Warning: angst, angst, and a lot more angst.
The bottle is screwed shut, resting on the end table by the sofa. Sherlock is sprawled across the cushions, his face slack and his eyes dim. His veins have always been prominent, so tourniquets were never really an issue for him, and the sting of the needle is now pleasant to him. He's grown used to it.
Before John, he only dipped into the bottle during the periods of disquieting tedium; after John, the bottle and needle became his only friends. He turns to them daily, but even the faint rush in his veins and the sweet jump start to his brain are not quite enough anymore. He is bored all the time. He still takes on cases, but rarely leaves the sofa to solve a single one, and he hasn't slept in his bed since that fateful day. In fact, he's fairly certain the sheets in there are still rumpled the way he and John had left them.
He has resumed his usual schedule of barely eating or sleeping, and has taken up all his old habits. His kitchen experiments are flourishing, he is proud to say, and his success rate with cases is still high (though never as high as it was when he had John). The few changes to his routine are insignificant in his own mind, but the same clearly does not hold true for his brother, who visits him every week, much to Sherlock's distaste.
Barely ten minutes after Sherlock has stuffed the needle and bottle into its protective case, he hears his brother's familiar footsteps on the landing. "Back again, Mycroft?" he growls before the man even makes it through the door.
Mycroft's posture is as flawless as ever, and his expression is most disdainful. He raises his eyebrows at his younger brother and sighs. "Always. But at this rate, Sherlock, I'm almost on the verge of giving up on you."
"Please do," Sherlock snaps. "It would make for such a nice change."
"If I don't see you're fed and unharmed, who will?"
"None of your concern."
"I'm not getting into this with you again," Mycroft says shortly. He moves swiftly through the flat, charging through the mess of the kitchen to check the inside of Sherlock's fridge. He sighs. "Empty again, Sherlock, aside from the toe. Miss Hooper, I presume?"
"She brought that to me, yes." Sherlock leans his head back, trying to pretend the pompous bastard is not in 221b and that he is, in fact, alone with his ghosts again. He flexes his arm, feeling the tender spot at the crook of his elbow. He is experiencing the gloriously stimulating effects of the drug in his system. A lazy smile trails across his face without his notice. He is acutely aware of everything, and Mycroft's footsteps are elephantine. He glares up at his brother, who is fixing him with a piercing and accusatory stare.
"High again, I see."
Sherlock snorts. "Going to have me taken in again like last time?"
"It's been two months of this and I haven't yet, so don't push it. I'm trying to take care of you."
"One month, three weeks, five days, and..." He checks his watch. "...Twelve hours."
Mycroft's dramatic sigh is both condescending and a little pitying. "I don't want to see you kill yourself, Sherlock," he says, and his voice is surprisingly quiet. "I almost saw it happen before, but I stopped it then, and I can stop it now. I'd just like to see you make the right choices on your own."
"It's my body," Sherlock hisses. The intense bags under his eyes are a stark violet against the pallid complexion of his face, which hasn't seen the light of day in weeks. He looks truly gaunt. "I'll enjoy it as I please. I am not yours to control, Mycroft."
"No," Mycroft agrees sourly. "But I don't need to control you directly, do I?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. His body is thrumming pleasantly, now. "Yes, brother, I know you've got a vast number of lapdogs at your disposal. Go play with one of them and leave me alone."
"I mean," Mycroft bites, "that I can use any number of ploys to see you're taken care of. I've tried the simpler methods already..."
"I don't believe employing Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to spy on me is really a method. They are dully caring already, and needed no persuasion. How exactly did you think they'd be able to help?"
"Well, the Inspector has managed a few meals on you, hasn't he?"
Sherlock sniffs pointedly.
"But that's not the point, Sherlock. If I want you clean, I can have it be done. If I want you locked away, I can make it so. If I want you nourished, I can have you captured and force-fed. Don't think I won't."
"Stay out of my life, Mycroft. You're already nourished enough for the both of us."
"I am staying out of your life, Sherlock," he snarls, ignoring the latter comment. "But I don't have to. I could intrude so much more, but there's a reason I'm not." Their eyes meet, and the air between them seems to shiver from the intensity of the two great minds. "You're family. I'm trusting you. I'm telling you all this so you'll take care of yourself. I can't force anything on you after what you've lost. Even I wouldn't be that cruel. But you are going to kill yourself if you keep up this path you're on."
