werejohn ficlet
The occasional client still contacts John. Usually he declines. Sometimes he’ll shepherd them towards a sympathetic police officer he used to know. He doesn’t do The Work anymore. He doesn’t do much of anything. One such worried face arrives at his door step over a year after Sherlock’s death. He only takes a look into things because it’s so reminiscent of the H.O.U.N.D. case. He imagines he could sort things out quickly and clue in Lestrade to the situation. It’s not what he thinks at all. In the horrible aftermath he he begins to wish he was dead too.
Please write more stitchy!
Here, I wrote you terrible poetry, though I hope it is not as bad as our dear, beloved William The Bloody (awful poet) wrote:
I love you in the evening and early in the morn,
whether you are posting crafts or your delicious porn.
Victorian or modern your writing is sublime
and your jewelry is delightful! I would wear it any time.
Though I haven’t tried them yet, dear, I am sure your floggers sting.
In short you are amazing when blogging anything.
I look forward to your posts, dear, as they arrive upon my dash
And if someone doesn’t like it,
Then they can kiss my ass.
P.S. I know that dash and ass don’t rhyme, but they are close enough. Emily Dickinson used false rhymes all the time. That makes it ok, right?
P.P.S. I tried to work in effulgent but it just didn’t happen. 🙂
Proof positive that my friends are amazing.
