#good riddance to the bastard the only tragic thing about his death was that it wasn't at the hague

[bogusfilth]

Forget everyone’s nominee for master diplomat, Henry Kissinger, who was as inept as he was ruthless—extending the Vietnam War by seven bloody years to mask his diplomatic failure, turning East Timor over to Indonesia for decades of slaughter until its inevitable independence, cratering US credibility in Latin America by backing a murderous military dictatorship in Chile, and mismanaging Moscow in ways that helped extend the Cold War by fifteen years. Kissinger’s career, as international law specialist Richard Falk observed, has been marked by “his extraordinary capacity to be repeatedly wrong about almost every major foreign policy decision made by the U.S. Government over the course of the last half-century.”

Alfred McCoy - In the Shadow of the American Century

[sherlockxreader]

Broken (SherlockxReader)

Broken (SherlockxReader)

Request: Hello ! May I request a Sherlock x Reader where they were in a relationship before he faked his death, and, just like John, she didn’t know he was alive. So could you maybe write about how he tells her and her reaction, please ? - anonymous

Author: Nyla (i-had-a-halo-once)

Words: 2639

Warnings: Cursing

Pairings: SherlockxReader (romantic), LestradexReader (platonic), slight JohnxReader (platonic)

A/N: I totally fell in love with this request. As it so happens, I was listening to a song that fits this oneshot pretty well, but I hesitated in adding the lyrics to the story. So the song is called “Oh My Love” by Silver Trees. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! - Nyla

___________

Two years. It had been two years since the day your world shattered and you couldn’t quite piece it back together. Two years. And everything — oh, God, everything had changed.

Outwardly, however, you were an impressive detective whose future certainly held promotions and awards. For you had chosen to continue pursue law enforcement after that tragic day, convinced it was somehow all your own fault that Sherlock Holmes had chosen to jump off a roof and end his own life. Worst of all, he had called John, and then you, begging for forgiveness for what he was about to do.

You still had nightmares of that fatal phone call and the events following it.

And you were haunted by a ghost no one else still saw.

So when you came striding into your office after chasing down another false lead on a murder case, you wore a mask of calm. “Hey, Y/N,” came the voice of your partner, none other than Greg Lestrade. You nodded at him in acknowledgement.

“Anything new on that missing persons case?” You questioned, sitting down. You noticed a coffee cup in front of you and carefully tasted the coffee. Hot, but not too hot. And, of course, the way you liked it.

“We have about a million of those,” Greg answered. “Care to elaborate?”

“You know. Young girl. Teens. Tourist?” You prompted, raising an eyebrow. He shot you a smirk, and you rolled your eyes at him. He was teasing you, as usual. You knew it, and smiled faintly.

“Nope. You know how these things go, Y/N.”

And it was true. You did. Only one out of ten missing persons cases usually ended up getting solved. The other nine… Well, you could only guess what happened to those poor souls. And it wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Hmm. What about that murder case with the silver knife?” You asked absentmindedly, checking your work email briefly. No updates.

“Nothing. The forensic team is still analyzing the evidence.”

“Mmm,” came your distracted response. You had turned to the mess that was stacks of unread papers on your desk, and was rifling through it, looking for something specific, when a quiet sigh caught your attention. You glanced up at your partner, seeing his hesitant, but thoughtful, expression. You knew exactly what, or who, was causing that sigh, and you didn’t really want to ask, but you couldn’t help yourself. “Let me guess. Anderson?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to kick yourself. You knew bringing up Anderson was effectively to bringing up him, but you still asked anyhow.

Greg caught your look, but nodded anyway. “It was a new theory today. You know, it wasn’t that insane when you think it through, Y/N.”

“We all know what happened,” you replied shortly, avoiding his eyes. “No amount of theories or regrets will bring him back.” Your tone had a dangerous edge to it, and Greg acknowledged the hinted warning.

Sherlock had been everything to you, and about a year after your fateful meeting, a relationship had slowly developed. Neither of you had really acknowledged it, preferring to dance around any mention of liking each other, until Sherlock had simply demanded to know if you were free at a given date to go with him on a date. Startled, you had questioned him, and he had looked up at you, and said, “A date. Which is what people do when they like each other, is it not?“ Laughing, you agreed to go with him. After that first “date”, you two had become a couple, albeit unofficially. And you hid the relationship from the public — Sherlock refused to risk your reputation as a good person. Perhaps he knew what had been coming, because shortly thereafter, the media deemed anyone with a close relationship to him “dangerous” and a “potential criminal”.

