#I WANT HIM BACK HOME SAFE AND RELAXED JUST READING HIS SHERLOCK BOOKS AND PLAYING SOCCER WITH FRIENDS ;-;-;-;

[hayaku14]

i rewatched detco episode 1 cos i missed shinichi so much and my GOD i underestimated how much i missed him cos i actually feel a dull ache in my chest like i need that boy BACK RIGHT NOW GIVE HIM BACK GOSHO GIVE HIM BACK

[classickook]

safe in your arms | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x gn!reader

summary: sherlock can only fully relax when he’s in your presence so after he comes home from a frustrating case one day, he’s more than happy to be in your arms again. (based off this request by anon.)

warnings: fluff, non-sexual nudity, clingy!sherlock

word count: 0.8k

a/n: sherlock is pretty ooc here but it’s a nice change every once in a while! feedback is appreciated <3

where are you? -SH

you briefly glance at the short message sherlock sent and type back a quick response: at home, why?

no reply. no text bubbles, nothing.

it wasn’t uncommon for sherlock to be so short or distracted in his texts, but it worried you sometimes when he didn’t respond right away.

your fingers move across the screen with the beginnings of a new message when the door suddenly bursts open, followed by a very grumpy looking sherlock.

he storms into the flat with an exaggerated pout on his pretty pink lips and presses his back against the door after shutting it firmly closed.

you’re currently lying on the sofa and reading a book when the noise causes you to jump slightly, nearly dropping your cell where it had been balancing on your leg. “oh hi, sherlock,” you say sweetly. “you’re back early.”

he doesn’t respond. instead, he simply drags his feet toward you, ridding himself of his coat and scarf along the way, and quickly kicks off his shoes before moving to rest his lanky body on top of you.

you release a gentle ‘oof’ before marking the page and setting your book aside. “what’s wrong, hmm?” one hand caresses his back while the other reaches up to cradle the back of his head, fingers toying with his soft curls.

“people are dreadful,” he groans into your chest.

you giggle as you squeeze him in tighter, kissing the crown of his head and then resting your cheek there. “poor baby,” you coo teasingly.

“i’m serious, y/n,” he sighs, slightly aggravated and perhaps overwhelmed by the day he’d had. “i missed you today. i would’ve much rather stayed here with you.”

your hands still against his back. “really? but what about all the excitement of a new case? the game of it?”

he shakes his head, causing his curls to tickle your chin. “i don’t care. it wasn’t worth it anyway. a complete waste of time.”

you hum in response and sherlock practically purrs at the gentle vibration of it against his cheek. “i’m sorry today didn’t go well,” you sympathize. “but you’re here now and i’ve got you.”

“thank god for that,” he mutters oh so quietly, like he hadn’t intended for you to hear it.

sherlock had never been very fond of physical contact or intimacy, from what you’d heard amongst the others, at least, but he tended to be rather clingy around you, especially after a bad day like today. it brought a smile to your face to be wanted—needed—like this, like you were the only person who could bring him this level of solace and comfort, offering a safe space where he didn’t need to worry about prying eyes or carrying the mantle of the famous consulting detective.

here in this tiny flat with you, he could completely unwind and rest in your arms.

his large hands suddenly move beneath your shirt and along your sides until they position themselves under you to rest just below your shoulder blades, cupping you there with slender fingers.

silence settles about the room aside from sherlock’s soft breaths. you continue playing with his hair, applying gentle pressure as you lovingly massage his scalp and twirl your fingers around each messy curl.

sherlock then adjusts slightly before unexpectedly lifting the hem of your shirt and sliding his head beneath the fabric to rest on your bare chest, feeling the warmth of your skin and beating heart against his cheek.

you peer down at him beneath the collar of your shirt, holding back a laugh. “what are you doing in there?”

“just wanted to feel you,” he mumbles, breath hot on your skin and causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. he presses lazy kisses against your sternum and sighs happily.

sherlock rarely ever got this clingy, only on stressful days when he became overwhelmed by his thoughts and senses. he always turned to you in those moments, taking comfort in your embrace and your soothing words. the man wasn’t usually one for physical contact with anyone, unless it was you. you were different. you were special.

“read to me, please?” he asks quietly, voice muffled from where he is pressed into your chest.

you smile, running your hands up and down his back. “what would you like me to read?“

“anything. whatever you were reading before i came in. just want to hear your voice.”

