notcompletelyuseless:

ununpentium:

suchanadorer:

4seiji:

Rereading this. Reccing this.

(After John and Sarah’s wedding, Molly realizes her terrible luck with men doesn’t have to keep her from starting a family all by herself. Sherlock hears about her house hunting and screening sperm donors and panics that she’s about to leave him like John. He offers financial support if she bears his child. It’s not nearly as cracky as it sounds.)

This is what I have spent today doing.  Two chapters before I went to work, two at work, two now when I came home. 

Whatever the internet equivalent of “I couldn’t put it down” is, this is it.  It’s season 2 Molly from before we had a season 2, and I just loved it.

I’ve read this about three times now. YOU MUST READ. A fantastic Molly/Sherlock fic. Even if you’ve never even thought that Sherlock and Molly could possibly go together- read it.

I read this fic ages ago and it’s always stuck in my mind. It’s the only Molly/Sherlock fic that I have come across that I like. 

I don’t usually reblog fanfiction, but when I do, it’d better be worth it. And I think this one is. I’m hooked and halfway through it.

(Edit: AW CRUD THERE ARE SOME KINKY THINGS IN THE MIDDLE AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH NO BUT I MUST READ BUT I DON’T WANNA… UGH, SCROLL BUTTON DON’T FAIL ME NOW)

(When I cannot watch the latest episode of Sherlock, I get depressed. And when I get depressed, I start writing my own scenarios of what I would imagine after the… waterfall scene. Then I get even more depressed.)

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John Watson silently stared out the window at the street before 221B Baker Street. A cab beeped loudly as it drove up to a potential customer. A mailbox sported a new coat of obscene graffiti. A couple hunched over a guidebook, seemingly more interested in the paper’s contents than the actual sights.

He turned his head to another part of the cold, windy setting. There, a woman stood at the door of the house across the street and pulled out a cellphone. A little girl clutched the leash of her giant dog as they trotted by.

The doctor couldn’t believe it. It all seemed so… quiet nowadays.

“Dr. Watson? I hope you don’t mind that I’ve dropped in.”

“Not at all, Holmes.” John turned around to face the older brother, standing obtrusively at the center of the flat. The creases around his mouth tightened as he somehow managed something between a smile and a grimace. “Well, you’ve been dieting.”

Mycroft chuckled, but the dark bags beneath his eyes rather spoiled the effect. “It wasn’t the diet.” He tapped the point of his umbrella on the carpet. “And how about you? Coping? Or perhaps…” He studied John for a moment, but seemed absent in his usual expression of observation. As if half of him evaporated in the air, yet he forced himself to pretend he was fine.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft continued, “your destiny truly belongs with the misadventures of war. I’m sure I can arrange something. I can see that even now you miss it immensely.”

John frowned. “Pardon?”

Mycroft shook his head condescendingly. “Your left hand. It began to twitch yet again only seconds ago.”

The medical man lowered his eyes and stared long and hard at the hand at his side. A period of silence ensued, one long and very painful. Even Mycroft dared not say anything.

Finally, John spoke so quietly that one had to strain his ears to hear him.

“But I wasn’t thinking of the battlefield.”