20 years old, bi and has a lot of loki-feels. INFJ, nurse in training.

Kipnapped by the secret sheriff police to Night Vale, obsessed with FROSTIRON, Game of Thrones, Hiddles and much more
(like a fallen angel and his hunter... *cough*).

Currently in a semi-hiatus. A Gurl gotta learn! *cough*

After Sherlock’s fall John enough of his old life. Everything reminded him of Sherlock: his friends, London even the rows with the machines with now was the height of excitement of which his life consisted.

He couldn’t stand it all anymore, so one night, he packed everything together and left without turning back even once. He didn’t tell anyone. While they would worry, they didn’t need him anymore. Not now that Sherlock was gone. They’d be off better without him anyway. Just like they were a constant reminder of him, he was to them.

What no one but Harry knew, however was that he was in fact not a normal “human”, through he suspected Sherlock knew. Nothing really had got past his….friend. He was a Hobbit. His old home was in Bag End. His parents had left him the place after they died, but neither he are Harry ever felt the need to live there. They had been fascinated by humans since children and both of them refused to live in Hobbiton and went out to live with them, taking new human names. Their parents’ while not content with their unusual rebellious behaviour, were not surprised by it.

John longed after the peace his old home held. Long-forgotten memories resurfaced when he entered his childhood home. Unlike he expected it was easy to fall back to their old traditions.

So he went on, smoked his pipe in the garden and celebrated each year they day Sherlock was given to him and then taken. Each year he would take out the special tea, the one Sherlock always wanted him to make, just for these two days and make two perfect cups. He would then proceed to sit there and smoke, his memories, which he hold back and refused to remember the rest of the year, would emerge and take shape before his eyes, dancing in the smoke.
He hasn’t been a doctor in the human world for nothing.

On Sherlock’s death day, 3 years since the day Sherlock took his heart, his life, with him, Bilbo - how he was called in his homeland, thought that he either finally cracked or he took an overdoses. He rather suspected the former, so he didn’t jump and only kept staring at the tall dark-haired figure before him, when for the first time in nearly three years, he was addressed by his name. His human name.