Tips for Tackling a Tarnished Reputation Stacey Gordon, Contributor You find a job that is exactly what you’re looking for. It has great benefits, is within your industry, is a great match with your experience and has potential for growth within the company. Define tarnish: to become or cause (metal) to become dull and not shiny — tarnish in a sentence. Some foods will tarnish silver. The scandal tarnished his reputation. Origin and Etymology of tarnish Middle English ternysshen, from Middle French terniss-. Tarnished Reputations, a sherlock fanfic. Ok, my very first Sherlock fanfiction. I just hope I've done it justice. Enjoy. Tarnished Reputations. Suicide. The word seemed to racing around his mind, expanding as it circled, until he felt it was the only word he knew. London: First Wayne Rooney, now Cristiano Ronaldo. The poster boys of this World Cup are leaving us without saying goodbye. Fernando Torres is still here but you would not know it. Another listless display saw him replaced on the hour. No disrespect to Argentina's Gonzalo Higuain and David Villa. In Pictures: Top 10 most tarnished baseball reputations Fortunately for baseball, though, amid the flurry of negative news, Spring Training has also begun, and with it comes the hope for a clean slate. But to some extent, the damage has already done. Zim presidential candidates' tarnished reputations eNCA Subscribe Subscribed Unsubscribe 107,215 107K Loading. Add to Want to watch this again later? Sign in to add this video to a playlist. Sign in Share More Report Sign in 1. Yet, it still didn't sink in. Suicide was something for ordinary people, boring people. He had even contemplated it at one point, after his dismissal from the army following his injury. He thought he was God's gift to the World, the only worthwhile human that had ever existed. Suicide was not in his vocabulary. But that's all he saw, wherever he went: 'Suicide of fake genius'. Fake? No, he refused to believe that. He had known fake people in his time, people who were there and gone in a matter of seconds, enough to flash the Hollywood smile and cry the crocodile's tears. Sherlock, who was neither good nor evil, so intelligent but so ignorant. No, Sherlock was no fake. He was the most real person John had ever known. He still expected him to burst into the flat at any moment, covered in blood and carrying a harpoon as he'd done before. Sometimes he stood by the door, just to wait for the detective's arrival. For Sherlock couldn't really be gone, not when his junk still lay scattered around the rooms. Desiccated fingers lying in the freezer. His clothes flung over the floor of both his and John's room, though how they got there, John would never know. His skull on the fireplace. Sometimes, John would stand and stare at the bone and wonder who Sherlock had preferred. Had he filled in for the skull well enough? Is that all he'd been, a fill- in? Just something for Sherlock to voice his theories to? John let out a hollow laugh as he lowered himself into his chair. Sherlock had known how to talk; he could have challenged every politician in Westminster to a speaking contest, and beaten them all. Yet John had tried so hard to silence him, he'd shouted, he'd threatened, he'd even attacked him once. He'd never kissed him though, an action he'd never thought of contemplating until now. Silenced the great consulting detective? John didn't even know why he was asking. After all, who would hear him now? He was truly alone in the World. People he'd thought were friends: Molly, Lestrade, Hell, even Mycroft, were all gone now. He had Mrs. Hudson, but he could hardly say that would last forever. John could never afford the flat on his own and, although she'd promised it to him for as long as he wanted it, there was already interest. The flat of pseudo- genius, Sherlock Holmes? The buyers were bound to flock like rats to a rubbish tip. And when he was thrown out, where could he go? He no longer knew who he was; he certainly wasn't John, not anymore. He wasn't a shadow, for he could see himself still, and nothing like a ghost, for every time he tripped over another one of Sherlock's belongings, it still hurt. But he'd lost himself. He was a tiny person, trapped in a city that was haunted by Sherlock's legacy. For he could no longer walk the streets without being hit by waves of emotion, slowly eroding him until his foundations collapsed and he really was left with nothing but these painful memories. The times he and Sherlock had chased taxis, fought mobs, saved lives all over London. To be left with.. Tarnished reputations and yellowing newspaper cuttings. John felt himself shaking his head, as if being moved by some unconscious force within him. There were tarnished reputations, yellowing newspaper cuttings and a thousand words that John had left unsaid. Words that had been too irrelevant for Sherlock, but words now too powerful for John. Words he could never force himself to articulate before, or even consider, but words that seemed to be choking him now. But, sat in the empty flat, trapped in his own mind, surrounded by Sherlock's mess and somehow clutching the detective's purple shirt in his clenched hand, what was stopping him from speaking?'I love you, Sherlock Holmes.'And from behind him, as he sat slumped almost lifeless in his chair, he could swear he heard another voice. A low, smooth noise, usually speaking at rapid time yet slowed down just this once.'I know, John.
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