“all right, darling,” you say quietly. “whatever you want.”

he snuggles further into your chest before a heavy yet contented sigh escapes his lips, and you shiver slightly at the way his long eyelashes brush against your skin.

“love you,” he whispers.

your heart flutters at his sincerity, so sweet and gentle with you. a tender smile pulls at your lips before opening your book to the page you left off on, feeling mutual comfort in sherlock’s presence. “i love you, too,” you reply softly and begin to read aloud to him.

[aedwritesfic]

The Library

Pairing: Drarry

Prompt:  “Sorry” — “Good choice.”

WC: 761

A/N: Muggle AU

Read on AO3 Here  

Harry would never admit it to anyone, especially not Hermione, but he loved the library. Particularly the small branch just past the city centre of Godric’s Hollow. It was nothing like the massive research library they had available to them at school. This one was mostly geared towards children and young families. The selection wasn’t amazing, but every time he walked through the doors he relaxed. He felt safe. At home, even. 

It truly was a community library. Yes, there was a good-sized nonfiction section, but that was mostly full of how-to books and biographies. At any given time, the librarians were running different programs: genealogy classes, children’s story hour, crafting clubs, and STEAM events for all ages. There was a play area tucked into the far corner of the children’s section that Teddy loved. He had been bringing his little godson for almost two years. The boy was insatiable. He begged to come every week, and more often than not, Harry indulged him.

This week, however, he was there by himself. It felt a little odd, not having a toddler in tow, but it was nice to be able to peruse the stacks for something he wanted to read. Harry was one of those people who had a list of books To Be Read, but he always found himself going back to his old favourites: Tolkien and Conan Doyle. Mystery and fantasy were genres he thrived on, things he didn’t get much of living in Godric’s Hollow. But it was home, and Harry figured that if his life were as high stakes as what he read in novels, he probably wouldn’t enjoy it all that much. 

Harry quickly grabbed a copy of The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes but set it back down figuring that he might as well branch out a bit and finally read something off his massive mental list. He wanted something different. Maybe something that had a bit of suspense, something that felt larger than life, but still grounded. Hermione’s voice came back to him, raving about an American classic that ‘he just had to read’. With a grin, Harry made his way down the aisle and snagged the library’s copy, noting that the author had several other books that he may decide to add to his list later.

After another half hour of aimlessly wandering through the stacks, Harry finally decided it was time to check out. Maybe he would take his book to that café down the street and have a long lunch. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize that the person sitting behind the counter was the very hot, new librarian.

“Good choice,” the man drawled, picking up Harry’s book to scan it.

“Sorry, what?” Harry blinked and looked into silver eyes. God, he could get lost in those eyes. He had spent several trips covertly checking out the new librarian while Teddy was absorbed in story hour.

“I said, ‘good choice’,” the man smirked. “The Great Gatsby is one of my favourites.”

If Harry had not been paying such close attention, he would have missed the smile in the man’s eyes. He may affect a cool, slightly detached, persona while at the desk, but Harry knew that this man was passionate about his job and probably quite a few other things as well.

Harry shook his head slightly to dislodge that train of thought. “Been meaning to read it for ages. Figured now was as good a time as any,” he shrugged. “I’m not too familiar with American literature though. If I like this one, would you be willing to point me in the direction of more?”

He might have been imagining it, but he could have sworn the man blushed slightly.

“Of course,” he said. “Is this all you’re getting today? I noticed you didn’t bring your son with you.”

“Godson,” Harry corrected with a smile. “He’s on vacation with his dads, so it’s just me this week.” He wanted to continue chatting with the hot librarian, but Mrs Figg had queued up behind him with a massive stack of large print romance novels. “Thanks...” 

“Draco,” the man said, with a small smile.

“Nice to officially meet you, Draco. I’m Harry,” he picked up his book, making his way towards the door. “I’ll be sure to get your recommendation for my next book.”

As he walked towards the café, Harry assessed the size of his book. It looked rather short, and the day was still early. Maybe he’d finish it tonight and go back tomorrow to see Draco.

[mininky]

Sweep me off my feet!

Summary: You had managed for almost your entire life to build up your walls and remain in the comfort of your own little world until one man stumbled into your life and changed everything. You never would have guessed that one of your clients would change your entire world, but the world works in mysterious ways. This is the story of how you fell in love with Kim Namjoon, the eclectic tattoo artist who frequented your book store.

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

Warnings/Genre: Fluff, smut. Contains explicit sex scenes including oral sex (female receiving) and safe sex. Non smut warnings for mentions of divorce/broken homes, cheating. Also a non smut warning for tooth rotting fluff and Jin being the sassy sidekick we all need.

