FANFIC BLAAARG

Homesick for a place I've never been: Just a friendly reminder thatJohn Watson is probably watching the...

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 22:55:54 -0400

Homesick for a place I've never been: Just a friendly reminder thatJohn Watson is probably watching the...:

Just a friendly reminder that

John Watson is probably watching the games alone in his flat, immensely proud of his country and his city but unable to muster up the motivation to join the wild spirit of the crowd

Sherlock Holmes is probably in some tiny restaurant on the other side of the world…

In the tiny smoke-filled bar, the peoples inside pushed to crowd around the fairly small television and chattered excitedly at the screen as the opening ceremonies commenced. One man seemed to easily slide through the throng, finding his way to the front. He wore sun glasses and wore a hat. He was a nondescript fellow - and his easy navigation of the crowd went unnoticed.

He was hardly more interesting than what was going on on the screen.

The man seemed to pause. He needed to speak to his contact on the other side of the room, but for a few moments, his gaze was captured for a time. His body seemed to jerk awkwardly to a stop, and he watched the pageantry on the screen as though frozen.

The London Olympics. He’d forgotten they were happening… he’d been so focused upon keeping himself hidden. For John’s sake. For Mrs. Hudson’s sake. For Lestrade’s sake. It was so important… and he’d forgotten that this year his country was hosting the Olympics.

Honestly, he was not much for patriotism, but he felt his chest well up with pride. He felt his eyes get a little misty. His country was being honored, and all the joy that came with coming from that country filled him.

And he wondered if, somewhere, John was feeling the same way. Were they both staring at a screen, surrounded by enthused people, and feeling the same thing?

He could not dwell on these thoughts long, as someone was soon tapping his leg and telling him to get out of the way. He nodded, mumbled an apology in that language and continued on his way, focusing his attention upon the man he had come here to find.

————————————————————————-

Elsewhere, John sat by himself in the flat, staring at the telly. It was beautiful, what was happening, and it was an absolute honor to England. He felt the pride, overwhelming, bright and pure. He loved his country. He loved being an Englishmen. He could hear his fellow countrymen loudly celebrating this fact.

But he could not bring himself to go outside. He was proud… but he knew that no amount of company would make up for the hole in his life. There was company he was missing.

He should be watching this with Sherlock. He should listen to Sherlock complain about how this was unimportant. He should be reminding Sherlock of the importance of the Olympics and the pride that comes with their country hosting them for the third time - an honor never before had by any other country.

But Sherlock was not there. And as the circles of the burning Olympic symbol locked, a tear escaped his eyes.

It was a tear for the love he felt for his country. It was a tear for the love he didn’t have here with him with which to share that feeling.

MorMor -- Good Times

Sat, 09 Jun 2012 22:43:59 -0400

This is totally unedited, as always. See something? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE say something.

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Moran was alone.

Well, not alone if you counted the impressive weaponry that he was currently disassembling and lovingly cleaning each section of. He caressed the thing as though it were a lover, trailing fingers and cloth across it as if to coax it into loving him back.

Of course, who could blame him? No one could, really. His true lover was gone. Dead, the papers said. Blew his own brains out. A final mad act in a long string of mad acts. Seb chose not to believe such things, but also chose not to get his hopes up.

On one hand, the man he had known (or the man he had thoughthe had known) wouldn’t have chosen to go out in such a way. It lacked panache, and not quite the bangthat the Colonel suspected that a man such as his boss would have desired. Well, perhaps too much bang, he thought, with a smirk that twisted into a grimace.

But that was the other thing. Even if didn’t seem like the correct final act for a man like his employer, it seemed like an inescapable death. How could one ever fake blowing one’s brains out? Moran didn’t think of himself as stupid, but he’d replayed the roof-top scene over and over in his mind, analyzing the damn thing until he thought his mind would explode, and he still didn’t have the foggiest idea how someone could pull it off. Though his lover was clever (like a bag of cats, really, and very homicidal, ingenious cats at that) it stood to reason that there was no way in hell that he could feign something of that magnitude.

And Seb, the ever obedient (and not stupid, as previously mentioned), did not stick around after the detective (that damned detective) had jumped and left his sweater-wearing compatriot unharmed. Those had been his boss’s explicit instructions - watch Watson until Holmes kills himself, then leave. Stay underground. Don’t get involved. If you hear a peep about Sherlock returning, put a bullet first in his police friend, then the housekeeper, and finally the soldier.

There had been no buzz about the consulting detectives return, and thus, Moran had found himself bored stiff. Plenty of employment offers - he was damned good at his job and people wanted to use his particularskillsfor less pleasant jobs. That had been another part of the instructions left behind - no jobs. He was to stay out of sight and out of mind. He apartment-hopped, paid in cash and left no trail.

Frankly, it was dull.

Nothing could have measured up to the excitement of being in the employ of Moriarty. Besides the little “field trips” that they would go on - kill such and such, threaten so and so, with a little bit of torture thrown in just for good measure - there was the sex. A no-strings-attached, devil-may-care sort of thing; frenzied and often involving more weapons than strictlyshouldbe involved in sex. It had been interesting most days; either his employer would either come “home” demanding cuddles or sex. And Moran was always prepared for a knife or pistol to be pulled and pointed at him during such activities. Jim seemed to enjoy the power it gave him… having the great Colonel Moran moaning under him at knife point. It was like being friends with benefits with a sexual, despotic teddy bear.

