I really, really, REALLLY want an Archive Of Our Own account. Damn the stupidly long wait you have to have if you want one. What kind of writing site/social networking/ blogging site has a 6 MONTH LONG WAIT?

Argh, i love LJ, i do. I also like But i just want an Ao3 account too.

Nature Of Daylight (1/1)

Name: Nature Of Daylight


Pairing: Sherlock/John, slight John/Mary Morstan

Word count: 2,000-ish

Summary: Sherlock sent John a suicide call before he jumped in Reichenbach Fall.

John sends Sherlock a suicide letter.

WARNING: Mentions of suicide, depression, and angsty. Possibility of tears.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor do I own Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman. Property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC. No money is made from this, no copyright enfringement intended.

WARNING: Mentions of suicide, depression, general angstyness. Possibility of tears.

A/N: This is not what I intended to write. For that, I’m sorry. This is a …sad piece, so don’t read if you’re in a happy mood. I also apologize for the rubbish formatting at the start, and any errors I might have made this. This piece is unbeta’d, so feel free to blame me for mistakes.

The title is from the instrumental song by Max Richter, because it’s what I was listening to when I wrote this.

This piece is quite personal to me, so I hope you guys like it.

EDIT: I forgot to mention- if anyone isn't familiar with fluoxetine, its an SSRI anti-depressant drug, often marketed in its more popular names: 'Prozac' or 'Sarafem'. It often takes a minimum of 3 weeks to work, because really isn't fast enough.

This is dedicated to Charlie, who deserved less and more than what he got. I forgive him anyways. Rest in peace.

Nature Of Daylight by La Victoire

[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]

Met a girl today. Her name is Mary. Trying to start again.


[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]

Ella wants me to still blog. Don’t know what to write. So quiet nowadays

Bill Murray: You okay, mate?


[New blog post: Dr John H Watson]

I’m going to get married.

Jacob Sowersby: Congrats mate!

Mrs H: How lovely! Glad you’re moving on. Am I invited?

John Watson: Nothing to move on from. Of course,  Mrs Hudson. How can I forget you?

Harry Watson: You are allowed to be happy, you know.

John Watson: I am.

Harry Watson: No you’re not.


You have 4 new voicemails’:

-‘Hi, John, this is Ella, I need you to get back to me. You haven’t turned up to the last 8 therapy sessions you’re due for, I need you to let me know what’s going on-‘


-‘Mycroft speaking. Just want to check on how you’re doing. Call back immediately.’


-‘Hey, it’s Mary, where were you last night? I missed you. You haven’t been yourself lately, I’m getting worried. Is it this wedding stuff? Is it too much? Call me back, and we can talk-‘


‘Hi, Its Greg- okay, I got a weird call from a mate down in the police station near strand, he told me that they had to give you as warning for refusing to move from the edge of the bridge? John, what’s going on? Is this about…Sherlock? It’s been a while now, mate. Call me back AS-‘

‘Hi, you’ve reached Greg Lestrade’s phone, I’m not here right now, so leave a message. Unless you’re Sherlock, in which case, piss off.’


‘It’s John. I’m fine. It was a misunderstanding. I was just looking at something. Change your voicemail.’


To: Sherlock Holmes

You are cordially invited to the wedding of

Mary Elizabeth Morstan


John Hamish Watson

On Tuesday afternoon

January 2nd, 4 p.m




[New blog post: John H Watson]

I’m not coping.

Harry Watson: John, I’m coming over. This has gone on long enough. It’s not fair on Mary. Stay where you are.

John Watson: after all this time, now you care?

Molly Hooper: John, can I come see you sometime? Please?



Prescription: John H Watson

 Fluoxetine (60 tablets)

Take two tablets a day.


Sherlock Holmes

221B Bakers Street



Date: 02/01/2014

Dear Sherlock,

It must be peaceful where you are now. Or is it? I’m inclined to think its not, or you’d go mad, and it would be Hell. Maybe you are in Hell- who knows? Wherever you are, if it wasn’t insane, chaotic and hellish before, it would be now.

I’d love to come and visit some day.

Today is my wedding day, you know. I can imagine what you would say to that:‘The institution of marriage is simply a farce in order to mould the race into poorly designed constraints in order to create  the only exception of the rule in the animal kingdom and thereby satisfy human nature’s need to constantly dominate all other beings by being incomparable’, you’d say. Or something of the sort.

I won’t ask you to come. I know you wouldn’t, even if you weren’t…gone, because something inside you fights against me ever showing any type of open humanity. From ever showing you, proving to you, that I’m just an idiot, like everyone else.

I miss that, I do, I miss that about you. I miss you thinking I’m something special, when everyday without you tells me I’m not.

