#FFF276 Dark and Stormy Night

[shantismurf]

@flashfictionfridayofficial has offered a reference to the classic line, "It was a dark and stormy night" for us this week. I was inspired by this lovely ad shared by my dear friend @lisellelascelles yesterday. I looked up the origin of the line and this story wrote itself!

Thank you @lucigoo for your tireless support and encouragement! 🥰

[#FFF276 Dark and Stormy Night]

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Bedtime Story

A/N - “London” has been discreetly shifted to “Lindon” in the excerpt below, to place this story in Middle-earth. Let's all pretend Lindon is a bustling metropolis, hmm?

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"It was a dark, and stormy night;"

Bilbo sighed happily. His eyes fluttered shut as a peaceful wave of relaxation swept through him. His shoulders melted into the cushion that had been tucked under him so tenderly.

“the rain fell in torrents—”

Gentle fingers drifted idly over the crown of his head, sending tingles sparkling happily down his spine. As the warmth of the firm thighs under his cheek seeped into his skin, the blissful domesticity of the moment made his chest squeeze pleasantly. This was his absolute favorite thing.

“except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Lindon that our scene lies),“

The soothing cadence drifted over him, flowing through without really being attended as he was rather distracted by the fingertip tracing the upper curve of his ear, dipping into the pointed tip and dragging along the other side.

“rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

A tiny frown marred his brow as he tried to parse out that line of text, but as the honeyed voice rolled on in its quiet tones he settled further into his comfortable position and let the soporific sound sink into his skin.

“Through one of the obscurest quarters of Lindon, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a man, evidently of the lowest orders, was wending his solitary way. “

His eyes flicked open, frown deepening. He darted a glance up at his bedmate, who was holding a suspiciously bland expression on his bearded face as his gaze remained fixed on the somewhat dusty linen-bound book in his hand. The warm light of the bedside lamp cut across his features, sharpening his nose (if that was even possible) and glinting in the silver of his hair.

“He stopped twice or thrice at different shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated,”

“What in the world are you reading?” Bilbo couldn't take it any more. He'd never heard such drivel.

Eyes gleaming with humor over their wire rimmed spectacles and decidedly not looking down at the hobbit in his lap, Thorin was unable to keep the laughter from rattling through his velvet voice as he continued,

“-and tended inquiry for some article on another which did not seem easily to be met with.”

“Alright, that's it!” Bilbo rolled over quickly and mercilessly dug his fingers into the soft rolls above Thorin’s hips, where he was especially ticklish. The former dwarf king curled up into a ball and laughed helplessly, book sliding out of nerveless fingers and utterly forgotten.

“Just see if I ever let you pick the book we read again!”

---

–Excerpt from the 1830 book “Paul Clifford” by Sir Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton, which inspired the long-standing trope of the absolute worst starting line to a story, ever. Seems like he wasn't content to leave the banal hyperbole to just the starting line 😅

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. Part 1 Part 2

A Girl’s Touch

Thunder and lightning wakes John. The wind is making the windowpanes rattle. He is icy cold. On his left wrist an icicle feels his pulse point.

“That’s insane and you know it,” he scolds himself.

“John.”

He knows that voice. Would recognise it anywhere.

“Sherlock?” he croaks and opens his eyes. “What the hell happened?”

To John’s astonishment he’s lying in the bed where he found Sherlock, who sits crossed legged by his side. The icicle is in fact Sherlock’s thumb, still holding on to John’s wrist. John tries to focus on that beloved face, but his vision is quite blurry.

“It takes a while getting used to. Close your eyes and rest,” Sherlock says softly and squeezes John’s hand.

“But what about – “

“Later, John.”

***

His shoulder is on fire. Not literally but it certainly feels like it. John didn’t see the sniper. The pain is a shock. It’s a violent sort of pain. He can almost hear the damage the bullet did to him.

The cane. Where is his cane? He needs it. Instead, his gun is in his hand. What does he need a gun for? With narrowed eyes, he peers out of the window and over to the opposite building. Sherlock! He is about to take that bloody pill. The cabbie is watching him intently, holding a similar capsule. John fires the gun.

Sherlock is standing on the roof of Barts. He stretches out his arms. The image of a gigantic bat fills John’s mind. Sherlock jumps.