Seb, however, could not claim total innocence. He participated wholeheartedly in the dominance games they played. For every night that he had spent with a weapon on his throat or at his temple, he had gotten a night of control, with his own weapons trained upon Moriarty, who delighted in the challenge of disarming his lover during coitus. Jim Moriarty did some very interesting things in the sack at the point of a rifle… He remembered a night when he actually managed to not only disarm Jim, but he’d also also handcuffed the man to the bed. Yeah… that had been a goodnight. At least, until he had woken up handcuffed with a note scrawled on the opposite wall, “You’ve been a bad boy, Sebby. We’ll talk about this later. -M” It had been a bitch and a half to get himself out of that…

Finding that his mind was wandering, Sebastian shook his head, rather like a dog shaking off water after coming out of the rain. He certainly had the hair for it - it had gotten just shaggy and long enough. Rather idly, he wondered if Moriarty would like it better that way because there was more to pull on, or if he would demand that Seb return to the cleaner hair cuts that the military had ground into him. Moran knew that it could swing either way. He sometimes thought that Jim was more temperamental than women with the worst PMS.

Damn it,the man thought, with a grunt. It had been what… about three years? Here he was, still sitting on his ass, cleaning his equipment, rehashing memories of a man who was dead… Hell, it waspathetic.As far as Moran had known, he’d kept himself distanced from the madman whom he’d taken into his bed. Or on the private jet of a dead man. Or… oh hell. Enough of that. Moriarty had made it clear that there was nothing and never would beanything, and Moran had agreed with this. Hell, if Jim hadn’t brought it up first, he would have.

Yet, there Seb was. There had been no other lovers in three years. It was sad, really. They had been fuck buddies. That was all. But still, the Colonel was devoted to a ghost of a memory.

Sad little Seb,he thought scathingly, lips curling back into a sneer. What was he doing? Why the hell was he still here?

He owed nothing,nothingto this haunting memory. The slip of paper that had given him those final orders years ago meantnothing. It was all nothing. And the Colonel would not wait here any longer. For though he hated to admit it to himself, he had been waiting.

Waiting for the fun to come back. For the hissed threats and the cuddles and the field trips and the random sexual encounters.

No more. It had been long enough, and Seb was a patient man.

The blond silently put his weapon away, feeling resolved. He had some semblance of a direction -away from here- and a goal -work, real fucking work. That was enough for now. The rest could come later. Smiling, he leaned back in the chair - the shitty one that had come with this shitty apartment.

Yeah, he wouldn’t miss this.

He moved to stand, but then felt a thin line of something cold against his throat. Leg muscles tightened to halt his forward movement - what little he had made had been enough to draw the finest sliver of blood - and then drive his ass back into the chair. Seb’s mind flashed, going through all the ways he could escape from the situation, get away from the knife that was being held at his throat.

Yet the blond had no time to set any of these plans in motion. No, he had not so much as budged when warm breath tickled his ear and chased by teeth nibbling at his lobe.

Despite himself, he leaned back into it. It had been so long, and why the hell not succumb to someone with a knife at his throat? It was just like the good old times.

The teasing of his ear soon stopped, though, and a voice, familiar, slick and velvety, captured his full attention. “Honey… I’m home.”

And Sebastian Moran smirked.

The fun was back.

So this is something half-inspired by a brain doing stupid...

Sat, 19 May 2012 16:16:00 -0400

So this is something half-inspired by a brain doing stupid things for a post-Reichenbach reunion and is FREAKISHLY similar in nature to this little piece of art by kirby-chan; http://kirbyhasapencil.tumblr.com/post/23303680260/im-home-post-reichenbach-angsty-reunion-comic-i

So… yus. Check that out.

I don’t know the exact origin of the gif, though I am 99.9% that the source I found is accurate. Okay.

————————————————————————————————

John frowned and rolled over in bed. Was that violin music he was hearing? He shrugged it off mentally, dismissing it as a figment of his imagination. But rolling over and squeezing his eyes shut tighter didn’t make the sound go away.

Alright. It wasn’t his imagination. But then who the hell was playing the violin at this hour?

Whoever it was, they were cruel. This was bringing back memories… His mind’s eye was soon filled with images of a certain someone’s chin resting lovingly upon a fine violin. Beautiful, slender fingers dancing across the finger board whilst the dark-haired male made the bow sail gracefully across the strings. Music wafting forth - sweet and soulful - drifting through the apartment at hours acceptable or not. Though Sherlock was a man of edges - with his sharp cheekbones, bony body and harsh words - he was always lovely and soft when he played his violin.

John shocked himself. Sometimes it didn’t seem like it had been three years since Sherlock had died - the memories were still so clear in his mind. It was at those times, when John was remembering, he was always remembering, that he wondered if he did in fact live in the apartment alone, or if he was sharing it with a ghost. Bloody Sherlock Holmes’s goddamn ghost.

The violin music continued to call to him, and John flopped over so he could glare at the digital clock that sat on his bedside table. ‘Oh bloody hell,’ he thought. ‘It’s three in the morning.’

That was when John left the warmth and dubious comfort (his dreams were very rarely comforting, anymore) of his bed with the knowledge that before he rest his head upon another pillow, he was going to have committed murder.

And John really didn’t give a damn.

He marched down the stairs like a man with a purpose - for once. His friends might have been glad to see him thus. Since Sherlock had died, John hadn’t show a flicker of motivation to do much of anything. Yes, he worked, but he worked like a drone, simply going through the motions. They might even accept his homicidal thoughts directed at the unfortunate instrumentalist acceptable, as long as John got moving and seemed to care about his surroundings.

However, his leg made the act of going downstairs a problem. After the scandal, the bloody thing had stopped working properly. It seemed determined to work against him, giving out at the worse times - especially when he was agitated or thinking of Sherlock, which were usually things that came in tandem with each other. He normally carried his cane everywhere, just in case, because his errant limb gave out more often than it didn’t.

But, of course, he’d forgotten his cane in his rush to commit a felony.

However the universe seemed to have planned stalling John in this way. It gave the doctor time to listen - really listen - to the melody. And it was in that time that he realized that the source of the tune was close. Very, very close.

