Love, GregDear Sherlock.I wanted to smoke last night. I really, really did. You know how that feels, don't you? But I want you to know that I didn't. I didn't touch a single cigarette. Because I made you a promise, and I want you to know that I am going to keep it.I want you to know that I love you, and I always have. Not like that. I think of you as a son to me, Sherlock, ever since we met. You gave me a son when I couldn't have my own. And thank you for that. I love you so much, and I will never stop loving you.And you were right, I do need you. I've needed you so much, all this time. Maybe you don't realize everything you've done for me, but I
Forty Three Thousand Eight HundredDonovan's been quiet ever since it happened. Is that guilt? Lestrade doesn't know, and Lestrade doesn't care.Sherlock Holmes has been dead for one month.What Donovan should be doing is bragging and gloating. But she's not. They avoid each other and it becomes routine, so that when he sees her down the end of the corridor talking to Anderson it's the first time he's seen her in weeks. He plans to walk straight past, but as he comes near enough to hear their conversation he stops dead.They're talking about Sherlock."I always knew he was a freak." Anderson is saying, and that's all Lestrade hears of the conversation but that's enough bec
LightsOne spring night five years before Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson he gets a blue scarf.- - -He finds Sherlock sleeping in a gutter - literally, a gutter, his cheek pressed against the metal grate. His face is utterly filthy, the porcelain skin marred by dirt, but even in this state he is beautiful. Sherlock's dark lashes brush his dirty cheeks, and his long unruly curls are spread out on the ground. His hair needs a wash. He is so young, made younger by sleep, and Lestrade's heart aches to see this. It is not just the fact that such a beautiful, brilliant child uses a filthy gutter for his bed, but what this choice of sleeping accommod
This photo of him is just so...