A fourposter bed with green curtains. Like a male Snow White, Sherlock lies on the bed. Dark curls against white pillows. His pale face is reminiscent of marble. Sherlock’s lips aren’t pink anymore, but pale like his face and tinted with blue. Dead.

***

John wakes with a cry, but although he lies in a comfortable bed, he’s cold. To the bone. Still, he doesn’t freeze or shiver. Sherlock’s chilly presence is comforting. He’s still holding his thumb over John’s pulse point. John tries to steady himself, which takes no effort at all, surprisingly enough. There’s no racing heart or thudding pulse to fill the silence. Only serene and eerie soundlessness.

“Have you figured it out yet, John?” Sherlock asks.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” 

“Observe,” the detective commands.

Cold, but not freezing. Feeling a calmness that should be unsettling but isn’t. No heartbeats, ergo no pulse. Dead.

The panic that normally would rise in him, is blessedly absent. He looks up at Sherlock, who smiles at him. Fondly. Which should be terrifying but isn’t. 

“I knew you’d get there,” Sherlock says and lies down beside John.

“We’re dead,” John states flatly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees.

“How did it happen?” John wants to know.

It’s liberating and a tad bit unnerving to feel so calm. Like, there’s nothing more to worry about. Which is true. Nothing can hurt him or Sherlock anymore now. 

Lightning strikes, illuminating Sherlock’s face. A smile forms on his lips, and John knows that if he was alive, a flood of relief would’ve washed over him.

“The little girl’s touch did it,” Sherlock says. “She must have touched you too after you realised it was me lying here.”

“What little girl?” John asks bewildered.

“The East Wind, John. Do keep up!”

The exasperation in Sherlock’s voice almost makes John laugh.

“Nobody’s called that, Sherlock! Besides, there was no girl.”

“Yes, and yes, John. She told me it was her name. You should know better than to think I'm making stuff up like this.”

Sherlock looks indignant and withdraws to the other side of the bed.

“He truly believes what he’s saying,” John thinks to himself.

He reaches out his hand to touch Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock is stiff like the poles surrounding the bed.

“Hey,” John says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, but I haven’t seen anyone but you since we sat foot in this godforsaken place.”

“She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery,” Sherlock mumbles.

John startles when the wind increases. Outside something cracks, followed by a heavy thud. It sounds like a large branch has fallen to the ground. Hit by lightning possibly.

John plays Sherlock’s words in his head once more: “She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery.”

The chair that moved. The girl sat in it when John was in there!

“I saw the chair move, but I couldn’t see her,” John explains.

“Pity. She’s quite mischievous. Reminds me of myself when I was a boy. The name too. Peculiar, like mine and Mycroft’s,” Sherlock muses.

“The East Wind is even more – “

“Not that. What it means in Greek. Her name is Eurus.”

THE END

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[mama-ivy]

A Change in Plans

Warning - mentions of physical abuse and prostitution

Frankie was mad. Like, really, really mad.

The supposed client was about to become his mark. That’s how mad he was.

He sat in the driver seat of his caddy trying to figure out his next steps. He had found a great hiding spot for the car that hid it from the road but was still close enough to the mark’s house so that he could see what was going on.  He couldn’t get closer than the street, though, because he didn’t want to leave footprints. It had been raining for over six hours and there wasn’t any grass between him and the god-awful trailer that this girl lived in.  He could still hear the thunder rumbling as the storm moved further and further away raining down on the poor people in the neighboring cities.

The rain had done him at least one small favor, the night air was so crisp and clean that he could hear clearly the conversation happening between his client and his mark as they argued on the front porch.

This asshole had come into his office last week with a full payment and a sob story about how his wife was the worst and she abused his kid and she was always high and he was worried about his wellbeing and .. and .. and. The child abuse was what got him. He never went after innocent women and children. Supposedly, this woman wasn’t innocent. So Frankie took the job and the money.

Now he was sitting in his car watching this supposedly horrid woman desperately beg for her pimp to stop sending her out until the leg that he broke fully healed.

He was yelling about johns.

She was crying about the cast.

He was threatening to give her a matching set of casts.

The longer Frankie sat, the more mad he got. But how to get the client-turned-mark into the car without the mark-turned-client seeing him?

Finally, the poor, crying, broken-legged woman went back inside, but not before her pimp slapped her around a bit and threatened her some more.

Frankie sat quietly waiting to see what would happen.