‘No,’ John thought, his heart plummeting. He rushed down the stairs at that moment, leg be damned, flinging himself into the doorway to their - No, yours. Just yours, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time - living room.

There, silhouetted by the light of streetlamps was a very familiar shape - cheek bones, thin limbs, curled hair, violin in his grasp. John wondered for a few moments if this was simply an angel - or a ghost. It seemed too ethereal to be real, but this was the first time that he’d been visited by a specter… and John didn’t believe in ghosts.

So he turned on the lights. They illuminated the room, drenching Sherlock in their warm glow. The man - if it really was him, John couldn’t be sure - was slightly turned from the door, but the blond could see enough of his face to see the slight, peaceful upturn of his lips and how his eyes were closed as he played this violin piece from the heart. John’s own heart hammered, seemingly determined to jump from his stomach to his throat and then out of his chest. Sherlock played one last tremulous note before carefully putting his instrument aside and opening his eyes so he could turn and stare at John.

And he smiled.

That wanker smiled.

John’s expression hardened, and the military man knew how he was going to test whether this was an illusion or not.

In the moments between John winding up for the punch and his actually striking the other male, a myriad of emotions crossed Sherlock’s face. Joy to surprise to acceptance. The blond witnessed it all before his fist collided with those goddamn cheekbones, causing Sherlock to fall to the floor with a resounding thud. John followed him, falling on top of him, straddling the detective and clutching his shoulders as though he would vanish if John didn’t hold him tight enough.

“How?!” The military man bellowed. It was a layered question. How are you alive? How could you do this to me? So many things expressed with one loud word coming from a man who looked fit to kill. Sherlock didn’t respond, which was probably wise, and simply stared at John, the shame clear in his eyes.

His partner’s fury was so complete that it took his brain a few minutes to find something bordering sanity. And that was when John computed that this was real. The man he held in his hands, whom he was pinning to the ground, wasn’t a delusion. This was Sherlock. And a tidal wave of feeling crushed down on him, swallowing him whole. Three years of grief, anger and pain collided together to form a beast that consumed Watson internally… And though he was a strong man, it was more than he could handle all at once.

Then there was also the joy. The utter relief that he wasn’t crazy and that Sherlock was really, honestly and truly living.The man wasn’t sure what the hell his heart was doing anymore, but he could hear it pounding in his ears. A boom box, that was what he was, too loud, too much, just beating the bass of his own music into the world.

An ugly sob escaped his lips. John hadn’t even realized that he was crying. But there they were - streams of tears pouring down his cheeks and staining the shirt of his not-dead friend. A friend who was reaching up to touch his face, tracing the new lines in John’s face with his thumbs and ghosting touches along his cheeks.It was too much… just too much.

John collapsed into Sherlock’s chest, absorbing his warmth and taking in his smell. He smelled of home. John hadn’t realized how much he had missed that smell. Unconsciously, the doctor found himself listening to the other man’s heart - beating, thank god - and attending very closely to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Glorious life flowed through this body, like it ought to. Sherlock merely breathed gentle “Shhhh“‘s into John’s forehead and tangled his hands in the other males hair.

“I’m sorry, John,” he heard Sherlock say softly, his voice rumbling in his chest. “I’m home.”

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In another note, just to make this worse. A friend and I decided that the song Sherlock was playing was something he had composed SPECIFICALLY for John. So… uh… yeah. >.<”

against-stars: when I was a young boy, I wanted to sail around...

Fri, 18 May 2012 22:20:00 -0400

against-stars:

when I was a young boy, I wanted to sail around the world
that’s the life for me, living on the sea!

obligatory “baby Sherlock playing pirate” doodle.

So this was intended to be a cute, fluffy little fic inspired by this image by against-stars…

It… uh… kind became angst. With a “happy” ending, I guess? But… uh… enjoy. And I hope the artist doesn’t mind. ^^”

Note: This is totally unedited, and if you see a foolish mistake, please feel free to message me.

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Mycroft lay on his stomach upon the carpet in the living room, flipping through the pages of the book he’d picked up for a bit of light reading. The teen was propped upon his elbow, engrossed in his reading, though not engrossed enough to miss the clomping of feet indicating that Sherlock had just arrived home from his play date. He vaguely heard his mother say something - probably a greeting of some kind, followed by a question as to how Sherlock was, knowing Mother. The younger boy responded with some cheerful thing and was soon pounding his way into the living room.

“Mycroft, I’m running out to the store! Watch Sherlock while I’m gone,” he heard his mother say.

His older brother didn’t even look up; he possessed the skill (though his teachers and mother weren’t sure it was, in fact, a skill) of tuning in to anything he deemed important whenever he needed to whilst reading. He didn’t need to stop reading to attend to her words, nor did he need to pay attention to his brother in order to babysit him whilst his mother was out.

Perhaps that was what made Sherlock plunk his skinny little bottom down on the small of his brother’s back. Mycroft grunted, and then sighed before turning his head slightly to stare at his little brother, who had a white and red striped scarf binding all but a few of his dark, wild curls to his head. The little boy grinned at him before saying, “Hey, Mycroft, look at what John n’ I made!” at which point he proudly showed off a make-shift triangular sail that had rather clearly once been a few large sticks and an a piece of an old bed sheet.

“Very nice,” Mycroft said, genuinely. He noticed his brother held in his other hand the small ships wheel that he’d been given for his previous birthday. “Pirates again?”

The younger boy nodded eagerly. “John and I are practicing. Someday, we’re gonna grow up and get our own ship and sail away and I’m gonna be the Captain and John’s gonna be my first mate and we’re gonna be happy.” Mycroft chuckled. He’d heard these grand “plans” before, and it seemed to him that they got more complex with each passing play date.