Word Count: 14.6K

A/N: To the lovely anon who asked me ages ago for a story about Namjoon and the reader finding love after heartbreak here it is! I know this isn’t a college AU but I hope you’ll love it all the same.

There's something about the smell of books that's rather intoxicating. It's almost an aphrodisiac if you will. At least for you, it is. But perhaps that's because it invokes this sense of nostalgia and comfort to you, mixed with a dash of intrigue and mystery. New books are nice, but it's the old ones that really get you. The smell of worn pages, broken down oils and breaking glue. If you could bottle it in a perfume you would. Or hell, turn it into a candle. Perhaps that's why you enjoy coming in to work so much. The scent hits you every time you step inside just as vanilla wafts through a bakery in your old used bookstore.

   It was once owned by your Grandfather, and a few years ago he left the store to you after he passed away. The store in itself is a sacred place for you. It isn't just about the legacy left by him or the fact that you technically own it now and it's your only source of income. The store, that goes by the very uninspired name of 'Used Books and Restoration', is also home to some of your favorite memories. It's a place of salvation, a place that called your name openly even in your darkest of times.

   While some might assume that your main bread and butter for the business is the actual selling of books where you make almost all of your profit is off of restoration and collectible books. Restoration isn't an easy process by any means. It takes considerable effort and precise work, along with plenty of patience. But it's absolutely worth it to see those old books come back to life yet again. Luckily you've gained a reputation just as good as your Grandfather in the collectible book community. It also doesn't hurt that book repair is a rather niche market and therefore there's very limited competition in the area. It's gained you a core clientele, and while you appreciate all of your customers there's one, in particular, that you like best.

   Kim Namjoon. An eclectic collector with a voracious appetite for books of every and any genre. While you've never actually seen it you're sure that his home boasts an impressive private library considering the catalog that he's brought in for restoration as well as purchased from you. He moved into town a few years ago after starting the tattoo shop right by you and he's been a customer ever since. You've given up on trying to figure out his favorite genre. He reads everything. And you do mean everything. He even once purchased an Amish romance book from you along with Egghead by Bo Burnham, a book about the mythology of sex, a guide to soapmaking, a calligraphy book, and a book on education in the era of segregation. In the same purchase. It might go down as one of your oddest assortments you've ever rung up together. And not one of those was a gift.

   He's also brought in plenty of books for you to restore, never even blinking at the hefty price tag. While most of your restoration work is usually for much older books (usually collectibles) that require very delicate work, it's not unusual for him to bring in ordinary but very roughed up books that he's somehow accidentally destroyed. Broken spines. Pages falling out or ripped apart. At first, you thought that he was just careless with his books, but after having him in your store enough times you know that the honest truth is the man might possibly a god of destruction. Or at the very least he's been cursed with terrible luck. He once knocked over a small table and when trying to set everything up right he managed to knock down an entire bookcase. In the middle of helping you pick everything back up his glasses fell off and he then stepped on them. You were convinced that Ashton Kutcher was about to pop out and that the show Punked had risen from the ashes. But no, Namjoon is just genuinely that clumsy. It's equal parts adorable and terrifying.

   Today is luckily one of those days where you're blessed with an interaction sans destruction with Kim Namjoon. Like clockwork, he always pops in on Tuesdays and Fridays in the late afternoon, but for once he's slightly off schedule as he strolls in on a rainy Thursday morning. His normally sunny demeanor and friendly dimples are replaced with a pensive atmosphere, eyes trained on his phone as he tries to close his umbrella single-handedly before he begins wrestling with the contraption.

   "You're in early. Are you looking for something in particular today?" You pour yourself a cup of coffee when the machine beeps, stirring in some crappy powdered creamer as you glance in his direction.

   "Nah, I'm actually just trying to escape the rain. I left my keys back at home so Yoongi, the other owner, is going to lend me his keys once he gets here. I hope you don't mind me waiting it out in here." He gives a shy smile, pushing his glasses up his nose as he avoids eye contact.

   "Not at all, it's raining cats and dogs out there. Why are you going in so early though? I thought you guys didn't open up until noon?" You try not to wince too noticeably as you feel a taste bud singe off from the coffee.

   "...An...old friend of mine is coming down to get a tattoo touched up so I'm coming in early just for that." You don't miss the pause he takes, but you don't want to pry. Instead, you pull out another mug from under the counter and start pouring him a cup.