You might’ve liked her though. Mary- my fiancé. She’s…like you in ways, and in other ways the most complete opposite of you I could ever have found. She’s…vivacious. Curious about the world, and has an even more curious smile. But not curious enough to wonder why I proposed to her after seeing that Mrs Hudson has been trying to rent out 221B again. In a way, she’s my perfect match. She’s the only woman I’ve met who I can talk to about you and not have me deemed as ‘unstable’. She’s my perfect match, because she isn’t YOU, and she doesn’t try to be.

Because no one can ever be you. I can still hear your voice- in my head, that is. I fear I’m turning borderline schizophrenic, but I don’t think I care, if it means I don’t lose the sweet glory of knowing you, in any form that may come.  I can still smell you, you know, in my head- the acrid burn of sulphuric acid that you split on your shirt, the earthiness of soil you analysed and wedged into your fingernails, the smell of your ridiculously expensive and sharp shampoo that makes my eyes sting. I can still see you, the childish chocolate curls bouncing up and down when you fiercely scratch your head, the all too fragile ice-pale line of your throat convulsing, swallowing every insult you ever received. Just the memory of it all makes me think sometimes that you’re still out there, somewhere.

The image fades everyday, but I never forget the blood gushing out of your head, through your limp hair and your throat that day. The bastard and best friend that you are- you ARE- means that that image will remain with me as long as I live. As long as I choose to live.

I’ll never meet you again, will I? Not even in Hell, if it exists, if it’s up there. There’s was only ever meant to be one of you. Because when you were made, God realised he’d made a mistake, but decided to pretend you never happened and let you exist anyways. Until he realised how much trouble you were, and took you away from me.

I’m the one that was made to be perfect but turned out to be more flawed than God’s mistake.

I’m not so lucky or unlucky that I’d ever met another one of you. No one can match the sheer ridiculousness you managed to make my life, and make me love it, cherish it all the same.

I’ll never have that again.

Sometimes I wish I never met you. Sometimes, SOMETIMES, I look at Mike Stamford, and I want to murder him for bringing me to you. But I was so alone, Sherlock, so lonely, and you made me feel like I was someone worth living again. I’m the one that walked into the lab at St Barts, that day 2 and something  years ago that changed my life- but really, the moment you looked up at me, you somehow managed to walk into my head, you and that devastatingly beautiful coat, and all my barriers disappeared.

How can you do that to me, you selfish bastard? You ruined me that day, by bringing me back to life. You made me care, made me LOVE again, when you declared to the world that you’re incapable of that. It’s not fair.

I’m so alone, Sherlock. I’m getting married today, and I’m so alone.

I keep waiting for you to come in here, Sherlock, and tell me that I’m an idiot, and that I must not get married and come back to 221B and look, there’s 4 dead women and a man  in Canterbury whose deaths look suspicious, let’s go now, John, call a taxi-

How DARE you die. You’re Sherlock Holmes, you aren’t meant to die. You have the British Government for a brother, Scotland Yard as your bitch, and me somewhere in that awful equation. How dare you die? How dare you.

Mary’s dad is calling me now. I’m at the post office across the street from the hotel I’m supposed to be getting married in, cars speeding past so very fast. I imagine the smooth metal against my skin, the thick, dull thud it would make.

 I’m late for my own wedding.

Harry’s yelling from across the street, looking at me like she thinks I’m going to do A Sherlock, as she calls it now. I would call it Visiting Sherlock. It’s not Death, it’s not the ‘Fear Of The Unknown’ if you’re dying, drowning in the world you’re in. It’s not Life or ‘Living’ if the one thing you need isn’t in it.

To me, Sherlock, right now? Life is me slowly suffocating in the air that I breathe. Because you’re not breathing it, and if it’s not good enough for you, it’s not good enough for me.

Because that’s our friendship, isn’t it, Sherlock? Where you go, I go. Where I go, you go.

So I’m coming to you. Mary’s staring at me now. From the hotel. She looks beautiful, even you would’ve thought so. She’s not saying anything, but she doesn’t have her curious smile anymore. Like she understands. God knows, I need someone that would understand. I think she will be thankful, later, that I went to you now- before our marriage- than later when she would be a widow.

Harry’s screaming. No more screaming. No more blood. No more broken skulls and dulled eyes and rigid skin and damp childish curls that bounce when you scratch your head.

I hope you get this letter soon. I need you to make some tea when I arrive, because it’s probably going to be a long journey. I know you never make tea, Sherlock, but just this once, and I promise I won’t complain about the people you’ve tormented up there.

I’ll never complain again. That makes me more happy that you know. Because I want this. I want you.

Harry is crying. She shouldn’t be crying. Her brother’s happy now.

Aren’t you happy, Sherlock?

I don’t want to be alone anymore. With us together, we’ll never be lonely again.

See you soon,





If anyone found this sad, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. But I had to get this out, and it actually has made me depressed too, so don’t worry, I’ll be sad with you.

This piece is based on someone I knew, and is about the way depression can eat away at a person. I know, because I’ve been there.

Please comment!

 La Victoire.

