Upon this Throne sits a King in a worn-out jumper and jeans and a crown of amber honey. He is compact, but terribly quick and strong. His hair is the gleaming brown-gold-silver of bravery, and his smile is comforting as a nest of blankets. One eye is temper, the other patience, and they are both a lovely bright blue.
He is John. He is the Heart.
The other half of my “Upon This Throne” art, based off the lovely fic by ifonlynotnever. I honestly intended to draw the thrones on which John and Sherlock’s Queen sat, but I only finished this at 3am and by that time drawing a toothpick would’ve been beyond me.
♥ Thank you so much for doing this!
Upon this Throne sits a Queen with a bloodstained dress and a crown of beautiful horrors. Her nails are lacquered the colour of motives and her hair is dyed the colour of deceit. One eye is guilt, the other innocence, and her lips are parted in a smile like adrenaline.
She is the Work. She is the Head.
This is an artwork based of the amazing one-shot ”Upon This Throne” by ifonlynotnever. It’s a very beautifully written fic and I’d highly recommend it to anyone. It’s about the Queen of Sherlock’s mind palace, and eventually the King, John.
ajklfdj This. Is. Gorgeous. *_*
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.”