   "Well, in that case, I would highly recommend a nice warm cup of coffee before you begin for the day. Do you like cream or sugar?"

   "Both please, unless it's flavored creamer then I'll do just that." He seems to relax a bit, walking a bit closer to where you're making him a cup as he finally stops wringing his hands.

   "Nope, it's the cheap stuff. I'm too lazy to go all the way in the back for creamer every time I make a cup if I'm honest." You pour in a bit of creamer and sugar before handing it over to him. Upon closer inspection, he looks exhausted. Bags under his eyes, hair a little messier than usual, skin lacking it's usually glowing complexion. Before you can even begin to ask about it, however, another client comes in.

   "(Y/N)! I found an old leather-bound edition of Sherlock Holmes at a garage sale, but it's in terrible shape. I was wondering if you could work your magic-oh hey Namjoon!" You glance between the two customers. You're kind of surprised they know each other, but then again she does work just down the street at the publishing house.

   "Oh, hey. How have you been?" Namjoon smiles down at her, but it's rather hollow. All of his normal fun seems to have been sucked right out of him.

   "Oh you know, just trying to pack still. I know Yoongi had the bigger place so it made more sense, but man does being the only one to pack suck." She fumbled around in her bag for a second before pulling out the book she mentioned earlier and handing it over to you carefully. "I know, it's terrible. But I figured if anyone could fix it, you could. What do you think?"

   "Hmm...well it's not going to be easy. The spine is broken, multiple pages are coming out, I'm sure some are torn. But I'm sure that I can get it done. Give me about a week, I should have it ready by then. I'm guessing it'll be at least $250, it might be more. You good with that?" You try to look over the book as gingerly as possible. The poor thing has certainly seen better days.

   "Yeah, that sounds great! Oh, shoot! I'm going to be late. I'll see you guys later, thanks again (y/n)!" You wave to her as she peels back into the rain. The lack of her presence leaves the two of you in silence, save the occasional sounds of slurping coffee and the quiet jazz music you have playing in the background.

   "I've been meaning to ask you, but what's with the elevator music?"

   "It's a bookstore, all bookstores play coffee house music."

   He snorts at your response, and you try not to dwell on the automatic smile it brings to your lips. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"

   "Sure, when I do I'll put on classical. I like when it's just background music, it makes it easier to focus. Besides, that's how my Grandpa always had it. For the longest time, he refused to put in a sound system. Instead, he'd have his old record player here at the front. I still feel kind of bad about convincing him to replace that, but it's so much easier this way."

   "Your Grandpa owned this place?"

   "Oh yeah, for as long as I can remember."

   "And he left it to you, not to your parents?" Namjoon's head is tilted, eyes showing open curiosity before he sees the way you shut down. Your body grows rigid, eyes staring straight into your cup. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

   "It's okay. Family isn't always easy, you know?" You glance up to see the solemn nod he gives before he pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

   "On that note, I've gotta run. Thank you for the cup of coffee, and for letting me chill in here for a bit." You give a quiet goodbye as he leaves the store. While you don't actually know him that well, you hope that whatever it is that's weighing him down is resolved quickly and easily for him. It's a little worrying to see someone who's usually so chipper being so glum.

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

   You hate that you've grown so concerned over a customer. This isn't exactly a job where you can count on people coming in like clockwork, but Namjoon was one of the few exceptions. And perhaps that's why after two weeks of not seeing him you've started to worry over him. It takes that two-week mark for you to finally muster up your courage and march into his tattoo shop. While you've of course walked by many times, you've never actually gone in. It smells like lavender essential oils and a citrus cleaner, the atmosphere is also far more relaxed than you anticipated. "Oh hey, you're the book store lady. I can't believe you actually managed to fix that Sherlock Holmes book." Your head whips around to the front counter to see a man you vaguely remember, Yoongi you think is his name. He must be the one dating your editor client.

   "Oh it wasn't that hard. I've seen far worse. Um..." You can feel your fingers instinctively curl up and pull your sweater lower until they cover your hands before you take a deep breath. "Is Namjoon here by any chance?"

   "Namjoon?" There's a twinkle in Yoongi's eyes as he leans into the counter. "Nope, sorry doll. It's his day off. Why? You interested in getting a piece done by him?"

   "Oh, uh no. Not that I don't like tattoos, I just don't have anything I'm currently interested enough in to commit to. It's just that...well he hasn't stopped by in the shop for a couple of days and I'm just a little concerned. Is he doing ok?"