Fanvideos and DVD ripping

Ages ago, i used to make fanvids for another fandom. I want to start doing the same for the sherlock fandom, and since i have the DVDs, can anyone tell me a good software/website i can use to cut scenes out of the episodes? If that makes any sense- the website i used to use doesn't work for me anymore.

I really need help, so i'll be glad if anyone can tell me a good way to do this:)

Next fanfiction

So i was thinking for my next story...the title '5 Times Mycroft Saw Something He Wished He Hadn't Seen When Sherlock-Spying' or 'The Disadvantages of Sherlock-Watching'.

Not so sure about this, but it could be fun:) Johnlock, of course, but subtle:)

What d'ya think?:)

A Figurement Of Imagination(1/1)

Name: A Figurement Of Imagination.

Author: La Victoire

Summary: In which Sherlock doesn't want to be forgotten and dead anymore, Mycroft acts like a brother,
John starts seeing Sherlock everywhere, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are an after thought.
Major spoilers for Reichenbach Falls.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor do I own Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman.
Property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC. No money is made from this, no copyright enfringement

A/N: First of all, I'm sorry to all the people who expected me to update a different story- I'm really sorry,
I haven't got any inspiration for that yet.

Don't read this if you haven't watched the ending of the second series of Sherlock, BBC version.

I hope everyone likes this. Please read and review! Also, please make sure to read the italic writing at the start
of every section, otherwise this story may seem confusing.

A Figurement Of Imagination

1 year, 5 months and 3 weeks after Sherlock's fall, Coffee Shop.


John sat, alone, at a small table in an equally small coffee shop, not far from Baker's Street. It was funny that
he still equated the distance of things from that place, when he didn't even live there anymore. He quickly
ordered a coffee without really seeing the waiter, and carried on looking out of the window, the tall waiter
reflected on the sheen of the glass as he worked.

He didn't really want coffee anymore.

He couldn't stand the loneliness. In any sense of the word, he supposed he could, he'd been lonely all his life,
especially after Afghanistan, but he couldn't stand this loneliness. The definition of loneliness is different when
it's applied to Sherlock.

But Sherlock changed the definition of a lot of things, and had done it with pride and a well-worn scarf around
his neck.

John blinked at the lacy white cloth on the table, begging himself not to….show emotion. As an army man,
he could do that, he could surely do that. He had lost friends before, it wasn't unusual to him.

But all those other friends hadn't deduced his entire family history in ten seconds, or had a kidnapping secret
service operating brother, or found pink luggage's in skips or scared him into believing in a giant monster hound
or wanted a murder case for a birthday present.

None of them had saved him from himself when he had seriously considered ending everything the days after the
war. But this was much worse, in a way that even killing himself wouldn't be enough. Because even that would
remind him of Sherlock.

People told him that missing a friend this much isn't healthy, but he found he didn't care. One and a half years of being raw inside, tears slicing him from the inside and horrific nightmares of falling and falling deeper into some unknown abyss.

So now, he was numb. That was okay with him, though, he could handle numb. He could be lonely and even be
sad. What he couldn't stand was the emptiness.

The empty chair across from him was taunting him.

'Coffee, sir', said the deep baritone voice of his server. Sherlock used to have a deep, baritone voice.

John shook his head. Not here. He took the coffee without looking at the server, only seeing a blur of brown hair.

'Thank you', he said, evenly, taking a sip straight away, not caring at the sharp heat that scolded his tongue.
The sharp pain was followed by the deep sweetness of the coffee.

He scrunched his face. Sugar. In coffee. No.

'Excuse me-', he said, before he released that the waiter was gone, but his breath taken away by a sudden

Sherlock apologizing. Sherlock making him coffee. John doesn't like it, it has sugar in it. But he drinks it anyways
because…well, because Sherlock never makes him coffee, and he was doing the 'kicked puppy' face again.

John ran up to the counter.

Deep voice. Tall. Brown hair.

It was all too much.

'Excuse me!', he almost yelled. A motherly sort of woman looked up, raising her eyebrows at his hyperactivity.

'Can I help you? Do you want to order something?', she said calmly.

'Sherlock', he said quickly, knowing he wasn't making sense.

'Sorry?', said the woman, confused.

'…Is there a man working here? Tall, dark hair, deep voice…', John knew how stupid it sounded the minute he
had said it.

What was he thinking? He had just described at least 40% of the men in the London.

A dark haired man comes up to the counter.

'Yes? Can I help?', the man looks quizzically at the woman, and they both stare at John.

It's not Sherlock. Of course it's not Sherlock.

Sherlock's dead.

Sherlock is….dead.

'One more thing, one more miracle, for me. Don'…dead.'

'Noth-Nothing. You just…you put sugar in my coffee. It doesn't matter'.

John walks away from the counter, his eyes burning, almost running out of the shop.

He doesn't see the guilty expression on the motherly woman's face.