"So be it."
There is a sharp exhale from Mycroft. He twiddles his umbrella between his fingers, letting it twirl on a spot on the floor, mere feet from the spot where John's blood had needed to be bleached out of the wood by the police before he was let back into the flat. Sherlock swallows, wallowing in the memory.
Silence stretches between them for a long moment, then Mycroft speaks again. "How are your cases?"
"Fine," he shrugs.
"Still only taking walk-ins?"
"Everything's boring," Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What's the point in going out for anything less than something outstanding?"
"I could give you outstanding if you wanted."
Sherlock pauses, thinking. His lips are pressed tightly into a thin line. "I don't need your charity."
"I'm pretty sure you'll be interested in this one."
The consulting detective leans his head back, nestling into the sofa warmly and closing his eyes against the sight of his brother's looming figure. "Doubtful," he sighs, sinking into the sweet buzzing of his nervous system. The prick of exhaustion nagging at his eyelids is finally starting to ebb away as the opiate floods him thoroughly. He groans and flexes his fist.
Mycroft makes a noise of disgust. "God, look at yourself," he spits. "It's shameful." He takes a deep breath. "I thought you'd at least be interested in knowing that Moran's trial is coming up."
"Lestrade isn't revealing any details. He's deliberately not telling me where it's being held or any everything. Very clever of him." Sherlock looks downright miserable. The pout on his face is comparable to a toddler.
"What if I could tell you that?"
Sherlock's eyes snap open. Mycroft grins.
"Yes, I thought that might pique your interest."
For the first time in the last three months, three weeks, five days, and twelve hours, Sherlock feels a spark in him. It glows dully at first, but he can feel it pulsing, waiting, eager. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, more aware of the feel of his trousers than he should be, thanks to his friend the stimulant. He presses his fingertips together and narrows his pinprick eyes. Mycroft looks devious. "Tell me."
Mycroft flops a a single manilla envelope into Sherlock's lap, and exits silently, a mix of dread and victory swimming in his head. He pauses just outside the door, then turns back. "I wish you never learned to love," he says quietly. Mycroft didn't even realize he meant it until the words were out of his mouth.
"It is a chemical defect of the losing side," Sherlock agrees, speaking as though from a textbook. He barely sounds like himself anymore, though his voice still holds the same deep tremor as always. "I've proved that theory right, in the worst way." He blinks slowly. "It was a mistake."
Mycroft leaves. Sherlock is alone again- alone with his bubbling need for justice, and a single envelope trembling in his emaciated hands.
Sherlock is dressed- an unusual feat for him since John's murder. He looks sharp in a suit this morning, and he feels like himself again: purposeful, and determined. With his mind wrapped around his goal like a python 'round its prey, he feels something like the hawk-eyed detective he used to be. He smirks to himself in the mirror, and for a second he actually sees that man again, the man he was when John had been taking care of him. It gives him the strength to ignore the itching skin at his arm, the skin begging to be broken, for another hit to push the memories back.
He's really outdone himself over the last few months. He'd never admit it to another soul, but Mycroft was right about one thing: Sherlock has actually driven himself into addiction this time around. Now his eyes are burning and his veins are crawling, shuddering under his flesh and screaming for the crystalline vision that only cocaine could bring.
Today, however, he stays sober. He does it for John, who'd always held him back from turning to the needle during times of crisis, and never subtly (for all his best efforts). For his doctor, Sherlock is staving off. He needs to be at his best, his most competent today.
He would like, he thinks with a bitter snort of laughter, to be as present as possible if he is going to die today. He has few expectations of survival on today's mission, and every time he considers the odds, he realizes that he cares a little bit less. Fulfilling his plans will be justice, and dying in the process would be justice, too. Not quite what Mycroft had intended (in fact, quite the opposite), but he doesn't care. It was the simplest decision he's ever made, for the universe demands it of him. He can feel it in his bones. He is as much to blame as Moran for John's death, and he cannot stand that a second longer. He's stooped low- he's become this rage fueled, murderous drug addict, and he is as bad as any common criminal. He is no use this way. He is a waste of space, and his crippling boredom has reached its boiling point, stirred by paralyzing guilt. His brilliant mind feels fried by it all. He barely deserve the air he breathes anymore.