Before the elder could comment, the younger declared, “Now, you’re gonna be my ship! Ye’ve got a fine mast and,” Sherlock stuck the wheel between Mycroft’s shoulders, “The best captain in the seven seas! Ahoy mates! We’re off!” And with this, the boy began to narrate about the beauty of the oceans and the superiority of his vessel - the Mycroft.

The Mycroft smirked, before grimacing as his brother began to move the wheel about upon his back, in order to steer Mycroft and himself towards adventure, glory and plunder, undoubtedly.

Even though this was not comfortable for Mycroft, he indulged Sherlock, not commenting on how his brother’s bony buttocks poked into his back or how he was rapidly starting to lose feeling in his legs. They didn’t get to play together often - Mycroft was so focused on his school work and Sherlock, despite having few friends who could tolerate his quirks, was constantly occupied with John, his best friend. And to most anyone, Mycroft Holmes would say that his brother was a royal pain. What the brunet never admitted was that he longed to spend more time with his brother, and loved every second he had with Sherlock… well, of course, excepting those times when Sherlock actually was a brat.

Knowing that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to his literature any longer, Mycroft slowly shut his book and moved to slide it under the coffee table, where it might be a bit safer for a period of time. He loathed the thought of anyone stepping upon a book, and could be very protective of them when Sherlock got too rowdy. This time, hopefully, it would be out of harms way when Mycroft began to actually play along.

Having seen the Dickens to safety, the teen grinned before saying, “Oh no, Cap’n Holmes! We seem to have run into a storm!” This being said, the Mycroft began to tip wildly side to side, occasionally lifting upward to indicate a mighty wave. The boy on his back laughed for a few seconds before sobering up so as to deal with the threat.

“We must make it through this storm!” Sherlock bellowed, while waving his mast about as he gave more orders about where such and such crew member should go. Steadily, the storm became worse and worse, and soon Sherlock had to begin describing (in rather brutal detail, Mycroft found) which parts of the ship were lost and which crew members met their salty end in the depths of the unforgiving waters. It did not take long for it to be nothing but the imaginary-John, Sherlock and a few crucial pieces of the Mycroft left, wildly being tossed about in the storm.

By this point, not even the mast or the ships wheel remained. Sherlock pretended to desperately cling to his ship and John as the storm’s fury merely seemed to get worse. Mycroft produced a cracking sound and said, “Cap’n, I fear my hull has been breached!” Looking around, Mycroft grabbed a pillow and continued, “Here, take this piece of me and float away to safety with John!”

He watched the little boy think it over, before he hugged Mycroft tightly. “A good Captain never leaves his ship.” That said, he began to monologue about how wonderful it had been to be a pirate and how honored he had been to serve on such a good ship and with such a fine crew. To show his final defeat to the storm, Mycroft rolled over, tossing Sherlock off as he did so. The boy was soon back and clutching at his brother’s side, small hands tightly holding the red fabric of Mycroft’s shirt.

The teen smiled down at his brother, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy, who had gotten very quiet and now had a thoughtful expression upon his face. Mycroft had to wonder what was going on inside Sherlock’s head for a few moments, until the dark-haired child twist so that he could stare up into Mycroft’s face.

“Mycroft… promise me that, no matter what, we’ll never leave each other. No matter how bad the storm, you won’t go.” Though surprised by the request, his answer was easy.

“Of course we won’t leave each other. We’re brothers. We don’t leave each other. It’s not what we do.” He saw Sherlock slowly nod his head and noticed how the boys grip on his clothing became tighter.

“Yeah…” Sherlock replied softly, before burying his face in his brother’s side and breaking down into tears.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock, and quickly sat up, pulling Sherlock with him while hugging him tightly with both arms. “Hey… hey… what’s going on?” Sherlock shook his head, free curls flinging from side to side as he did so, and rubbed at his tears with his free fists.

“Nothing,” the boy replied, a little petulantly. Mycroft was not so easily put off.

“Oh please. There must be something. You can tell me.” His voice seemed properly gentle, he thought.

It didn’t take much more encouragement to get Sherlock to open up. “John’s moving. He doesn’t know it yet, but I can tell. There were all these boxes in his garage and his parents have been making him clean his room.” Mycroft struggled to find something to say. He couldn’t be sure that his brother was correct in his assumption unless he checked himself, but Sherlock had shown a knack for deduction when Mycroft had introduced it as a game. The sad truth was, it would not be unlikely if Sherlock was right about this.

“Maybe… maybe he’s not moving. People often put boxes in their garages and have children clean their rooms…” The teen scrambled for some flimsy reasoning that would calm the young boy before him. God, how he loathed to see Sherlock cry.

“Not boxes with labels like ‘for new kitchen’!” Sherlock yelled, more tears spilling over his cheeks, though he fought valiantly to keep them back. Mycroft grimaced, before pulling his younger brother close. He wasn’t sure what to say or what to do.

“Hey, hey… Listen, you and John can still remain friends, even if he moves away. You can write each other letters and I’m sure that we can find a way for you two to have little get-togethers from time to time.” The words seemed to be comforting, as the crying was dying down to snuffling even as Mycroft spoke.

“You really think so?” Sherlock queried, voice trembling.

“I really do. Now,” Mycroft said, releasing Sherlock so that he could look his brother in the eyes, “Just enjoy your time with John. And I know it’s hard to know he’s going to move, but you must let his parents tell him when they’re ready.Remember, it’s going to be much harder for him, because he’s the one who’s moving.” Sherlock nodded slowly, taking all this in before grinning.

“Besides, no matter where John goes, we can still become pirates when we grow up.”

Mycroft smiled, laughing lightly. “Yes you can.”

Sherlock’s face relaxed and became thoughtful once again as he leaned against his brother. There was a silence, before the boy said, “Hey, Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Sherlock. And I always will.”