1 year, 5 months, 2 weeks after Sherlock's fall. Cemetery.


He sat on the dying grass in front of his headstone, the earthy smell of slightly damn soil feeling his nostrils
and clinging to his coat, and wondered what it felt like to be dead and buried.

He had thought that pretending to be dead might have given him a better insight into the unknown realm that
was beyond even his mind- however he had had no such luck.

Instead he spent his time hiding in one of Mycroft's many flats, and missing John more that was understandable,
or even logical. He knew the theory behind the human emotion, he supposed, but he wasn't supposed to feel it-
after all, he was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes misses no one. They miss him.

He didn't know that for sure of course- for all he knew Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John could all have moved on
with their lives; their existence being easier and quieter for him not being there.

He sulked, his shoulders hitched forward in his rough coat, putting the dying grass out of its misery by pulling it
out instead. The darkness of the night sky shielded him from pedestrian attention, a fact he was always grateful
for, but not anymore.

Who wanted a quiet and easy life anyway? It would be boring, and quiet and easy- no fun at all. He'd argued this
point a hundred times, but mostly he just got a couple of rolled eyes for his trouble. John would snort and just
keep reading his stupid paper.

John. He hadn't seen John Watson read a paper and snort at him for one and a half years.

People. He hadn't spoken to anyone other than Mycroft (he knew he had done a lot of …not so good things in
his life, but what had he done to deserve this?) and very seldomly, his beloved assistant 'Anthea'.

He wondered if his brother was having an affair with the woman; he'd found no evidence yet, but then again,
this was Mycroft. The man laughed in the face of deduction and prided himself on overturning the laws behind it
- after all, the man had left no trace of the fact that he was once a very plump boy.

'What, Sherlock, do you think you are doing here?', said a voice behind Sherlock.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his legs into the school assembly sitting position. Only his brother could pop up at
the thought of his own name.

'Visiting myself, what does it look like?', he said, pulling out more grass, ignoring Mycroft as the man shifted to
stand besides him. 'Not so many people can say that, so I intend to take full advantage of the fact.'

'Death gives us little else to take advantage of, I suppose', Mycroft said softly. Sherlock's face crunched into a
frown. Mycroft hadn't yet berated him for coming back to London, and wasn't trying to tell what to do yet.

'Tell that to Amelia Earhart, I'm sure she had a great time re-inventing herself'.

'You've never been able to prove that theory, Sherlock, and I doubt you can now that you are supposed to be

'Tree bark, Mycroft. From Howland's Island. Thumb prints everywhere. Where do you think those came from?'

'To be sure they were her thumb prints, you would need to have attained her DNA.'

'I do have a DNA sample'.

'What?', Mycroft said, now confused. 'How?'.

'I'll tell you if you tell me how much weight you've put on this summer'.

Mycroft glared at him; one of the rare times he showed any expression at all.

'Never mind. You're simply trying to change the topic from the one at hand. It won't work, Sherlock. What are
you doing here?'

'Must I repeat myself? I came to visit my grave. Conversing with you is like conversing with my Skull.'

'At least talking to me doesn't provide evidence of mental insanity'.

'I'm dead, it doesn't matter if I'm insane. Anyways- I'm a sociopath- very different from being insane, if you
would bother to look it up like I told you to. God, I miss Skull'.

'We've been over this, Sherlock', Mycroft said, urging himself not to kick his little brother, having been presented
with the opportunity from their current positions. 'You are not a sociopath. Mother did have you tested'.

'So I remember'.

'She sends her love by the way. Will you be coming this Christmas? Or the one after?'

'I'll go if you go'.

'Next Christmas then', Mycroft said.

The wind was picking up, blowing soil onto both men's coats and their respective shoes. Sherlock ignored it,
not caring. The wind carried a faint whistling tune, making up for the silence surrounding Sherlock's grave.

Mycroft cleared his throat- a sign that he was unsure of himself. Normally, this would have made Sherlock smile-
he always loved to see his brother uncomfortable, especially when he had caused it- but today he really, really
didn't care.

He could have deduced anything about Mycroft right this second, found out all the things he normally hid from
Sherlock but….

Sherlock felt numb, in a way he had never felt before.

Mycroft shifted again, pulling out his phone. 'I'm going to book you a flight back to Scotland. You will stay at my
flat in Aberdeen, for a while, at least'.

I'm GOING to book…you WILL stay at my flat…

Sherlock stood up in a rush, soil spraying out in his wake.

'No', he said, harshly. 'No. I'm not going back.'


'I'm staying here. I'll find a flat here, I'll stay out of sight until we find Moran, I might get more done-'

'You know that's not possible; what if you're see-'

'I can't take it anymore!', Sherlock hissed, grabbing the front of his elder brother's much more expensive coat.
Mycroft closed his eyes for a brief second, as if he couldn't witness Sherlock's meltdown.