The pimp that had hired him to “disappear” his broken hooker stormed away from the trailer and towards Frankie’s car. Frankie saw his chance and took it.

“Hey. C’mere.”

The new mark smiled at Frankie and came up to the car.

“Get in. I need to finalize some details with you before this goes down.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Frankie waited for him to close himself into the passenger seat and took off down the road. He had already scouted out the drop off point for the supposedly horrid woman. He could still use it if he dug the hole a bit bigger than planned.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[renee-writer]

Stormy Indeed

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial #276 prompt. Outlander Fanfiction

AO3

“I met your dad on a night like this one,” outside the thunder crashes and the lightning adds light to the softly lit room, “I have never known rain like it. It seemed like the heavens were crying.

 

I sure felt like it. I figured out that I was in the past, something I knew intellectually. It was obvious . What wasn’t so obvious was how and why,” a chuckle, “ how could I know that the answer to why was the man riding behind me as we slogged our way through that endless night.

 

He was a gentleman from the first, struggling to get his heavy plaid around me, feeling my shivers. Offered to share his spirits with me too. Warm the inside if not quite take the hunger pains away.

 

I didn’t know where we were going, when we would get there, or anything else other than the extraordinary knowledge that I was somewhere deep in the past.  That was enough to keep my mind occupied.

 

Still, there was something from the start about him. Something that even in the middle of the physical and emotional storms raging around and in me, drew me to him.

 

Insane as I was married to the one you will know as daddy. Still, it was undeniable.

 

That you are here, deep in my womb, the last part of him, shows that I was right. We went through many storms together but I will always have a special place in my heart for where it all began, that stormy night indeed on the way to Castle Leoch.”

[fanficrocks]

Handclasp

Written for FFF279 @flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Endeavour (TV)

Characters: Win Thursday, Fred Thursday

A/N: Standalone ficlet set at the end of Neverland, but could be read as a companion piece to Aftermath, my fic written for FFF276 Dark and Stormy Night.

Word count: 597

Win sat rigidly upright on the sofa in the waiting room, her children asleep on either side, the hours blending into a hazy continuum as a storm raged outside and Fred battled for his life in the operation theatre down the corridor. The surgeon’s entrance roused her from her desperate prayers, and she watched his deliberate gait and uncommunicative face, heart in mouth as she waited for his verdict.

A few minutes later, the Matron was leading her into Fred’s hospital room, the kids having been thankfully dispatched home with Peter. Watching the nurses bustling around her husband’s still form, Win found it difficult to reconcile the sight of his almost grey pallor and the transfusion bag hanging by the bed with the surgeon’s reassuring words. Tamping down her worry, Win forced herself to focus on what the Sister was saying about the hourly checks on Fred, nodding along as though she understood it all.

Settling into the armchair by the bed, she ran her eyes carefully over that familiar stalwart frame, normally her bulwark against the world but now looking quite concerningly fragile under the precision-folded blankets. Having reassured herself that Fred’s right hand and forearm were free of needles and tubes, she stretched out her left hand to gently clasp it atop the blankets. It felt, not cold exactly, but nothing like the strong and vital warmth she was used to. But it wasn’t cold, she reminded herself, bringing up her other hand to gently chafe his fingers.

As the hours passed, the nurses came in and out to perform their checks, but none of them bothered her or asked her to move - something Win knew she should be grateful for, and she would once her mind had room for anything beyond Fred. At some point, fatigue must have caught her up, for she fell into a doze and her right hand slid down to lie in her lap.

Some indeterminable time later, Win felt a slight pressure on her left hand, which seemed to be somewhat uncomfortably extended in front of her. Blinking the sleep away, she opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented and unsure of where she was. As awareness came crashing down upon her, she felt it again - a slight but unmistakable squeeze of her hand. 

Focusing on where her left hand lay over Fred’s right, Win realised that the fingers linked in her were warm. Not fever-hot, but comfortingly warm, the way Fred’s hands always were. The warmth that had sustained her through the horrors of the war years. The same warmth that had soothed Joan and Sam in their little trouble and ailments, that they had all taken for granted as theirs to lean into.

A paean of thanks coursed through Win as she returned the gentle pressure of Fred’s hand. Watching the lines of pain smooth out slightly on her husband’s brow even as his handclasp got stronger, she found herself thinking of all that those strong warm hands would now be able to do.

