There’s also a ton of Red Riding Hood crossovers.
Definitely Alone on the Water if you haven’t read that yet. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6914974/1/Alone-On-the-Water
Also, The Heart in the Whole is amazing. It’s about Blind!Sherlock. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6435170/1/The-Heart-In-The-Whole
This one’s short and sweet. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8035188/1/Text-Me-When-It-s-Over
I haven’t read it either but here’s a link if you want to: http://archiveofourown.org/works/477669/chapters/829206
Hope you like them! :)
You heard her followers!
How about this one? http://archiveofourown.org/works/556929/chapters/993417
Yep, I just reblogged it. :)
John distantly remembered reading something about people who survived suicide jumps, that the majority of them found that three quarters of the way down they realised that everything that had caused them to jump could be fixed, that they could survive through it all. Before the incident, John had thought that it was true, that anything could be fixed. Now, he had shifted into the category which believed the opposite. He honestly couldn’t see the point in going through life in a dull haze, not often knowing or caring what was going on when his detective wasn’t with him.
He had thought about other methods, hadn’t really planned to jump from a bridge, had thought about pills, which seemed a little weak, just going to sleep and never waking up again. And if someone got to him in time, could be prevented, pump his stomach. On a particularly bad day he had turned his gun over in his hands, finger drifting over the trigger. he had eventually put it away, feeling that he had seen too many people die because of guns, and that he didn’t want to submit Mrs Hudson to finding him like that.
The water looked cold. He knew that it wouldn’t be the fall that killed him, it would be the cold and water, getting into his lungs. The river was deep.
In the few seconds that all of this took for all of that to pass through his head, a small crowd had stopped and gathered. A couple of people had asked them what he was doing- As if it wasn’t obvious. And yet, none of them had attempted to stop him or get him off of the railing. Figures.
His stomach gave a little flip at the distance down. He had left his own version of a note- On Sherlock’s phone-That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?- So he had no reason to prolong this. His foot wavered in the empty air for a second before he tipped forward and he was falling.
One of the last things that he had expected was for some stranger to grab hold of his arm a split second before he did fell, fingers digging in tightly, a strong enough grip to drag whomever it was right along with him.
They hit the water, fully submerging under the cold water for a few seconds, before natural buoyancy kicked in and they popped back up to the surface, John already swearing.
'What the fuck are you doing?!' He was in the process of wiping water out of his eyes when a familiar, deep baritone answered him, the voice he hadn't heard in three years, that he had been missing desperately, that he had wished for every single one of those days.
'I could ask you the same question.'
John froze, before remembering that the river was deep, and kicking to stay afloat. He slowly turned around to face- no, he died. Either it was a one in a billion chance, the world mocking him by letting him find someone with a voice like his, or it was-
'Sherlock.' The name left him in as a breathy half question.
They were both soaking, the detective and the doctor. Drops of water were dripping down them, off wet strands of hair, winding their way down skin, with the intention to join their brethren. There was a few seconds of silence, in which John raked his eyes over the other man, as if trying to memorise every new detail that had appeared since he had last seen him. Sherlock seemed to be wearing a coat, not unlike the one he used to wear while running around London, a simple scarf, and(as a guess, the water made it difficult to tell,) a pair of fairly plain trousers. All of which were, obviously, now waterlogged, due to the dip in the river.
Sherlock had already known how John was doing, what he looked like, heck, possibly even what he had for breakfast(if he had had breakfast.) He kept his eyes low, looking at the water off to the side of them, averting his eyes, looking ever so slightly awkward. He shifted slightly, kicking, trying to keep his head above the line where water meets air, at which John hesitantly stretched out a hand, to see that he wasn’t just another delusion.
Part of the reason why John had become sick of the world, and was losing touch with reality, was because he had kept thinking that he had seen Sherlock. Those were mainly the times where he had snapped out of the hazy dream and properly paid attention to his surroundings. Always ended up disappointed. A few times he had thought that he had seen the detective out of the corner of his eye, heard his voice, but if this was an hallucination, then it was the most realistic one he had seen, had only caught glimpses before, and not to mention that it picked a hell of a time to show up. But the hand on his arm had been real, solid. So..
His fingers came into contact with the coat fabric. Rough, a little coarse. Not particularly good quality, but would hold out against the weather, and could stand a little damage.
John’s jaw locked. He felt the urge to scream at him, anything that came to mind, coupled with the urge to hit him, though that option was mainly limited to splashing childishly while they were still in the river. His gaze shifted toward the land, and he could see Sherlock’s head turn to look at it as well. There was a short pause, filled by the water lapping against them, before John cleared his throat.
'Right.' His tone sounded like he was holding back some form of strong emotion, making the word sound final, the conversation closed. He started moving toward the land, started swimming, which he hadn't done in a while. He didn't talk about that, though he could hear Sherlock doing the same. He pulled himself onto the land, stumbling a little, already having gotten used to the water, and squeezed as much liquid out of his clothes as possible, purposely not looking at the other man. He didn't speak. He felt like a child, ignoring someone because you're mad at them. He chose to walk back to the flat, partly because he didn't want to get the seats of a cab wet, and he needed the time to straighten his thoughts out, even if it would be cold. He noted that Sherlock tagged along behind him.
Sherlock had decided not to say anything, feeling that if he did, John would snap and start raging at him, though that was almost impossible to prevent, and he knew that it was going to happen, sooner or later.
John’s feelings were rather tangled and confused, and he was glad for the walk to get some time to try and pick it apart. Part of him wanted to start screaming at Sherlock, anything at all, as long as it came out in volume, and as long as he included somewhere something along the lines of, 'Fuck you, why did you leave me?!' A different part was glad, for the fact that Sherlock had survived, overjoyed actually. Another was confused, as to how he did it, he had checked for a pulse, it hadn’t been there. And a small part that had made itself known wanted to simply shove the detective against the nearest thing that could hold their weight and kiss him. He shoved that last one to the side, knowing that he would almost definitely dwell on it later, when he had properly come to grips with the fact that Sherlock was alive.