Johnlock: Drabble Generator CRACK

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 21:32:07 -0400

Sherlock and John
by William Shakespeare

Enter Sherlock

John appears above at a window

Sherlock:
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the skull, and John is the Lion.
Arise, energetic Lion, and flick the poised iPhone.
See, how he leans his finger upon his lips!
O, that I were a glove upon those lips,
That I might touch that finger!

John:
O Sherlock, Sherlock! wherefore art thou Sherlock?
What’s in a name? That which we call an elbow
By any other name would smell as grating
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say “like the sweetest of candies gracing my tongue and giving me joy”
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove indecisive.

Sherlock:
Swain, by yonder poised iPhone I swear
That tips on a bed the brilliant door—

John:
O, swear not by the iPhone, the surreal iPhone,
That snarkily changes in its cumbersome orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise cumbersome.
Sweet, erotic night! A thousand times erotic night!
Parting is such repetitive sorrow,
That I shall say erotic night till it be morrow.

Exit above

Sherlock:
Sleep dwell upon thy finger, peace in thy lips!
Would I were sleep and peace, so suggestively to rest!
invitingly will I to my energetic elbow’s cell,
Its help to flick, and my grating elbow to tell.

Johnlock: P.S. I Love You

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 22:31:00 -0400

luciferofmorningstar:

What if Sherlock Season 3 was like PS I LOVE YOU?

So this person made that post. Not totally true to what they proposed. It’s just what my brain puked out.

I apologize for the tense derp. I couldn’t fix it. This is also totally unedited. See any errors, PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE tell me. And message me if there’s any way for the tense issues to be fixed.

Though it was the middle of the night, Sherlock scribbled furiously at a piece of paper, which was positioned rather awkwardly upon the short coffee table in front of him. It was a dreadfully uncomfortable way to write, but the man didn’t care. His eyes bore into the paper, his fingers clutched the pen in his hand as though it were a life line.

This was important.

He has told himself this over and over again as the words spilled over the page. There is so much to say in this letter, and it’s imperative that it be absolutely perfect.

At last, the dark-haired detective leans back from his uncomfortable hunch over the table, surveying his work with a cold stare, eyes zipping over the page. It’s a brief moment; he soon frowns and collects the paper, crumpling it up into the tightest ball he could manage before tossing it into the trash. The ball merely joins a rather impressive mountain of balls that have been forming over the wastebasket for the past hour.

Why couldn’t he get something as simple as a letterright?

Thankfully, he’d already conquered the greeting. ‘Dear John’ had been too formal. ‘Dearest John’ too… too. There was something not right about that either. So at last, he’d opted for ‘John’. Not too emotional but not cold either. It was appropriate.

The actual message had been more of a challenge. While the man wanted to do his best to comfort John, Sherlock could not risk tipping his hand and revealing his true state of being. No matter what, John had to believe that this letter was Sherlock’s suicide note.

So again and again he wrote and revised. How much emotion to put in? Should he bring up the scandal surrounding his death? It was hard to decide. At last he settled upon telling John what not to do; don’t give up, don’t stop living. He was intent upon keeping his blogger alive and well.

Thus the purpose for the letter,he thought. Whenever Molly came home, she always reported about John. It was a part of the routine they’d settled into, and Sherlock had never once asked. She merely told him, and for the past few weeks what he had been hearing had severely disturbed him.

John was showing all the signs of depression, and Sherlock knew all too well what depressed people did; he’d solved enough suicides to know. His throat tightened. The mere thought of John doing something… something as stupid as that…

He took a deep breath, forcing the feelings away. They were the same emotions he’d driven away when he’d found John strapped to explosives.

Focus, Sherlock, he told himself firmly, grappling with his fear and forcing it away.

He now just needed an ending. The final touch. But it eluded him just as fiercely as the other sections of the letter had. He penned lists of endings upon a separate sheet of paper. ‘Sincerely, SH’, ‘Your Friend, SH’, ‘Forever Yours, SH’. Wrong, wrong, wrong. They either said too much or too little. He even attempted ‘Love, SH’. It wrung childish in his mind, and he disdained sounding childish.

“Just SH, then,” he muttered darkly. Simple. John would think it sounded like him. Good. Very good. He added it to the final copy, tagging it on to the neat dark rows, writing it crookedly at the end.

And that was when a thought struck him, and he impulsively wrote it down as a post-script at the end.

Again, he pulled away to gaze at his handiwork, and frowned when he reached the ending.

No. Not right. Once more.

He rewrote the entire letter on a new paper, copying everything but his post-script down. At finishing this painstaking task, he moved the letter to the corner of the table, all the while staring at the original version of the document. Or, rather, staring at the hastily-written post-script of the final document.

P.S. I love you.

What had possessed him to write that? The words were true; they resonated painfully in his head, heart and soul, sitting there like an ache, lacing Sherlock’s thoughts about one John Watson… But only a fool would put such things in a final letter.

Love did funny things. Another thing that Sherlock had learned over the years; love was a variable that was unpredictable at best. He’d seen many a case where jealously and loss of love had lead people to do crazy things. He’d not add that unpredictability to John’s future, no matter how much he longed to let the other man know how he felt.

As the man stood, he picked up this post-scripted letter. He dwelt upon it for a few seconds before crushing it between his hands and tossing it amongst his other rejects, which he would have to burn. Tomorrow, he thought, pacing the floor as he mentally went through his message yet again.

He didn’t believe there were any mistakes. Not really. But for John, he’d check and double check this note into oblivion.

P.S. Sherlock thought, heart momentarily catching in his throat. I love you.

Character Challenge

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 22:14:37 -0400

kirby-chan:

godtiss:

I have a list of fifteen characters from multiple fandoms. But you don’t get to know who. Send me a prompt with at least one number 1-15 and I’ll write a short ficlet based on that prompt with the corresponding character(s).

example: 2 and 12 are stuck in an elevator together for eight hours.

