teaat2am:

and the real story of the consulting detective and his faithful blogger friend was all an imagination of the 10 year old John, whose reality at the orphanage was too hard for him to bear, and even harder to share with the 7 year old Sherlock. John was too old and Sherlock was too sick and neither would ever be adopted. Instead, John made up a game to solve the mysteries of their missing friends, who seemed to disappear every so often, taken from them by Moriarty, who, in fact was far too nice and far too helpful in finding children new homes and new parents.  Children except for John and Sherlock.  Sherlock couldn’t understand where their friends went, and never would, if John kept the game elaborate and interesting enough.

and then they go grab extra food the orphanage cook Mrs Hudson would sneak them, try to hinder all the hard work the genuinely nice and altruistic Mr Moriarty puts into finding children good homes, and jeer angrily every time Jim’s ‘clients’ came to pick up their new sons and daughters. Sherlock’s brother Mycroft keeps egging them on to find deeper truths in their adventures, wanting to open his little brother’s eyes to the truth but not having the heart to tell him directly. He just keeps hoping Sherlock will find out himself. Lestrade doesn’t care for any of this nonsense, but cares even less to stop it. Sherlock is addicted to his medicine if only to survive and John writes down the stories of their adventures to read to Sherlock and their friends too sleep. Sherlock never realizes that it’s all made up, and John carries both of their burdens from being rejected for adoption each time, until when Moriarty himself adopts little Sherlock and takes him to his loving family in Reinbach Falls.

And John is alone.

5am brain is dead rambling #drylaughter