'I can't take it anymore', he said again, more firmly, his hands digging into Mycroft's coat. 'You see? I am dead.
My heart is still beating and my breathing is as constant and boring as ever- but I'm dead.'

Mycroft didn't speak, simply breathed, and reached up to push Sherlock's now trembling hands off his coat.

'Sherlock', he said, using a tone he hadn't had to use since their father had walked out of their lives, and he'd
had to encourage a crying baby brother to come out from under their bunk beds. 'It…won't be long now. Maybe
another 6 months. Or a year. Not long.'

'In 6 months, I'll really be dead', Sherlock said, dramatically. 'I can't…exist like this. Doing nothing for days on
end because I have no cases, not talking to anyone but your insufferable self because John thinks I'm dead,
eating food 3 times a day and watching television because I have no bodies to dissect- this isn't living, Mycroft,
this is a nightmare that keeps on going on and on'.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock's frowning face, the edges of his mouth seeming to be weighed down with the burden
of being hidden.

'In a couple of months, we'll find Moran', Mycroft said, firmly. 'Then you can go back to your life, everything
will be back to normal.'

Sherlock wasn't looking at Mycroft anymore, but down at the words on the gravestone:


'You know things won't be normal', Sherlock said quietly, then looking at his brother behind him. 'Don't you find it
weird that they just wrote my name on my headstone, and nothing else?'

'I don't think anyone would be able to describe you in one sentence', Mycroft said, wryly.

'Or maybe it's because they didn't want to. After all, I'm supposed to be a fake, who would want to remember
someone who lied about everything they've ever done?', Sherlock said.

Mycroft wasn't sure what to say. Some things were better left unsaid.

'You see?', Sherlock said, looking at the headstone again. 'I'm being forgotten'.


'When I go back, no one will care'.

'Caring is a human defect'.

'Well, maybe I need that defect. That defect is the only reason I ever had a friend. It even saved my life, once'.


'If I didn't know you better', Mycroft said. 'I'd say you were becoming human'.

'But you know me, brother, so you know I am not', Sherlock said. 'I just…want to know I'm not forgotten.'

Mycroft sighed. 'You haven't been forgotten, Sherlock'.

'It's been nearly two years. Of course I'm forgotten. People forget their dead cats in a shorter time'.

'You are not a cat, Sherlock. You haven't been forgotten. Trust me'.

'Mycroft, I never trust you. It always ends up with me being hung upside on a rope, having a friend kidnapped
and bribed on a regular basis or ending up naked in a palace'.

'So nice to see I'm loved'.

'The only thing I love about you is your security pass'.

'Sherlock', Mycroft sighed. 'Time to go back to Scotland'.

'Scotland Yard?', Sherlock said sarcastically.

'No, just Scotland', Mycroft teased. Sherlock frowned at him. Mycroft smiled back.

Sherlock didn't like this game.

He sighed.

'Fine. I just wish I could at least….', Mycroft stared at Sherlock, eyebrow raised, waiting for him to finish that
sentence. Sherlock closed his mouth.

'My, my, Sherlock, we are going soft', Mycroft said, smiling ever so slightly.

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft smiled.

'….at least solve a case', Sherlock finished. 'Why, what did you think I was going to say?'

Sherlock sat down again, resuming his grave-staring. Mycroft scuffled around for a bit, for huffing quietly and
also sitting down on the slightly wet grass.

'It's not a crime to miss them you know. You are licensed to miss…him,' Mycroft said slowly.

Sherlock didn't say anything, and together they sat on the wet ground, looking more and more like two school
boys out way past their bedtime.

'I don't miss people. People are boring and so is the sentiment,', Sherlock finally said, standing up.

'Book the flight. I'm ready to go. I just…needed to see London. For a bit', he said.

He knew Mycroft was staring at him. As Sherlock walked away, he could feel the man's glaze punch holes into
the back of his coat. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he turned back to his brother.

'Well?', he almost yelled, into the darkness. Mycroft didn't move. Sherlock walked closer to him, wanting to shake
his brother for his apparently sudden paralysis.

'Are we going to go back to one of stupid flats or not?', Sherlock said. 'I can't wait to be locked up in the middle
of some sheep-ridden village that no doubt you have managed to find, with nothing to do and no one to talk to
expect you and your freakish assistant'.

Mycroft just looked at him, seeming uncharacteristically hesitant, and his face a mixture of guilt and

Sherlock was confused and frustrated, and wondered what Mycroft would do if Sherlock pulled out his riding
crop and whacked him with it.

Probably complain to the queen.

'Whatever, I'm going. You just stand there and stare at my shadow, if its so interesting. Honestly, I don't
understand how your assistant converses with you day after day. I hope you pay her well. Not that she
deserves it, she's almost as bad as you, popping umbrellas out of nowhe-'

'I think I have an idea', Mycroft suddenly said.

'Oh, it's alive', Sherlock said sarcastically to himself. 'What is this amazingly brilliant idea that stopped you
from doing your brotherly duty of aiding me in my quest to remain dead?'