And then, ever since his death, you refused to talk about him. It was just easier not to. And then your changed personality drove even John away. While he didn’t talk about Sherlock to anyone but his therapist, you had shut yourself off from him. You slowly stopped picking up his calls and answering his texts, and eventually, they stopped coming.

That was six months ago.

“Y/N,” Greg continued in a gentle tone, “you of all people knew Sherlock—”

“Don’t!” You snapped, slamming shut the file you had open and looking at him. “Sherlock Holmes is dead, and God willing he will stay dead. And so will everything concerning him. And tell Anderson that too. It may not be Anderson’s fault, but he still has no right stirring up things that affect other people too. So good fucking riddance to that bastard to John Watson, and to that fool Anderson.” You took a deep breath, trying to regain your calm and composure, your eyes fluttering shut with the effort.

Silence hung heavy in the air with Greg watching you cautiously. You slumped back into your chair, suddenly ashamed of your outburst. Greg wasn’t Anderson, and he had been so supportive of you and helpful. He didn’t deserve the way you had just yelled at him.

You swallowed, and looked up. “Greg, I’m sorry,” you finally whispered. “I just… It wasn’t directed at you. I just need to let him go. Sometimes I wish I never had met him.”

“Take a break, Y/N.” Greg said softly. “You need it. Come back tomorrow if you feel like it, but don’t force yourself to.”

“But the murder case—”

“—can and will wait,” he cut you off. “Yes, I need my partner, the best goddamn detective in this agency I know of, but not when she’s distracted by the grief she’s been suppressing over the death of the man she loved. So go home, go to a therapist, or whatever the hell you need to do to cope, but take care of yourself, Y/N. And when you’ve managed to pull yourself back together, come back here.”

Greg’s gaze was hard, but truthful, and after a brief but silent battle of wills, your eyes finally dropped to your desk. “Alright, fine,” you conceded with a mumble and a heavy sigh that indicted you knew who was in the right here and it wasn’t you, and you rose to your feet. You picked up your long trench coat, flipping your computer off and grabbing your phone before moving for the door.

“I’m doing this for you, Y/N,” Greg called after you. You turned your head to glance at him, knowing he was sincere. “I want what’s best for you, but throwing yourself into this type of work without a clear mind isn’t it. Not when you need a clear head to stay alive.”

You nodded silently, then pushed open the door your hand was resting on and navigating a path through the maze of desks placed in your way. Though you felt eyes following you, you never looked back.

Your neutral expression you fought so hard to keep was cracking.

Just a little bit.

___________

Nighttime had claimed the city for its own when you left the shiny building housing the government agency you had found your calling in. After Sherlock had…left…you had continued on your chosen career path. Despite the many arguments you and the sociopathic genius had gotten into over it, you had decided to continue being a cop. Maybe it was to atone for the sin of never suspecting Sherlock was suicidal that you did so.

The streets were emptying, now mostly filled with giggling young couples who were filled with a couple too many drinks making their way home. Young, like you and he had been the night you met. Naïve, like you had been when you had fallen for him. Happy, like you two had been together.

A quiet sob escaped from your unsuspecting lips. The tears that stung your eyes simply refused to go, and you had given up trying to wipe them away. Maybe Greg was right; maybe you really did need to just let yourself grieve. To let yourself shed the tears that hadn’t been shed at his funeral, or the endless times you had found yourself staring at the shiny black headstone that marked the place where he rested.

Sherlock hadn’t taken many things with him when he fell, not even his cellphone. Like so many other things, such as the thoughts and feelings of others in his life, he had discarded his phone on the rooftop. He had also left behind John’s heart to heal, at least.

But not yours. No, Sherlock Holmes had taken your heart with him when he fell. And you had never gotten it back.

Your hand was already rising to cover your mouth as more sobs found their escape into the cold, wet air of night-ruled downtown London. You had chosen to leave your car behind and take a night walk, feeling relatively safe since your gold DI-in scripted badge marked you as someone to leave alone, despite your gender. And if the badge wasn’t warning enough, then the black gun hanging in full view at your hip certainly was.

You fought the urge to scream and cry like a little girl. After two years, your bottled-up emotions refused to be repressed any longer and struggled to escape through the trembling fingers pressed over your mouth to silence yourself once again. Tears ran freely down your cheeks, however, and you couldn’t stop those even if you had tried.

Maybe a drink was what you needed right now. You made a beeline for the bar you had spotted just now, your footsteps slightly more hurried once they had an actual destination to carry you to. You found yourself opening the door a minute later, and noticed a little table in a corner overlaid with heavy shadows, and immediately headed for it. Not five minutes later, the waiter came with a question and left with your answer.

