhooked from his collar. Between the two men, it only took a minute or two more before they were able to separate themselves.
Completely oblivious to his owner’s troubles, Gladstone rushed back to John and jumped up in front of him, tongue lolling out of his head to slobber all over the front of John’s jumper. “Yes, alright,” John laughed, giving the beast a gentle shove back to the ground. He looked over to the man, who had already refastening his leash to Victor’s collar he collected his mobile from the ground. He glanced back and forth between the mobile’s screen and John, his thumb taping on the keyboard.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Sorry?”
“Where were you stationed? Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan,” John answered slowly. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”
“No. He’s house broken, yes?”
John’s eyebrow furrowed in confusion. “Yeah. He’s a good dog, just gets a bit excited is all. How did you know about Afghanistan?”
The man was now staring at John, the mobile stowed away in a pocket. He was silent for a few moments, then extended his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
John looked down at the offered hand, then back up to Sherlock. “John Watson” he said as he grasped Sherlock’s hand.
A small smile spread across Sherlock’s face and John’s heart thumped a little louder for a second.
“How do you feel about the violin, John?”
Someone give you a medal
Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims.
I’m just now noticing that Sherlock had to GET UP OFF THE GROUND AFTER JOHN’S PUNCH.
1.09 and 1.01
↳ like father like son
Third one…i guess i’m just going to make a sketch for every damn song in my post-Reichenbach playlist…
Explaining a case John missed.