'I think you could see John again. Or one of your other little friends'.

Sherlock's brain stopped dead, which didn't happen ever.

Both men stared at each other, the dark making it hard to see each others expressions.

'Tell me how', Sherlock said.

Maybe he could love his brother after all.

'Do you have any costumes? I'm pretty certain, as one time I'm sure I saw you dressed as a woman on one of
my cameras….'

Never mind.


1 year, 5 months, 3 weeks and 1 day after Sherlock's fall. Pub with Lestrade.


Dark hair. Tall. Long coats, scarves.

They're everywhere.

I'm going mad.

'Molly can't come. Again. I think she's ignoring me…', Greg said loudly, over the bustle of the pub.

There were two men outside the pub door with police uniforms on, and one had curly hair like Sherlock. He isn't
Sherlock, though.

He knew this.

So why was he still looking for a dead man?

The ache in his gut increased, twisting and twisting, attempting to eject the many drinks he had already

'John. John?'

John blinked. 'What?'

'Sherlock-spotting again?', Greg said, smiling sadly. Although it had almost 18 months now since…the fall…it
was still hard to talk about, let alone joke.

'No,' John said. Both men knew he was lying.

'Girl down there is staring at you,' Greg tried again, pointedly looking behind him.

John took a long gulp of his drink.

'There's a guy outside the door staring at you too, if that's more your thing'.

John ruffled. 'I am not gay. I'm not…'

He stared into space again, not remembering the last time he had to affirm his sexuality to someone. When
Sherlock was alive, probably.

'Molly should really be here', Greg said. 'She'd…know what to say to you.'

'I'm not that bad'.

'You don't have to talk to you,' Greg pointed out.

'At least that proves I'm not insane', John said to himself. Greg carried on looking at him, like he was insane.

'I'm sorry', John said quietly.

'No problem.', Greg said quickly. 'But…its been almost 2 years, John…seriously, was there something going on
between you too? You can tell me, I'll only tell Sally and the rest of the department'.

John laughed into his drink, his first real laugh in a while. He drank and drank, trying to feel the empty hole inside
his stomach, to ease the twisting of his gut that seem to scream 'HE'S HERE'.

Sherlock's dead.

'Seriously, that guy is staring at you quite a bit. Police. Not my department, but I can't see his face properly
from here, so I might know him. Maybe he's traffic. Do you have an unpaid parking ticket or something?', Greg
said to him.

John blinked at Greg, the policeman's face a blur of hair and nose to him.

'Don't have a car', John reminded him, his voice slow from trying not to vomit. 'I'm going to go get some air'.

Lestrade looked wary.

'You sure you're okay? You look a bit green'.

'I'm fine. Need air. Outside,' John said quickly, limping fast towards the door, leaving a confused Lestrade.

The cold air hit him hard, making him unsteady on his feet. He held on hard to a lamp post, determined not to
fall into a gutter, like last time.

God, he was turning into Harry. Anything but that. Tomorrow he would….do something about it. Right now, he
wasn't sure what. His head was throbbing, the ground spinning in front of him.

Unable to hold on anymore, he vomited noisily on the lamp post's shoes, retching hard.

The lamp post made a wincing sound, and it suddenly occurred to him that lamp posts don't have shoes.

'Those were new', the lamp post moaned.

He would get the lamp post that was alive. Just like he would get the flat mate that had a psychopath and
cab drivers wanting to kill him.

'Sorry lamp post', he muttered, wiping his mouth and his sweaty forehead, holding onto the lamp post.
Looking up, his blurry vision gave him the outline of a pale face and dark hair.

'Wha- Lamp post? Are you okay? Can you stand by yourself?', said the lamp post.

'No. Yes. Thanks for your help', he said. He let go of the lamp post and attempted to walk away.

Next thing he knew, his face was hard against the ground, his nose bleeding profusely.

'God damn, John! How do you expect me to keep my distance if you insist on carrying on like this?'

John coughed, the blood from his nose making it hard to breath, making his head spin more. The lamp post
pushed a…tissue….to his nose, holding it there.

'Sorry, Lamp post. Hey, how do you know my name, anyways?', he said, conversationally.

'I guessed', said Lamp post, sounding more and more like Sherlock. How was the lamp post sounding like

He giggled.

'What's so funny?', asked the Lamp post, now helping John stand up and walk to the pavement.

John giggled again.

'Are you a figurement of my imagination?', he asked, earnestly. He was starting to feel sick again, but weirdly
happy, for the first time in a…long time.

Lamp posts were friendly things, helping him stand up and sounding like his dead friend et cetera. He should
really be kinder to them from now on.

'Lets get you home, Mycroft said I should just leave you, but you cant be left like this'.

'Don't be silly', said John, befuddled. 'Lamp posts can't go inside houses'.