Now, there were at least eleven ways Sherlock could have chosen to go about this, but each one seems like more effort than its worth. No matter what, Sherlock will probably get killed. A part of him is happy with that, egging him on, telling him to take the simplest path, to go the route any brainless murderer would take, a sure fire way to die.
It will be one last act that to make John proud. "Amazing, fantastic, brilliant," he hears distantly. It will be one last act to put things a little bit right, though of course it could never be fully righted without John in the world.
Sherlock frowns. He needs his wits. He smoothes out his blazer with a confident sweep of his large hands, and sighs. He is ready. He feels to make sure that John's old gun is tucked safely away, and leaves the flat, kissing an unawares Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as he goes.
The courthouse is deceptively quiet from the outside. Sherlock watches its heavy doors from across the street with his arms crossed and his face set. There are no reporters outside, a sign of Lestrade's success in his attempt to keep the case a quiet one. Sherlock is glad about this. He does not care for reporters since his downfall in the eyes of the press over three years ago. A few people file out of the building shortly after Sherlock's arrival, and he deduces from their tired eyes and the fact that they aren't leaving that this is a short recess. A few sit on the steps of the building and unwrap pre-packed sandwiches. A couple are smoking cigarettes. One man sits, not eating, not speaking, just looking downcast at his knees. Lestrade. Sherlock crosses the street with a sigh, and when Lestrade spots him, he looks distraught and stands quickly to greet him.
"Sherlock, no," he groans. "You shouldn't be here. I mean, it's nice to see you out and about, but..."
"Did you honestly think you could keep me away?"
Lestrade's face contorts. His mouth is tight, and his brow furrowed. "I thought I could try." He shrugs. "I guess it's useless to keep anything from you."
Sherlock gives a stiff breath of laughter. "Obviously."
"Jesus, Sherlock." Lestrade is shaking his head. "You look horrible."
"So I've been told," Sherlock scoffs. He is quite aware how he looks, thinned out and wan with dark circles beneath his dull, colorless eyes.
Lestrade just nods uncomfortably. They fall into silence, and Sherlock can tell from his body language and the intensity in his eyes that Lestrade is thinking about John. How could he not be, anyway? He's spent the last two months looking over case details of John's murder so it would, of course, be living in the foreground of his mind. How terrible for him.
"It might please you to know, Sherlock," says the Detective Inspector, "that the case is really open and shut. It's taken so long only because of all the other cases Moran turned out to be linked to."
Sherlock's lips twitched. "I know." He glares at the doors, a fire building in his stomach. He has said his goodbyes already to Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, but without revealing the true nature of his mission. None of them know he will probably die, and neither does Lestrade. Lestrade may even be there when it happens. Sherlock feels a small pang in his stomach at the thought of leaving them, of giving them a second loss to grieve in just two month.
It would, however, be worth it. Nothing is more important than justice. Nothing is more important than John.
"Right... so," Lestrade asks hesitantly, "why are you here, then, if you already know the outcome of the trial? You know you can't go in there. You know I won't let you."
Sherlock says nothing. He just glares. His eyes are sparkling, and his skin looks particularly translucent as the daylight beats down on him for the first time in so long. Lestrade sighs. "Just... stay out of there, okay?" He pauses, looking concerned. Then he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly. Sherlock acknowledges this comforting touch with a single nod. "Look, it's good to see you out of doors, Sherlock. I've got to get back, but... be okay, yeah?"
Sherlock allows a grunt in response. He does not want to tell Lestrade that he will not be okay; that he will never be okay; that he will only be okay when he is with John again; that Lestrade will most likely never see him alive again after the day is over. He watches Lestrade go with only a tiny stab of regret.
No feeling of remorse for his other friends could even come close to the emptiness growing in his heart where John used to lie. Nothing was even comparable. John had been everything to him. John had made the noise in Sherlock's overactive mind go still with just a kiss, a touch, with his arms around him.
He blinks, swallowing down an ache in his throat as Lestrade retreats back into the courthouse. Before the other attendees follow, Sherlock stops one by the arm and requests a smoke. The man is generous, and Sherlock accepts the offer of a light, as well.
A deep inhale makes Sherlock light-headed. He's malnourished and overtired. When the courthouse front is bare once more, Sherlock takes a seat on the steps, which are cold beneath him, and hard on his pelvis.