One day they would cup Joanie’s smaller, slighter hands one last time before placing them in her chosen husband’s. They would rest on Sam’s shoulder in fellowship and support as the boy grew into a man. And in the fullness of time, those same warm and strong yet tender hands would cradle their grandchildren.

Above all, Fred’s handclasp would remain her refuge and strength for years to come. And that made everything right in Win’s world, giving her the strength to keep her children and her home going while Fred recovered from his close call.

[starlightfireflies]

Lightning Catcher

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF276; dark and stormy night warnings: storms & everything associated word count: 773

Catching lightning is not easy.

We make it look easy, with our centuries of experience, but it is far from the indifferent process we make it out to be.

Simple? Yes.

Painless? No.

The wind whips my cloak, sending its fabric rustling. On the mountain where I stand, the gales are wilder. Freer. Unlike the plains below, there are no sorcerers to bind it.

Above me, flashes illuminate heavy clouds. Thunder rolls; rain pours through the cities below, an unending sheet. Soon, it will slice through the ledge on which I perch, soaking me through and bringing power in its wake.

“This seems dangerous,” whispers a soft voice.

I startle. In my concentration, I forgotten about the true reason behind my trek up the mountain—my young charge.

She—Opal—is a new Chosen, plucked from the streets of her home like a puppet controlled by its master. Except our strings can never break, never be repaired once they are lost. The sun spirit who Chooses us has made sure of that.

Opal needs teaching. And I have gone many years without an apprentice.

But Opal is quiet and shy and scared. She does not look at the approaching rain with determination. She does not brace herself for the coming storm.

Lightning flashes; thunder echoes. I stand my ground, but Opal skitters, loose rocks tumbling down the mountainside with every frantic step.

“Don’t flinch,” I tell her. “In the end, you will only fall.” And the sun spirit withholds a truly deathless life—we will never age, but our bodies are still weak.

Opal doesn’t speak. She huddles against the rising stone of the cliff next to us, eyes fixed upon the dark clouds crowding the horizon.

Instead of chastising her, I pull a bottle from my cloak. It is only the size of my ring finger, and nothing swirls within.

Still, it seems to radiate with power. Even after nine hundred years, I still treat these jars with reverence.

The wind picks up. Already water is beading on my eyelashes—the rain is arriving.

I turn to Opal. “It is easiest to Summon in the thick of a storm.”

Her face pales.

Then the rain hits.

It is like a physical blow, pushing us back. And in between one blink and the next, I am soaked. Opal is cowering now, but I ignore her fear. “We must find the lightning pattern. Predict when the next strike will land.”

The crash of water against stone nearly drowns my voice. The whisper of the winds has grown to a howl, screeching around me.

Though Opal remains frozen, her eyes are pinned on me.

So I turn to the expanse of air around me. The lightning’s pattern clicks together in my mind almost instantly, a trick perfected only by practice.

I don’t risk giving Opal the pattern. She either figures it out, or she doesn’t. I cannot lose it if it moves too far out of reach.

More lightning strikes.

My cloak is sodden and heavy. I discard it, the fabric falling heavy to the ground. I feel more exposed without its protection, the storm free to rip into me with full claws.

One hand—holding the bottle—rests above my heart. The other reaches out to the sky.

I sense the lightning before I see it.

Light. The sun and a storm have nothing in common except light. It’s that brightness I harness now, mentally pulling the lightning to me. Flashes burst in my vision and the clouds fight, holding onto the lightning with all the strangling grip they possess.

I loose a grim smile. Opal gasps.

For I have succeeded. There is a streak of blinding white stretching from the night into my palm, frozen in time.

I yank the thread, breaking the stillness. As it careens towards me, flaring as it grows closer, I brace myself for what I know is about to come.

Pain explodes through me. The pure power of the bolt sends chills down my spine. My teeth are gritted, my muscles tense. And still the lightning writhes and flexes in my hand, desperately trying to free itself.

Shoving it in the bottle does nothing to ease my pain.

Still, I have accomplished my goal. When I hold the bottle against the darkness of the night, glimmering sparks undulate. Light bursts before it snuffs out, muted by the magic that holds it in place.

“Catching lightning is simple,” I say, returning the bottle to my cloak, still in a heap. Rain runs off my face in rivulets. “Here, Opal—you try.”