The first drink was emptied quickly. You were one of three patrons gracing the bar with their presence, and was grateful that their attention was captured by the telly. You didn’t want anyone privy to the drowning of your grief in a drink or two.

Halfway through the second drink, when you were still completely sober, footsteps drawing near caught your attention. It was most likely your waiter.

“I hope you’re planning to remain sober, Y/N, otherwise this conversation will be harder.”

Every fiber of your being froze. You knew that voice, you heard it every night in your nightmares. And you had heard it for real two years ago when it apologized for the following actions of its owner.

Slowly, you overcame your paralysis, raising your head. Your eyes traced his shoes up to his hands and his shoulders, and then, finally….

“My God,” you whispered as your eyes met a supposedly dead man’s for the first time in two years. A small — and was it nervous? — smile played on his lips as Sherlock met your gaze evenly.

And behind him — the man you blamed for his death, his expression far more nervous than Sherlock’s. John didn’t smile.

“So you’re still a cop.” Sherlock stated quietly. Almost judgmentally.

You slowly rose to your feet, cold fury seeping through your body and freezing your gaze. Both men took an involuntary step back at your look. “How dare you, Sherlock Holmes, come marching in here all high and mighty and judge me for what I’ve done instead of explaining what you did. To me. To all of us.” You took a deep breath, fighting back the almost overwhelming urge to scream and rage at him.

“Y/N, I will explain. I swear,” he answered immediately, all traces of humor gone. Then, hearing your strange wording, frowned a little in the adorable way you had originally fallen for— No. There was no way you were going to let yourself fall for him again. “All of us?” He questioned.

“Like bloody hell you will. And yes, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, all of us.” You threw money down on the table, and pointed to the door. “Outside. Now.” Your furious gaze would not be questioned, and the two men, both of whom were known for being independent and unable to be intimidated, knew their best plan would be to follow your orders without question. A criminal was one thing, but a pissed off girlfriend and best friend was a different matter entirely.

So they followed your orders quickly. You followed them, and let the door slam behind all three of you. “Alleyway.” You snapped, and seeing John about to protest, diverted your cold glare to him. “Or we can easily make this a very public scene.”

John kept his mouth shut.

The minute you were all hidden from prying eyes, you forced yourself to take a deep breath. Sherlock started to talk, but you whirled on your heel and the ringing sound of a slap echoed in the alley. Tears were threatening to make their sequel appearance, and this time, you didn’t fight it. “I loved you, Sherlock!” You cried, but your tone now held deep seated grief that was only just starting to reveal itself and anger. But most of all, your voice contained bitterness. Bitterness and utter heartbreak. For a split second, your hands came forward, as though you wanted to touch his but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. “I thought you were dead, and I blamed myself! For two years, I’ve grieved the man who I thought I failed to save when he needed it the most! And you know what that’s done to me?” You cried again, tears starting to find paths down your face.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but you beat him to it, your hands dropping. “It broke me, Sherlock. I have been going insane, and I can’t hide it anymore. Greg all but fired me because he told me I needed to move on. And Anderson, that heartless bastard, he plagued me. He followed me around every day if he saw me, until I stopped going near that street unless I had to, sprouting theories about how you were still alive. About how you were coming back for me. And, by God, I almost believed him.” You shook your head helplessly. “Then the memory of your broken and bruised body, or what I thought was your body, would flash into my mind and I would know — you were gone. The love of my life was gone and I, a law enforcement officer, failed at my duty to both my job and my heart. I failed you.”

For the first time in two years, you allowed yourself to fully break down. Your shaking hand covered your mouth and you sobbed. You cried for everything you had lost, and now you cried for the pain of being lied to and deceived about the worst event you had ever faced.

“I loved you, you bloody fool!” You managed to choke out. “And you — you betrayed me.”

“Y/N, I did it to protect you,” Sherlock answered softly. “If I hadn’t faked my own death, than you and John and everyone else we cared about would be dead.” He pulled you into his arms, and you resisted.

“Anderson may be a fool, but he was right about one thing,” Sherlock continued. You pulled back to look up at him, confusion dancing across your features. Still, to him, you looked beautiful. “I came back for you. And John. You two are my family.”

“Sherlock…” You whispered, and he pulled your now-unresisting form into his in a comforting, strong embrace.

All the same, a small part of your mind wondered if it really was coincidence that led to his return at the same time you were investigating a murder that clearly had Moriarty written all over it.

For now, you were just glad Sherlock was back.

Even if you knew he wasn’t being entirely honest about his reasons for returning.