YES PLEASE

GUYZ. DOOOOO EEEEET. DO IT NOW.

GUYZ SUMMUN ASKED ME TO WRITE FEMLOCK SMUT TODAY. AND I TRIED. BECAUSE I LOVE THIS GIRL. AND. I. COULDN'T.

Sun, 15 Apr 2012 21:08:33 -0400

I FEEL LIKE SUCH A FAILURE RIGHT NOW. YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

I’M JUST NOT A SMUT WRITER. AND THAT MAKES ME SAD.

Spring Awakening Cherik Fic Prompt

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 20:14:00 -0400

Perhaps not so literal from Play/Musical to Fic, but a fic with very, very similar sensibilities. I mean, listen to the musical’s soundtrack. I feel like there are some parts that really smack of these two, and I’d love for there to be a fic that really embodies that.

Like, they’re both teens, both are really unsure what sex and sexuality are, they just know that they really care for each other, and it’s when things get hot and heavy that things get crazy for them. The adults wouldn’t approve (especially considering the whole “homosexual” thing), even though it’s their fault that neither boy really understood that what they were doing was what “sex” was.

So… I felt inspired. And WENT WITH IT. So… uh…...

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 19:05:00 -0400

So… I felt inspired. And WENT WITH IT. So… uh… unedited cute for you?

Joan woke up to the strange sensation of something – she couldn’t identify the nature of it through the tee-shirt she slept it – pressing into her armpit, as a puppy would shove it’s nose into various body parts to get someone’s attention. But there was most certainly no puppies in 221B, and no good reason for things to be prodding Joan in such places, and in her half-awake state, she fuzzily realized that it this was seriously troubling…

Her mind caught up, and with a squeak, the woman sat bolt upright, jerking as far away from the unknown sensation as possible and struggling to reach for the pistol that was in her drawer. The blond didn’t reach it, however, as a pale, thin hand clutched her bicep and held her still. Instinctively, the woman struggled for a few moments, until a familiar feminine voice moaned, “Joan, go back to sleep.”

Suddenly, the veteran stilled completely, shock flashing in her brain. “Sheryl?!” Joan exclaimed in disbelief, her voice ringing with annoyance and embarrassment. Twisting so that she could reach her bedside lamp, the blond clicked it on and turned yet again so she could see the woman who had so unceremoniously invaded her bed.

Her partner rolled away from the light with another groan, wrapping her arms around her head and curling into a fetal position until nothing of her head but the impressive crown of raven curls could be seen by the other woman. “Turn off the light,” the great Sheryl Holmes said, a hint of a whine in her voice.

Despite herself, the military woman found herself staring… Sheryl had a fascinating back and wistfully the woman wondered what it would be like to trail kisses up it to the elegant neck it led to… With a firm shake of her head and a flush forming on her cheeks, Joan pushed the thoughts away, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow. In the sternest voice that she could manage while trying not to pay any mind to the stunning lady who lay upon the side of her bed, she said, “Not until you tell me what you’re doing. In here. With me. In my bedroom. You have your own, you know.”

With a frustrated sigh that would have made any angst-ridden, rebellious teen proud, the younger woman writhed onto her back, arms flinging to her sides as she did so, to glare at her friend as best she could through squinted eyes. “Boring,” she said simply, something pout-like tugging at her sharply beautiful face.

Joan was not impressed, and rather aggravated by the fact that now Sheryl was not only interrupting her sleep cycle, but also taking up half of her bed. She tried to tell herself that this was a problem, but the constant movement created a tantalizingly slow rise of the hem of her flatmates nightdress that was making attention upon anything but the amount of flesh that was being revealed terribly hard for the blond to focus on.

What’s wrong with you, she scolded herself. This is Sheryl. You two work together, for God’s sake. But that didn’t stop Joan from looking.

Sheryl was a striking woman. Sharp featured, perhaps, but there was a beauty to the edginess of her looks. There was a reason that Samuel Donovan liked to call her the Ice Queen – the consulting detective’s light eyes, alabaster skin and unsmiling face made her look positively frozen… But she had always had surprisingly soft and warm skin whenever Joan had had the occasion to brush against it, and when the dark-haired female smiled, she was positively radiant.

But Joan realized now that Sheryl also had a beautiful body, no matter her facial features. A shapely figure and breasts that were just the right size… Any male would have envied Joan for having a woman like that splayed next to her on a bed.

She felt her mind get dizzy with the heat that flooded there, and closed her eyes, struggling to tame her wild emotions. Get a grip, she shouted mentally.

“Sheryl… go to bed.” She managed at last on a shaky exhale.

“I was going to, but then you made such a fuss,” was the languid reply. Joan’s jaw tightened.

“In your own room,” she clarified, trying to pitch her voice so that it was authoritative. It instead sounded a little strained, and so the woman opened her eyes so that she could give Sheryl a disapproving look.

The detective’s eyes did not meet hers. Rather, she now lay completely straight upon the bed, arms tightly wrapped around herself, her eyes thoughtfully – perhaps a little sadly – staring at the ceiling. There was something else at work here, Joan realized. It was more than just to harass her that Sheryl had so rudely impinged upon her personal space, though she had been awoken by her for much less.

She knew there was no way she could get the other woman to admit that there was something wrong – Sheryl Holmes was far too proud for that – but perhaps she could at the very least help.

A sigh escaped Joan, and she slouched, smiling at the other. “Just for tonight. No more.” It felt a little silly, but Sheryl smiled ever so very slightly, and nodded, resting her head upon one of Joan’s pillows, seeming to relax ever so very slightly. Joan moved to turn off the light, and settled in, prepared to go right to sleep.

Yet she found that she was hyper-aware of the other presence in her bed, mere inches away from her. It drove her mad to think that Sheryl was there, and for the life of her she could not figure out why. Quite simply, the there-ness of the other female was like static electricity – not quite electric enough to be shocking but unbelievably present.

