OKAY SO I HAVE ANOTHER BOOK
IT'S DESTIEL ONE-SHOTS AND IT'S BASICALLY SHIT BUT IF YOU LIKED THESE YOU MIGHT LIKE IT
it's called Destiel Yaaas (with three As)
such a cool title, I know.
But yeah, you should read it. Some of them are actually kind of cute???? ish??????
ANYWAY
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JOHNLOCK ONE-SHOT NOW
"Lily Allen"
DEDICATED TO keekeebeary for several reasons:
1. She is my bae <3
2. She wrote me a one-shot
3. She's basically all you will ever need in life
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
4. Her name is Emma which is cool :)
••-•/••-/-•-•/-•-//-•--/---/••-///
As John entered the cab, he heard the strains of an upbeat song he thought he recognized. Humming along, he tapped on the partition and motioned for the cabbie to turn it up with a smile. The cabbie shrugged and did so.
Lily Allen's popular song "F*** You" had just come on, and John was jammin'. It reminded him of his parents. (A/N: get ready for some feels)
It reminded him of hopeful mornings, dejected afternoons, hungry evenings, and cold nights. It reminded him of the pressure he had been under. Of how his parents had only wanted him and Harry- sorry, Harriet- to become respectable individuals in society. Of how they hadn't cared about either of their wellbeings physically or emotionally, as long as the Watson family reputation was intact.
It reminded him of how Harriet had been kicked out for being "one of those horrible lesbians." Of how his parents had ignored Harriet's success, had refused to even associate her with the spotless name of Watson.
It reminded him of why he had joined the army in the first place. Straight out of medical school, he had decided that he would make something more masculine of himself, while escaping his suffocating family.
All that had changed once he was in. The carnage he had seen, men and women alike dying next to him, in front of his eyes, under his hands. The bullets raining from the sky, striking down friend and foe. The screaming countrymen bleeding out for their people, for obscure causes. The blood, gushing rivulets of it, the dark red staining his boots permanently.
The boots were the first part of his old life that he had burned once he moved into London. The family portraits followed, then the admonishing letters his mother had written. But he still couldn't let go. His past haunted him, more so with scenes of war.
And when John moved into Baker Street, he met someone else with a torn past, and terrible parents, and an estranged sibling. And that little human-shaped piece of heaven, that salve to his cooling wounds, that beautiful, beautiful genius, had a girl's name. And that was okay, because John let it go, and with it, his past.
