Not weird at all, darling! You can find the song here! 

You Know I’m No Good (A Moriarty Love Song…of Sorts)

Based, of course, upon the amazing amazing song of the same name by the late, great Amy Winehouse. Once again, I apologize for the terrible quality and give many thanks to my bro Kellen, without whom I would still be agonizing over what to rhyme with “Westwood.”
(Should you so choose, you can download it here!) 

Send you a text saying “come and play”
I’ve got a treat in store for us today
Come to the pool, and don’t forget your gun
Oh, Sebby, darling, this is so much fun

‘Cause you’re my sniper, my guy
Oh, and when those bullets fly
By the time I’m out the door
Fifteen dead men on the floor

We’re running the world
like I knew we would
I know that you’re trouble
and you know that I’m no good

I’ve got a date with Sherlock Holmes
But don’t be jealous, we won’t be alone
You’re on the roof just across the street
Oh, Sebby, baby, our revenge is sweet

Put on your suit and meet me for dinner
Babe, if you’re the sin, then I’ll be the sinner
You’ll be bruised tonight for sure
I’ll fuck you senseless on the kitchen floor

We’re running the world
like I knew we would
I know that you’re trouble
and you know that I’m no good

It’s time for Sherlock to take a fall
This is the sexiest thing of them all
I’m on the roof, you take your aim
The final move of the greatest game

They don’t notice when I walk away
You and I will live to die another day
Our next crime will be the worst
I’ll let you stick the knife in first

We’re running the world
like I knew we would
I know that you’re trouble
and you know that I’m no good

You’re wearing your boots
And I’m in Westwood
I know that you’re trouble
And you know that I’m no good. 

(Source: fiendish-thingie)

(John/Sherlock, PG-13, 1061 words)

Sherlock manages to creep in around the edges somehow, and John knows it shouldn’t be a surprise, understands, theoretically, how grieving works, but it still comes as a shock when the feel of blue cashmere is enough to send him into a catatonic silence that lasts for nearly two days. 

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There are things that John can’t say.

Not to Mrs. Hudson, her tiny bird-boned hands grasping for answers that he doesn’t have, wouldn’t give her if he could because they share a domestic nature and an affinity for crap telly but Sherlock was first and has always been the favorite son, all the more adored for every wall he puts a bullet through, and all John can do is point wordlessly to the gurney and give her the courtesy of pretending not to notice how she crumbles.

Not to Lestrade, nothing aside from incoherent half-utterances that fluctuate between he’s not dead let me see him please just let me see him I can prove it I know him I know him better than anyone please and you bastard you did this to him you helped you blamed him I can’t believe you he trusted you you were his friend you complete and utter fuck I can’t believe and either way he dissolves into a silence that’s two shades away from sobbing and one and a half from screaming and punching something, and Lestrade may not be a genius but he knows when to back the fuck up.

Not to Harry when he turns up on her doorstep, three AM and hair insomnia-ruffled and eyes hollow, but then again he doesn’t have to: she takes one look at him and sees the unbearable emptiness of the flat, the mocking grimace of the yellow smiley face on the wall, the impossibility of sleep without atonal violin shrieks leaping from the floor below. Harry’s flat is small, dingy, dank with the smell of misery and cheap beer, but it’s not Baker Street.