Fandom is focus. Fandom is obsession. Fandom is insatiable consumption. Fandom is sitting for hours in front of a TV screen a movie screen a computer screen with a comic book a novel on your lap. Fandom is eyestrain and carpal tunnel syndrome and not enough exercise and staying up way, way past your bedtime.
Fandom is people you don’t tell your mother you’re meeting. Fandom is people in the closet, people out and proud, people in costumes, people in T-shirts with slogans only fifty others would understand. Fandom is a loud dinner conversation scaring the waiter and every table nearby.
Fandom is you in Germany and me in the US and him in Australia and her in Japan. Fandom is a sofabed in New York, a roadtrip to Oxnard, a friend behind a face in London. Fandom talks past timezones and accents and backgrounds. Fandom is conversation. Communication. Contact.
Fandom is drama. Fandom is melodrama. Fandom is high school. Fandom is Snacky’s law and Godwin’s law and Murphy’s law. Fandom is smarter than you. Fandom is stupider than you. Fandom is five arguments over and over and over again. Fandom is the first time you’ve ever had them.
Fandom is female. Fandom is male. Fandom lets female play at being male. Fandom bends gender, straight, gay, prude, promiscuous. Fandom is fantasy. Fandom doesn’t care about norms or taboos or boundaries. Fandom cares too much about norms and taboos and boundaries. Fandom is not real life. Fandom is closer than real life. Fandom knows what you’re really like in the bedroom. Fandom is how you would never, could never be in the bedroom.
Fandom is shipping, never shipping, het, slash, gen, none of the above, more than the above. Fandom is love for characters you didn’t create. Fandom is recreating the characters you didn’t create. Fandom is appropriation, subversion, dissention. Fandom is adoration, extrapolation, imitation. Fandom is dissection, criticism, interpretation. Fandom is changing, experimenting, attempting.
Fandom is creating. Fandom is drawing, painting, vidding: nine seasons in four minutes of love. Fandom is words, language, authoring. Fandom is essays, stories, betas, parodies, filks, zines, usenet posts, blog posts, message board posts, emails, chats, petitions, wank, concrit, feedback, recs. Fandom is writing for the first time since you were twelve. Fandom is finally calling yourself a writer.
Fandom is signal and response. Fandom is a stranger moving you to tears, anger, laughter. Fandom is you moving a stranger to speak.
Fandom is distraction. Fandom is endangering your job, your grades, your relationships, your bank account. Fandom gets no work done. Fandom is too much work. Fandom was/is just a phase. Fandom could never be just a phase. Fandom is where you found a friend, a sister, a kindred spirit. Fandom is where you found a talent, a love, a reason.
Fandom is where you found yourself."
Shipping is very unhealthy and I suggest that you do a lot more of it. It will ruin your life; and you will love every god-damn minute of it.
I want you to be the happy to my ending.
causally writing some really creepy Frerard that isn’t really as creepy as I intended and really doesn’t make too much sense.
that awkward moment when you die just because of a picture.
Because. I actually hated what I wrote for this before. But I don’t feel like deleting it.
So I’m going to write something else.
John Watson returned as soon as his shift at the hospital was over, making his way back to 221B to check on Sherlock. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, before strengthening his resolve and opening the door to find Mrs. Hudson sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.
A small sob escaped her mouth through withered fingers. He immediately rushed toward her, kneeling in front of her and moving her hands away from her face. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly. “Is it Sherlock? Has he had one of his fits?”
She nodded, waving her hand toward the living room. He immediately straightened and hurried into the room, only to find his housemate crumpled in a chair, breathing heavily, hair completely messed up, face red. He approached the man cautiously, stretching a hand toward him.
It was only when he saw the rolled sleeve and the punctures in Sherlock’s arm that he realized what had happened. He quickly took the needle away from Sherlock and kneeling before him, checking his pulse. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but not high enough to cause alarm. He had just had a fright. He seemed to be getting those more and more often lately.
“Sherlock,” he whispered.
However, the other man didn’t seem to hear him. He simply continued to stare down at the carpet, completely motionless.
“Voices…” Sherlock said after a moment. “I can hear him, John…all the time…he’s going to burn me, John…”
John sighed, raising a hand to brush against Sherlock’s cheek. He had been talking about this voice for ages. Moriarty, he called it. John was sure that Sherlock was convinced the man was real. He would wake up in terror every night, plagued by this elusive notion, Moriarty.
“Nobody’s going to burn you, Sherlock. It’s in your head,” he said softly, holding his flatmate. “Just in your head.”
“Make him leave…” Sherlock said, a trace of a whimper in his voice.
“Yes, yes, he’s gone, Sherlock. He was never here,” John said soothingly, stroking the back of Sherlock’s head.
Soon after, John put Sherlock to bed after administering his medication.
“I don’t know what would happen to him, if it wasn’t for you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hand shaking slightly as she took a cup of tea from John. “He probably would have died that day, at St. Barts.”
John closed his eyes. He had been trying to forget that incident, when he found Sherlock raving on the top of St. Barts, screaming to the cosmos about being ordinary. If John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock when he did, he probably would have jumped and fallen to his death.
“One more thing, Doctor,” she said, putting her cup down. “What’s Moriarty?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“I’m not as good as you are with all this inspirational stuff and everything but… do you know why John Watson really stays with Sherlock Holmes?”
Frank finally looked up, confused by the change of subject. “Uhm… Other than the fact that they’re obviously gay?” He shook his head curiously. “I have no idea. Why?”
“Because Sherlock’s a natural genius – right? And a person like that comes with a lot of drama; they’re so out there that they can’t help but stir things up, no matter what they do. That’s just how it is. So what they need is a right hand to keep them from escalating completely, like John Watson, for example.” Gerard shrugged. “That’s kinda why I’m here, you know? I’ll be your right hand if only you could calm down a little, so I can keep up with you. Meet me halfway or something.”
Sherlock reference and Frerard? Does it get any better?!