Joan seemed destined for a sleepless night when Sheryl shifted in bed and encircled an arm around her blogger’s waist and moved her head so that it was upon Joan’s breast, just above her heart. Suddenly that heart seemed to beat a little faster than normal, and her eyes wandered down to where Sheryl’s head would be.

This was completely unforeseen, and she was unsure how to continue. What did one do when a woman such as this cuddled you? A woman who rather clearly longed for comfort, but could not find any way to express it, not even to Joan.

Hesitantly, the blond put one arm over the others and wrapped her other limb around Sheryl’s head and carefully threaded her fingers through the dark ringlets upon her head. Her thumb remained free, and, rather instinctively, she began to caress the detectives scalp. Back and forth against the soft hair, and Joan felt both she and Sheryl relax into that position.

Slowly, Joan fell asleep, a tiny contented smile upon her face as she did so, encased in the warmth of her friend’s body and the feeling that, hopefully, she’d helped the other woman in some small way.

Late Night Boredom - Femlock

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 16:31:54 -0400

The woman paced back and forth in her cluttered apartment. She was dressed in a loose, silky off-blue, almost gray, nightdress that ended halfway up her calves under a more intensely blue bathrobe which hung open. Her feet were bare, and she walked carefully though quickly from her heel to the balls of her feet, thudding along the floor without a care. Her chin length curled dark brown locks tumbled around her face in disarray, her light blue eyes were set in concentration and frustration, and her fingers were splayed open, touching at the tips.

“Holmes,” groaned a female from the doorway. “It’s midnight, Holmes. What the hell are you doing?”

Holmes intense eyes shifted to the other woman, narrowing as they did so. Her pacing halted. “Watson, I’m bored,” the consulting detective intoned pointedly, as if it were the plainest thing in all the world.

“Of course. How could I be so ignorant?” her partner replied, her voice pitched sarcastically flat. Through mostly closed dark eyes, the blond peered through her lids and long eye lashes at her friend. Honestly, the doctor looked like hell, dressed in a baggy pair of sweat pants and a loose tee-shirt, and her long straight hair was tied back into a sloppy pony tail, her bangs haphazardly tumbling into her eyes. She grimaced at the light. “Whatever are we to do?” she continued.

“I don’t know, Watson! That is why I am pacing!” the brunette declared, tossing her hands up into the air in exasperation. Rather like a prowling animal, Sheryl began to stalk around the room, as though the crevices and corners might reveal an intriguing murder.

Of course, Joan reflected, Knowing Holmes, it would not be surprising.The thought of such things always made her nervous, but she trusted Holmes not to murder anyone. Though, during that time of the month, Joan wondered if Sheryl ever had come close.

Arching an eyebrow sleepily, the veteran settled herself in the arm chair, crossing her arms and waiting for the rant about how mundane life was to begin. It was the same little dance every time, and soon Holmes would be over it and would go back to… well, whatever it was that Holmes did at night. At least most nights it was quiet, but tonight it seemed that Holmes was determined to stomp the whole building awake.

However the rant did not start. Rather, there was an intense quiet in the room. Joan strained to hear something - anything, really, as long as she ascertained that Sheryl was still there. Nothing reached her ears, no matter how much she stretched her senses.

If she had been any other woman, she would have opened her eyes timidly, fearing the worst. It was generally best to know exactlywhat Holmes was doing at all times, though even when Joan kept an eye on her the consulting detective still managed to baffle her. Joan was not just any woman, though. She was a veteran of war, and had seen worse than anything that Sheryl could produce in the silence.

Without the slightest hesitation, her dark eyes opened. She expected them to be hurt by the light in the room, though that all seemed to be blocked out by Holmes’ long, sharp face, which was jammed into Joan’s own.

She was startled to find her partner gazing at her with such fervor, like a cat which had found something interesting that they would play with for a little while. She’d often seen Sheryl’s eyes like that while at a crime scene… and that was more than a little unnerving to her, particularly so close.

However it was also breathtaking. The way those sharp and wildly intelligent eyes seemed to pierce through Joan to everything that was inside her. No secret could be kept, no little detail would be missed. Her throat seemed to close, and she felt like a dumb fish floundering on land.

Finally, the blond shook herself, a warm flush creeping into her cheeks - from annoyance, she told herself - and she mustered the breath to speak at last. “Holmes! What in the name of-?” Joan exclaimed, trying to pull away from the woman, who had trapped her by gripping both of the chair’s arms in her delicate, slender hands.

With a pleased smirk set upon her face, the brunette leaned even closer, so close that their breaths intermingled, warming the air uncomfortably. At least, Joan was uncomfortable, and her face slowly became warmer the longer Holmes stared at her. “Holmes… I-” Joan squeaked out, but Sheryl placed one pale finger on her broad lips.

“Shhh. Watson. You can be so very dull sometimes,” the woman murmured, clearly pleased with herself. Slowly, the female detective straddled the very distraught Watson, who was struggling with the fact that she was not bothered enough by the predicament she was in. Again, her breath couldn’t seem to function right and her muscles weren’t struggling like her brain was telling them to.

“Wait…” Joan managed on the breath of an exhalation. She was shocked by how breathless she sounded. Sheryl stopped, her eyebrow quirking upward in interest. She seemed almost alight with curiosity, but there was also something in the way she looked at Joan, like she was trying to guess at what the blond would do. “Why are you doing this?”

Sheryl looked nonplussed. “I think it should be fairly obvious, Joan.” Those big blue eyes stared at her in condescending wonderment. “I do wonder what it is like in your brain. It must be so brilliantly unexciting.”

That tone of voice always annoyed Joan, just a little. She understood Sheryl better than anyone ever would, was the closest thing that this exasperating woman had to a friend, and stillshe was never up to Holmes’ standard. Never. She was a doctor, dammit. She had passed through higher levels of education and had been chosen to be a member of the British Army. In normal social circles, she was no one to be sneezed at.