He savors the cigarette, contemplating the heavy weapon in his coat. He could kill Moran in any number of methods, but this way is fitting. This is sentiment, and at this point Sherlock has no care for how weak it makes him, for how dangerous it is. The end is in sight, so what does it matter? The last relic of John, who had so few personal items of his own, is being put to proper use. He feels the gun at his breast with splayed fingers, holding in a deep breath of tobacco and feeling it throb in his lungs. John had saved his life with this gun more than once. The first night they met, John had killed a man for him. Now, on Sherlock's last day, it was right that he should kill a man for John. The world would turn properly again.
The tiny part of Sherlock that still holds any semblance of his former self is shaking its head. "Stupid," it is saying. "You've become overly sentimental. Weak. Illogical. Useless. This is why people who come out on top never fall in love. Love would defeat them. It is a terrible chemical failure that should have been avoided at all costs. I can't believe you, of all people, fell into such a dreaded trap."
Sherlock shuts his eyes tight. That's not him anymore. He had been functioning well enough before Mycroft had tried to help him by giving him this time and place, and now? He knew Mycroft had meant well, had meant to give him motivation to rouse his genius again and make him cold as ever, but how long had that lasted? Only for that small stretch of time. Now, sitting on these steps with his head in his hands, smoke billowing from his nostrils and slightly parted lips, he is a phantom; a whisper of a man, with one foot out the door.
He rolls the cigarette between his long fingers, watching the thin body slide between his knuckles while the butt sizzles down. He puts it to his lips again and drags deeply. God, he missed this. He experiences a sharp pain in his heart at the feel of the thing between his lips. He remembers John's mouth, suddenly, as though their last kiss had only been this morning. He remembers it all the time, in fact.
Sometimes when he's taken enough into his veins, he actually forgets that John is gone. He talks to him, wonders when he'll get to kiss him again, searches for him in the flat with waiting arms. But now, sobriety makes him ache. He can feel John's absence on every inch of his body. He can't believe John suffered this for three years, this knowledge that he was dead, and this horrible feeling of loss. John is- was- clearly a stronger man than he. Sherlock chokes back a sob. His misery is provoking a brutally strong pull on his heat that he refuses to give in to. He holds it in, saving that pain for the moment it will count.
He waits because it is the last thing he'll ever do, because waiting is all he has left: waiting futilely for John to come home; waiting for Moran to die.
He waits because this waiting could never compare to the waiting he would otherwise endure after today, waiting to die in the far off future.
Breathing is boring. Everything is boring. Cases hold so little interest, now. Every time he solves one, just as that rush of self importance strikes him, he turns expectantly to hear John's compliments, but they never come. Every time, the disappointment far outweighs any glee he felt a second earlier, and so the work has ceased to matter. If the work doesn't matter, then nothing does.
So he waits: waits for it all to end; waits so he can kill; waits so he can die sooner rather than later.
Time slides by in millimeters. Sherlock's blood is drumming in his ears with every passing second and he revels in every moment of this waiting, trying to understand his body as it sits, the way it functions from the inside out, the way every part of him feels as skin and tissue and bone. He has never been so aware of his breathing before.
Half an hour- or was it half the day?- after flicking the tiny butt of the cigarette to the ground, the doors behind him open. He stands suddenly and moves down the steps to stand on the pavement and let strangers pass him. They file past, and Sherlock observes each of them with a particularly sharp eye. His talent is frantic from disuse, and he breathes a sigh of relief with every involuntary deduction that springs to light just from these quick glances. It's like a switch has been flipped in his mind, and maybe- he thinks for a second- just maybe he can still go about his life the way it was; maybe he can actually go back to solving crimes with Lestrade's allowance, and survive without a friend in the world because god it feels so good to know things other people don't, and maybe this is still worth it... and then the crowd passed, and Sherlock is left standing there on frozen limbs.
The next wave of people issue out, and Sherlock swings his head around, and there's Lestrade again. The Inspector catches sight of him and rolls his eyes. "You can't still be here," he says, trying to wave Sherlock away. "Please, just go. Don't make me have you arrested, Sherlock."
But that's when he sees him. The man with the mop of dirty blonde hair and sunken eyes, the man with icy eyes to match Sherlock's, and a permanent frown.