'Why not?', asked Lamp post, sounding amused.

'Well…', John thought carefully, his brain hurting at the excusion. 'Well…you won't fit. You guys stay outdoors'.

'I can fit fine, although I must admit it's really amusing seeing you like this,' said Lamp post. 'Do I really look
like a Lamp post?'

'You are what you eat'.

'That makes absolutely….no sense'.

John giggled. He realised he was being pushed into a cab. The lamp post gave the cab driver an address,
and before long they were at Baker's Street.

'Hey, Lamp post, I don't live here', he said, with authority. It was the only thing he was sure of at the moment.


'My flat is 10 minutes and 15 seconds from here. This is…', John frowned. 'This is where Mrs Hudson lives.'

'Well, let's be careful not to wake her'.

Somehow, the lamp post had keys to the flat. He felt two..hands…on either side of him, dragging him up the

'John, what do you eat? You've gained about 5 pounds since I've last seen you'.

'3 pounds. And you probably have, I do go to that pub often.'

'5 pounds. And no, I haven't seen you much, in a while'.

The Lamp post was pushing him onto a bed, and started to talk his coat off. John pushed the Lamp post away,
giggling some more.

'What?', Lamp post said, sounding frustrated.

'I'm not that sort of guy', he said, giggling bubbling in his thought.

The lamp post huffed. 'Oh, for God's sake, John'.

The Lamp post turned a…lamp...on, and suddenly all he could see was a mass of curly hair and pale hands,
holding a glass out to him.


John's throat was dry.

'I am imagining things', he croaked.

'Why?', said the curly-haired lamp post.

'You…look a lot like a friend of mine', he said, gulping. He took the glass and drank the water in it.



'Is he a good friend?'.



'He's dead', John informed the Lamp Post. 'And I don't appreciate you impersonating him'.

The Lamp Post laughed, deep and soulfully, just like Sherlock. The soft light from the lamp amplified his features,
making him seem more real than ever. John could see him clearly now, right down to the coat and the purple
shirt he wore under it.

'You clearly miss him', said The Sherlock Impersonator.

'I do, but that's none of your business', John said, furious. 'I don't want to…I don't need…'

The lamp post-turned- Sherlock looked sad for a moment. That's how John was sure it wasn't him.

Sherlock never showed emotion if he could help it.

'I know, John. Go to sleep', he said.

John laid down on the stone-cold bed, hard from lack of use. 'I miss this flat'.

'You should use it'.


'Why not? You like Mrs Hudson. You wouldn't be alone'.

'That's not the point'.

'Then what is?'

John yawned, feeling comfortable, the light of the lamp now dimming in his vision.

'When you were here, the whole flat used to be so…alive', John muttered. 'Now its boring'.

Sherlock didn't speak. John's vision blurred again, and Sherlock was a lamp post.

There was a knock on the door.

'That'll be Mycroft', said Lamp Post-Sherlock. 'I have to go. Look after yourself. No drinking'.

'Bye Bye Mr Lamp Post', John said, sleepily.

As the door opened, John turned tiredly to the Lamp post.

'Hey Lamp Post, how do you know Mycroft anyway?', John mumbled. 'Does he know about your existence?
Does he rule you guys too? Maybe that's how he used to spy on Sherlock.'

The Lamp Post laughed it's Sherlock Laugh again.

'Lamp Posts. Of course', it muttered. 'Bye, John'.

John tried to say goodbye back, but found that his mouth wasn't working.

The next morning, he woke up to Mrs Hudson's screams, and then her questions.

He didn't have answers. He couldn't remember anything.

'Look after yourself. No drinking'.

But he was done with alcohol. Sherlock was gone, and he would get his life back, he would, even if it's the last
thing he did. He had to.

For Sherlock's memory, at least.


1 year, 5 months, 3 weeks after Sherlock's fall. Coffee shop.


Mycroft was talking to him, he was sure, but Sherlock definitely wasn't listening.

He stood behind the back room door, watching as John ran up to the counter and practically yelled at the
woman, Rebecca, that was really an agent that worked under Mycroft. The elderly lady look was her disguise.

Rebecca spoke to John, and every word she said seemed to pull him down. Eventually John muttered something,
crestfallen, and rushed out of the door.

Out of sight.

'We really shouldn't do this, you know', Mycroft said in his ear.

'This was your idea', Sherlock reminded him.

'Momentary lapse in judgement. Won't happen again. I was hoping you might have grown up a bit in the last
year and stopped us both'.

'He looks so…tired', Sherlock said.

'Death can do that to you', Mycroft said, almost sadly.

'He's not the one that's dead', Sherlock reminded him.

'Exactly. The one's we leave behind to deal with the suffering'.

To deal with the suffering.

Sherlock gulped, for the first time feeling real, and very raw, guilt.


1 year, 5 months, 3 weeks and 1 day after Sherlock's fall. Pub with Mycroft.


