The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)
  • Reads 34,198
  • Votes 1,436
  • Parts 22
  • Time 1h 15m
  • Reads 34,198
  • Votes 1,436
  • Parts 22
  • Time 1h 15m
Complete, First published Nov 20, 2016
John looked peaceful, his head lulling back and hands clasped together in his lap. His mouth was slightly open, and his breathing even. How had he fallen asleep so perfectly? Most people who had fallen asleep around Sherlock (which was, admittedly, not many) had slept awfully, loud and snorty, sometimes thrashing around, sometimes making weird sounds you're only capable of making while asleep. 

He sat next to the doctor, being careful not to disturb his slumber. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to get to his mind palace. To his dismay, too many thoughts cluttered his head. That had never happened before. Sherlock groaned softly, keeping his eyes closed. Maybe he should get some sleep. He knew John would want him to.

"Ah John, what would I do without you?" Sherlock whispered to the sleeping man beside him on the couch. "I'd be a half dead robot if you weren't here. I almost was. I almost was." A small sigh escaped his lips as he slipped into the cool relief of sleep.
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I believe in you - Sherlock Fanfiction. by Katiie_Sykes
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[Sherlock x Female OC] The thing is, there is an empty, gaping hole at the base of John's throat where his overwhelming guilt and periodic bouts of torturous grief used to be. It would be so easy to... to be angry and punch a hole through the wall, through the foam of his pillow -- drive his fist through Sherlock's heart. But he remembers; in the most tragic and inopportune of fashion, remembers how angry he had been when Sherlock had jumped, how furious he had been at his funeral, and how it hadn't stopped him from breaking down at his grave nonetheless. The thing about his anger is this: it does nothing but leave him behind in the end, a bundle of nerves and frailty in his bones and an unsteady sway to his gait. It does nothing at all, but reduce marginally the constant, suffocating oppressiveness of his days bleeding into one another with a burst of adrenaline. The thing about his anger is this: it doesn't give him back Sherlock. So he gets a new flatmate- a woman named Holland. They were great friends at school and in fear he would be lonely again after Sherlock died he started to meet up with her, and soon, she moved in with him. They're just friends, though. No one could have a bond with John like Sherlock did. Sherlock was his best friend. But then Sherlock returns, and John is more furious than ever at him. Also, Sherlock and Holland seem to bond quite well, which is something Sherlock finds too complicated to explain itself.
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They eventually ended up upstairs, where people rarely ventured. John sat at a table while Sherlock continued to search. He pulled a book out and flipped it open to look at the pages. Just as he did, light shone through one of the windows and illuminated him. Motes of dust drifted around his soft curls. Sunlight bounced off his high cheekbones and his lips pressed together in concentration. John fidgeted in his seat, his face suddenly hot and itchy.