All the doubt that had flooded him a second ago is gone in seconds, burnt out by the sudden flame of rage and need. All he's been suppressing is flooding out of him, full force. His flesh is aching, his eyes are burning, and he needs to be on him, needs to see the light go out of the bastard who removed his only friend from the world. He pushes past Lestrade, and moves straight toward the policemen walking Moran towards the parked vehicle. They look wary, but the one keeping Moran's cuffed hands behind him is still hurrying him forward.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" Lestrade is calling, and Sherlock can tell his gun is out. Sherlock is not stupid enough to retrieve John's gun just yet, though, for it would be a true travesty to be shot down before he could take out Moran. "Stop there, Sherlock! I mean it!" Sherlock can hear him swearing behind him, furious and hesitant. Some other cops have stepped in front of Sherlock, but he is a brick wall on the move, and no one can stand in his path. Several guns have been drawn, and- heart thudding, teeth chattering, fingers steady- Sherlock lunges with a bellowing roar.
Moran does not look surprised as he's tackled to the ground, and he does not even look angry. He looks impassive, and almost grateful. "Finally. Thank you," he croaks, and it is so reminiscent of Moriarty that Sherlock's fury multiplies tenfold.
Sherlock snarls, and out comes the gun.
He hears shouting from behind him, and knows they're willing to shoot. It's now or never, and Moran is daring him with his cold eyes. "Do it."
The nose of the weapon is at Moran's neck so fast, no one has time to react before it happens.
Blood sprays across the pavement, and the street is suddenly alight with gunfire.
Sherlock feels the pain in three different places, webbing outward to burn in every cell throughout his body. He grimaces, and falls forward onto the scattered throat of the dead assassin beneath him. All he can see is Moran's serene expression, and the color red. Red everywhere. Some of it's his, dripping into the puddle of Moran. The sensation of the bullets in him are searing into total agony and he shakes violently, writhing, coughing, tasting his own coppery fluid pooling in his mouth. He can feel a bullet in the top of his spine, another in his side, and another by his ribcage. His vision's gone blurry. All he sees is rippling crimson.
Suddenly it fades into euphoria. There are hands on him, pulling him off the body to check his pulse. He can hear Lestrade above him cursing in a strained voice, choking back tears, feel the Inspector fumbling for his limp wrist, but he cannot see him. His vision's gone black. His lips have slipped into a placid smile, and god, everything's really going to be alright, isn't it? Yes. Yes, it's fine, now. John has been avenged at last, and oh- John, he thinks with all he's got left. Yes. John.
John, with that sweet round face, the sandy hair, the premature lines on his forehead from the stress of Sherlock's lifestyle, the soft skin of his chest, the damaged spot of his battle wound, the taut muscle of his stomach and buttocks, the gentle pressure of his lips- wet, warm, loving- and the tenderness of John's sigh against his own neck, yes. John. He mistakes the hands lifting him for John's, and tries to say his name, but his throat has closed up. He coughs, desperate to call out to him. "John," he manages. "John."
John. His heart bleeds the name. John. John.
Until his last heartbeat.
The steps up to Mycroft's door are actually marble. Greg marvels at them every time. Marble. Jesus.
He can barely feel his body as he moves his fist up, poising over the door to knock. Everything is so surreal. For a minute, he considers turning around right now and not going through with this visit, just leaving without Mycroft ever knowing he was here.
But to assume one could not have a Holmes notice something would be naive. He should know better. The door opens just as he turns his back on it.
Greg swings around to look Mycroft in the face. His smile is smug for a second, but upon catching sight of Greg's face, he becomes crestfallen. He looks as though someone has just placed a bad smell under his nose, and proceeds into the hallway with an expectant gesture to Greg that plainly indicates he should follow. Greg does as he is told. He'd been in Mycroft's manor a few times before, but never for anything so grim. He has been summoned many times under the pretense of looking after Sherlock, and there were also multiple times after Sherlock's overdose so many years ago for some morose conversation and the occasional dinner. Since, they have been on mildly friendly terms; as friendly as one can be with a man like Mycroft Holmes. But today, a gloomy air hangs tangibly around Greg, and he doesn't want to open his mouth for fear of the finality his words bring. Mycroft can tell. He can always tell.
They step into the enormous sitting room on the first floor, high ceilinged and stocked with plush, ornate armchairs. Greg sits without being offered. He is so tired. He hasn't slept in two days, and can't imagine sleeping tonight, not after this morning, not after...
