Notes: To explain my absence on this website, I offer only two words: Band Camp.

Actually, I shall offer more to explain to those who have never had band camp before. I just got finished Friday with band camp, which was 8 hours a day, plus about 5 hours of entertaining my friends. Apparently giving them the remote and writing on the computer isn't entertaining enough for them...

So I'm trying to catch up with my blogs and fanfictions while also trying to get ready for school, which starts in a week. So basically... I'm sorry. I'm trying to write updates for all my fics. This is the first, and I'll be trying my best to continue my updates as often as possible. Once school is started and I get settled with my new daily schedule I can find where to fit in writing, which shouldn't be too difficult.

Thank you for sticking with me, and again, I'm sorry for the erratic updates. I'm trying my best.

Happy by Never Shout Never

Sherlock was perhaps one of the loneliest men in existence. He found himself trapped inside his chaotic mind, cold and alone. No one could understand what he felt or what he went through every day. The burden of his intellect weighed him down, and he forcibly pushed others away without a second thought. He had gone this far in life all by himself, so he saw no need to seek out companionship now.

All of that changed, though, when he met John Watson.

This ex-army doctor waltzed into his life with a brave face, saving his life in more ways than one. He had rows with machines, he had, past tense, a psychosomatic limp, and he ate toast with jam in the morning for breakfast. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock when he thought he wasn't looking, he thought his deducing was equally remarkable and aggravating, and he continued to share a flat with him after everything they had been through.

This man was extraordinarily patient, more so than any other person in Sherlock's life had ever been. He tolerated being talked to like a child, having a gun pointed at his skull, and endless severed limbs in various nooks and crannies throughout their home. Despite nearly being killed several times over, he stayed. He always stayed.

To everyone else, John had a tough exterior, that of a skilled soldier. But Sherlock saw him when he was sleepy, and when he thought something was so funny he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He had seen him get so angry his hands shook and he swore at everything in his path, animate or not. He could peer past the uniform and certifications to see the man behind the front.

Sherlock was the type who could step into a room and remember the placement of every paper and pencil. He could see things other people couldn't; small hints that lead him to the big picture. His eyes took in everything, and his mind stored it all for later. But even with this enigmatic sight, he had never been able to see what was so clearly standing right in front of him the entire time: John Watson made him happy.

He made him happier than he had ever been in his entire life. He was that little light at the end of the tunnel that everyone raved about; the one he constantly told people surely did not exist. That idealistic image everyone painted of some romantic person in their lives that cleared everything up had seemed silly before. But now, it only seemed to be logical.

Whenever John was around the churning in his mind ceased, sorting itself into neat thoughts to go back to later. He didn't feel a hollow cavity in his chest, as if something had filled a lingering void. Sherlock found himself speechless at times, and at others he felt unable to stop chattering on, just wanting to sustain the conversation for as long as possible.

He had been the loneliest man in existence, trudging through each day with a mask of who he was supposed to be. But someone walked into his life, and flipped the switch to shine light into his room. And whenever Sherlock looked over at John, he knew he didn't have to be alone anymore, and that thought made him the happiest man in existence.