But when I turn around, she is gone.

[a-victorian-girl]

Whoa! Very good spooky story, Lis!!

Sherlock fandom. Part 1 Part 2

A Girl’s Touch

Thunder and lightning wakes John. The wind is making the windowpanes rattle. He is icy cold. On his left wrist an icicle feels his pulse point.

“That’s insane and you know it,” he scolds himself.

“John.”

He knows that voice. Would recognise it anywhere.

“Sherlock?” he croaks and opens his eyes. “What the hell happened?”

To John’s astonishment he’s lying in the bed where he found Sherlock, who sits crossed legged by his side. The icicle is in fact Sherlock’s thumb, still holding on to John’s wrist. John tries to focus on that beloved face, but his vision is quite blurry.

“It takes a while getting used to. Close your eyes and rest,” Sherlock says softly and squeezes John’s hand.

“But what about – “

“Later, John.”

***

His shoulder is on fire. Not literally but it certainly feels like it. John didn’t see the sniper. The pain is a shock. It’s a violent sort of pain. He can almost hear the damage the bullet did to him.

The cane. Where is his cane? He needs it. Instead, his gun is in his hand. What does he need a gun for? With narrowed eyes, he peers out of the window and over to the opposite building. Sherlock! He is about to take that bloody pill. The cabbie is watching him intently, holding a similar capsule. John fires the gun.

Sherlock is standing on the roof of Barts. He stretches out his arms. The image of a gigantic bat fills John’s mind. Sherlock jumps.

A fourposter bed with green curtains. Like a male Snow White, Sherlock lies on the bed. Dark curls against white pillows. His pale face is reminiscent of marble. Sherlock’s lips aren’t pink anymore, but pale like his face and tinted with blue. Dead.

***

John wakes with a cry, but although he lies in a comfortable bed, he’s cold. To the bone. Still, he doesn’t freeze or shiver. Sherlock’s chilly presence is comforting. He’s still holding his thumb over John’s pulse point. John tries to steady himself, which takes no effort at all, surprisingly enough. There’s no racing heart or thudding pulse to fill the silence. Only serene and eerie soundlessness.

“Have you figured it out yet, John?” Sherlock asks.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” 

“Observe,” the detective commands.

Cold, but not freezing. Feeling a calmness that should be unsettling but isn’t. No heartbeats, ergo no pulse. Dead.

The panic that normally would rise in him, is blessedly absent. He looks up at Sherlock, who smiles at him. Fondly. Which should be terrifying but isn’t. 

“I knew you’d get there,” Sherlock says and lies down beside John.

“We’re dead,” John states flatly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees.

“How did it happen?” John wants to know.

It’s liberating and a tad bit unnerving to feel so calm. Like, there’s nothing more to worry about. Which is true. Nothing can hurt him or Sherlock anymore now. 

Lightning strikes, illuminating Sherlock’s face. A smile forms on his lips, and John knows that if he was alive, a flood of relief would’ve washed over him.

“The little girl’s touch did it,” Sherlock says. “She must have touched you too after you realised it was me lying here.”

“What little girl?” John asks bewildered.

“The East Wind, John. Do keep up!”

The exasperation in Sherlock’s voice almost makes John laugh.

“Nobody’s called that, Sherlock! Besides, there was no girl.”

“Yes, and yes, John. She told me it was her name. You should know better than to think I'm making stuff up like this.”

Sherlock looks indignant and withdraws to the other side of the bed.

“He truly believes what he’s saying,” John thinks to himself.

He reaches out his hand to touch Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock is stiff like the poles surrounding the bed.

“Hey,” John says quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, but I haven’t seen anyone but you since we sat foot in this godforsaken place.”

“She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery,” Sherlock mumbles.

John startles when the wind increases. Outside something cracks, followed by a heavy thud. It sounds like a large branch has fallen to the ground. Hit by lightning possibly.

John plays Sherlock’s words in his head once more: “She likes to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery.”

The chair that moved. The girl sat in it when John was in there!

“I saw the chair move, but I couldn’t see her,” John explains.

“Pity. She’s quite mischievous. Reminds me of myself when I was a boy. The name too. Peculiar, like mine and Mycroft’s,” Sherlock muses.

“The East Wind is even more – “

“Not that. What it means in Greek. Her name is Eurus.”

THE END

--------------------------------------------------------------

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