"I take it something has happened to my brother, Inspector? You wouldn't be here otherwise."
"Was it you?" Greg bursts suddenly. He cannot stop himself. His eyes are brimming, but his face is remarkably stoic. He has trained himself so well. Mycroft's brow furrows, but his eyes twinkle knowingly. "Was it you, who... who told him where the trial would be?"
Mycroft's expression is somber. "It was."
"What good could you possibly expect to come of that? Jesus, Mycroft, I mean..."
The Holmes brother sinks to his sofa, and he looks contemplative, bordering on stricken. In this state, something about his eyes and nose are identical to Sherlock, and Greg cannot look at him. He swallows, and glances down at his knees.
"My brother is dead, isn't he?"
The silence following that sentence throbs in Greg's ears. He barely even needs to nod, but does so out of respect. "How could you do that to him?"
"I thought he was stronger than that," Mycroft says tensely. "I thought it would give him something to focus on. I didn't think..."
"You underestimated his love for John, that's what you did." Greg finds his tone much more accusatory and bitter than he'd meant it to be.
Mycroft looks devastated. "Yes."
"Never underestimate love, Mycroft. Your stupidity and your coldhearted inability to understand real human emotion is what got your brother killed, damn it. It didn't occur to you what that sort of mission could do to someone grieving, because you'll never know love like that, Mycroft. It's your fault."
Mycroft glares, successfully managing to look menacing despite the wetness of his eyes. "Do you remember who you're speaking to?"
"I do," Greg sneers, "and I don't care! You're nothing right now except a brother. A person who's just lost family. We're both feeling that loss, Mycroft, so don't act all superior. This is the kind of feeling people can feel together, to not feel so alone."
"Alone protects me."
Greg snorts. The older Holmes sounds just like Sherlock. "Why? Because love makes a person weak?"
"You saw what it's done to my brother and the good doctor."
Something horrible drops in Greg's stomach. He feels sick with loss. "Love didn't do that," he pleads. "Love made them strong. Sebastian Moran killed them, not love. They didn't have nearly the time they deserved to prove how strong their love could make them, and then they..." He swallows, feeling stupider with every word he speaks. "Jesus, I don't know why I'm even trying to explain this to you." He stands quickly. "I came here in person because I thought it would be nice, that I could be of some comfort, that it would be good for us both to see a familiar face, now that..." He shakes his head. "This is stupid. I'll just... go."
Mycroft does not tell him not to go, nor does he stop him on his way out the door, but a deep sigh from behind him does make Greg pause a moment in his quick escape. He turns to look at the government man, whose deeply solemn face appears to glow in the lamplight. He looks oddly handsome from this angle. "Thank you for your kindness, Gregory." Greg feels a flutter in his heart, something warm, like having his friend back for just a second. "I know you were a wonderful friend to Sherlock, and I'm sorry you had to see his downfall." For a second, Greg wants to ask how he knows that he was there to see Sherlock get shot, but then he remembers that this is a Holmes he is talking to. "Thank you for being with him at his last, and thank you for your visit. Please, feel free to stop by again at any time." Mycroft raises his eyebrows and stares Greg dead in the eye. "And believe me, Inspector, I do not offer such a thing lightly.
"I imagine you wouldn't. Thanks, Mycroft. I appreciate the offer." A beat passes between them, and Greg nods a little awkwardly. "See you around, then."
He leaves, and behind him he can just faintly make out Mycroft's breathy farewell.
From out in the hall, Greg swears he can hear the quietest of sobs waft toward him from the lavish sitting room.
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, his heart breaking all over again as he spots the blood on his sleeve: the blood of a good man both bettered and destroyed by love.
My headcanon: Gregory Lestrade is the biggest Johnlock shipper there ever was. Anyway, I'm really sorry for this angst fic I've given you all. God, I need something seriously happy after this. Jesus fucking christ. I'm so sorry I posted this story to begin with. But on the bright side... what's that? What's that I see glimmering in the distance? Is that an angsty Mystrade sequel I see? Perhaps! WHO KNOWS? ONLY TIME WILL TELL!
Hope you've enjoyed this little shit I've written. Let me know what you think so that I may improve my writing for the future, please! Thanks, loves!