And yet, here Sheryl was, scoffing at her as one would an ignorant child.

“No, Holmes, it is not obvious,” the blond declared, her voice brittle. She pushed Sheryl out of her lap, and forcing herself to her feet. “I know it seems painfully so to you, but dammit I don’t think like you. So yes, you’re going to have to hold my hand and explain it to me. Please do, because I’m so very lost.”

The brunette sat on the floor watching Joan, speechless for once in her life. She kept her face a mask of icy calm as she accessed the situation with information that she seemed to pluck from thin air. “You’re angry, aren’t you?” The woman stated at last, bluntly baffled.

Joan gaped at her. Any buffoon could pick up on that, couldn’t they? “Yes,” the woman stated firmly, though she had been caught off guard and her voice wavered a bit.

“Damn,” the brunette cursed softly, her stare turning to the floor. “What did I do wrong?” she hissed to herself, running her hands through her wild curls. Her lips began to move as though she were speaking, but no sound came out. Those eyes seemed to bore into the ground as if she were looking at a plan that only she could see.

Joan stood there, unsure of how to proceed. What was going on? And what in the name of hell was Sheryl up to? Biting her lip thoughtfully, the woman chided herself. You have walked into war zones, woman. I think you can handle one crazed consulting detective. Though even as she thought the words, she was not so sure.

Slowly, the blond approached her friend, partner and roommate. It seemed to be ages before she at last reached Sheryl and knelt by her side. However, Joan didn’t touch her. Instead she watched in fascination as Holmes seemed to examine her own world, trapped in a reverie. While Sheryl often openly pondered about Joan’s thought process, Joan rarely openly showed her personal fascination with how the other woman thought.

It must be maddening inside her head, the doctor thought, not for the first time. She could hardly even begin to imagine what it was like to live in a world with fact and observation as its prime principles. How can she keep that all in one head?But then, of course, she hadn’t. Joan had been privy to those thoughts and observations, and Sheryl expressed them to her in the only way she could.

And that was when Joan reached out, because she knew that she couldn’t let Holmes live in that world by herself. In fact, she’d be damned if she’d let her. Yes, the woman was aggravating and superior… but Joan loved her anyway. They’d been through hell and back again, and would always be together, always sharing space and always keeping each other sane.

Sheryl started, jumping minutely when Joan touched her shoulder. They just sat there for a few moments, eyes locked. It seemed as though the world crackled about them, heating the air. And then it all seemed to snap, and there were Sheryl’s lips upon Joan’s, crushing, demanding, needing to share some intimacy.

Joan tangled her hands in Sheryl’s hair as they tumbled to the floor, just needing to maintain contact. They needed each other. Needed to stay close, and their breath and heartbeats seemed to beat in time as they got closer and closer…

“Sheryl, dear, you really must keep it… OH!” The elderly female voice cried out, and Joan broke away from the frenzied kisses, blushing like mad. There, in the doorway, was Ms. Hudson, her back turned from the display on the floor.

“Yes, dear Ms. Hudson,” Sheryl said nonchalantly, pulling Joan close again so that she could nibble on her jaw. “Just staving away boredom, as always.” Joan scowled at that, but did not say anything as Ms. Hudson’s head was bobbing up and down in a slow, uncertain manner.

“Yes… yes… well… just keep it quiet. And I’ll just… close this door for you…” Turning carefully around with her eyes closed and a prim little smile on her face, the landlady fumbled for the doorknob, found it and gently closed it shut with a neat little click.

Moving again for Joan’s lips, Sheryl smiled in a pleased manner. But instead of the kiss she expected, she was met by a hard scowl. “I will not just be tonight’s entertainment,” Joan declared, attempting to disentangle herself. She’d not just stave off boredom for this woman, whether she loved her or not. It would simply hurt too much to become some fling in between cases… would hurt even more than her damaged leg had ever pained her.

Joan’s attempt at escape, though, were futile. Sheryl pulled her close, and straddled her yet again, trapping Joan’s arms in her hands. Despite the fact that Joan had a slightly bulkier build than the brunette, Sheryl was still much taller and was not the easiest to topple unless caught off guard.

With a childish grin upon her face, Sheryl whispered into Joan’s ear, “Oh, I wasn’t planning on it just being tonight.” This did not placate the other woman.

“Oh, so I’ll just become your friend with benefits,” Joan stated sharply. Sheryl pulled away and scowled down at her.

“Lord, no, woman!” she cried in exasperation. Sighing deeply and grimacing, the brunette closed her eyes as if to collect her thoughts. After a few moments, she opened them again, and stared levelly at the woman before her, who meant so much but had never known it. “Joan Watson… I want you. I want you here, with me, every night for the rest of my life. I understand if you want to leave because you can’t stand me… I’m not an easy person to live with. But I want you to know that no matter what… there will always be a place for you here. With me.”

The words were spoken like a solemn vow, and Joan was blown away. There were no words. Nothing to say back to that.

So instead she grinned mischievously, and rolled so that she was now on top and Sheryl was pinned beneath her. “I think I might stick around,” the blond said playfully before kissing the woman she loved with all the passion she could muster.

Spazz Bucket: WARNING: Belle x Rumpelstiltskin fans might not want to read this. It might hurt your heart.

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 16:26:20 -0400

Spazz Bucket: WARNING: Belle x Rumpelstiltskin fans might not want to read this. It might hurt your heart. :

spazzbuckets:

The kiss was soft, like when a hesitant breeze tickles your face, like the petals of a rose.

His rose. That’s what she was to him. A bright, shining point in his life. It was something he’d never admit, never tell to her, but the feeling lived… in his heart. That was his heart, right? He hadn’t…