'He's asleep now, Sherlock. We should get out before your infernal landlady wakes up', Mycroft said, closing
the door behind them both.

'Mycroft', Sherlock berated, dully, not really angry.

He hadn't expected to get to actually speak to John, even if John had no real idea who he was speaking to.
It was amusing, definitely, but more…sad.

A deep ice-like feeling had lodged itself in Sherlock's stomach, refusing to thaw. He swallowed hard, he
attempted to keep his calm.

He did not miss people. But even he had to admit that he had missed John. Missed Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and
even Anderson, somewhere really, really deep inside him. He missed the familiarity, the warmth that he hadn't
even known was there until he saw John again.

They walked through the flat, Sherlock catching a glimpse of his beloved living room and kitchen, which were
once filled with his scattered scientific journals and elaborate experiments, but were now void of any human
activity at all.

Dead. Like him.

'Do you think Mrs Hudson will let me live here again when I come back?', Sherlock said, almost wistfully.

Mycroft looked at him, looking slightly amused.

'Well, she's had several opportunities to rent it to others. Its quite infamous, you know', Mycroft said, softly.

Sherlock looked at him carefully. Mycroft shrugged.

'Sentiment, I presume', he said.


'You aren't as forgotten as you thought'.

'No, I'm not', Sherlock said, with an air of confusion instead of pride, as he looked at the stony fireplace.

Mycroft studied his brother. Sherlock glared at him.

'What?', Sherlock demanded.

'He'll forgive you, you know', Mycroft said. 'All of them will. And they'll believe you. Give them time.'

Sherlock picked imaginary lint of his coat.

'Let's go and find Moran,' Sherlock said, determinedly. 'I want to come home'.

He took one last look at the flat he loved more than he could admit, and knew the next time he stepped in here,
he would be alive again.


3 years after Sherlock's fall, 221B Baker's Street.

John and Sherlock

11 p.m

Time to go to bed. John yawned, wishing he hadn't drunk tea just a few minutes ago. He'd have a hard time
sleeping again- but he couldn't really complain, as he'd sleep more recently than he used to.

John's routine was simple now. Get up. Eat breakfast, read the paper if there was time. Go to work. Eat lunch.
Go back to work. Go home, maybe go see Lestrade or maybe even Molly, if she's around. On weekends he now
goes to see Harry or Bill. Sometimes he even helps Lestrade with a case or two, when he feels up to it. Then he
eats supper, and goes to bed.

He's improved a lot since last year, which was when he spent a lot of time inside a bottle. But he wouldn't do
that to himself, he'd seen what it did to his sister.

Sherlock wouldn't have wanted that. Would he?

John hadn't thought about him for a week now. A new record, he was getting better.

He yawned again, and moved to turn the kitchen lights off, when he noticed the milk carton on the table.

Weird. He could have sworn he put it there.

Tea bag in cup, boil kettle, put in water in cup, stir, milk, stir, put milk back in fridge.



John sighed, rubbing his forehead. He must be aging prematurely, and losing his memory already. He had seen
enough to have had lost his memory long ago.

He opened the fridge. He put the milk in its rightful shelve, next to a bloody bag,

'Bloody thumbs again', he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes, and made to close the fridge- before he froze.

Bloody thumbs in his fridge.

Body parts in his fridge.


Sherlock Holmes.

He felt a slight movement of air behind him, and the scrap of a coat. He swung round, his mind fearful and

Sherlock stood in front of him, in the living room, holding his skull, looking slightly wary.

'Hi, John', he said.

John swayed.

'Hello, Lamp post', John said, stupidly.

Sherlock looked at him curiously.

'You're not drunk'.

'You're not a figurement of my imagination', John breathed. This was real. This was real.

Sherlock smiled, his face lighting up in a way he couldn't remember.

'No, John, as if you could imagine me this accurately', Sherlock sighed, knowing the drama would come once
John came out of his shock.

Sherlock took a deep breath and held out his hand.

'The address is 221b Baker's Street, He said, remembering his wording from all those years ago. 'And the name's
Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you'.

They would start again.

The End

Okay, so that's it, guys, PHEW! I can't believe I wrote all this in one night. I'm tired now, so please
forgive any spelling errors etc you might find, its nearly midnight here. I'll re-check this in the morning.

I think I want to make a few things clear:

First of all- the Amelia Earhart thing….that's open to interpretation, I suppose, but I always imagine
Sherlock having an opinion about it. I'm also sorry if the timeline of this is slightly confusing and if its
Mycroft-Sherlock interaction heavy.

Also, I don't know long the writers of the show intend Sherlock to be gone after the Reichenbach falls,
so I've used what Arthur Conan Doyle proposed: 3 years.

I can't think of anything else, except this is my first Sherlock fanfiction, so I apologize for any lapse in

I wonder if anyone can spot the reference to Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes movies in this story? Go on,

As always REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! The plotbunnies will love you forever.

La Victoire