   "He's going through a bit of a rough patch, but he'll make it through." You can tell that he's clearly analyzing you, the way his eyes narrow and his head tilts. It feels like a very silent interrogation is going on in his head right now, and you aren't a fan of it at all. "I'll tell you what though doll, I'll let him know you stopped by."

   "Oh, no need. I just figured I'd pop in since you guys are so close to my shop. Well...have a nice night."

   "You too, don't be a stranger! Pop in anytime!" You give a fleeting smile before turning around and try to not run straight out of the shop. You suppose that things could have gone worse. But now your curiosity is in overdrive. What rough patch exactly is he going through? Then again, it's none of your business.

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

   You'd like to lie and say that after another month passes by Namjoon has vanished from your thoughts, but that's not true. You can't help but wonder from time to time, especially when you're putting away new inventory, what he's been up to. It's just unsettling having someone come in so often and then almost drop off the face of the earth. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you no longer get a chance to check out his very cute butt a few times a week. Nope.

   When Namjoon does finally wander back into the shop you're startled into complete non-action. What do you say? 'Hey, I hope you've been okay and I know that we don't actually know each other but I'm concerned?' Might come off as creepy, best to just leave it be. So after a moment of staring at him with wide eyes, you manage to croak out a horribly high pitched, "Hello!"

   You'd like to say that he walked in with this glowing aura as if the room lit up around him like some terrible rom-com. But honestly, he looks like he was hit repeatedly with bad news. His eyes are dark and puffy, his skin is a bit of a mess, his hair looks somehow both dry and greasy. The poor man just looks god awful. "Hey. Sorry I uh...haven't been in." He won't look at you, his eyes cast stubbornly on the floor as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

   "No worries. Anything in particular you're looking for today?" You would really like to ask him what the heck is going on to make the usually well put together Namjoon look so haggard, but you don't want to cross any boundaries.

       "Nah. Just...browsing..." His words trail off as he shuffles over to the nearest aisle, and you try not to stare as he starts thumbing through a few books. You also try not to dwell on the surge of warmth that spreads through you at seeing him again.

   You busy yourself with placing price tags on your new inventory as he continues his quiet search. You try to arm yourself with safe small talk you might be able to make before he finally comes back up to the counter with an arsenal of books under his arm that clatter down with soft thuds as they slip out right before he could safely place them. "Ah, sorry about that." He rearranges the books, eyes cast downwards as you shoot him a soft smile.

   "Don't worry about it. So...how have you been?" This time it's your turn to keep your eyes glued on the books instead of on him. God, you normally weren't this nervous but somehow seeing him again after so long is making you a smidge antsy.

   "Busy I guess. Sometimes I wish the world would just stop spinning for a moment so I can collect my thoughts, you know? It's like you think you have it together and bam suddenly you don't."

   "Yeah, I get that feeling. Adulthood is lame, why did we think it was a good idea as kids?" Namjoon snorts and this time you do look up. God he really does look haggard, the poor thing. "But you know what people don't say enough? It's okay to feel lost, it's okay to feel like things are moving while you're stuck. As long as you acknowledge it you can start moving forward. One step at a time. Don't think you have to move to the world's pace. Just move as you can and you'll do great."

   "I could have sworn this was a book store and now I'm starting to feel I should pay you like a therapy fee or something." This time he cracks a smile, his face lighting up as his dimples shine and his smile reaches all the way up to his eyes. It's a good look on him, and you wish that whatever it is that's got him down will be solved soon enough so he can get back to his normal smiles more often.

   "It's a free service for my regulars. But I suppose that means that you'll have to pop in regularly again if you don't want the charge."

   "Scouts honor, I promise I'll be back." He clears his throat after running his card, hands toying with his bag before he speaks again. "I...uh...Yoongi told me that you popped in. Sorry, for....um...being MIA. And I appreciate that you...uh...noticed I guess. God, fuck. I really can't talk today. What I'm trying to say is...I mean I know I'm just a customer or whatever but I really appreciate it. I'll...see you soon." Before you can respond he's rushing out the store, leaving you with rosy cheeks and lower lip stuck nervously between your teeth.

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

   Namjoon stays true to his word. While he isn't as frequent as he once was you've noticed that his visits are usually longer now. In all honesty, you suspect that at this point he visits more for the chats than the books. Or perhaps that's just what you're hoping for, because honestly whenever you do get a chance to speak with him it becomes the highlight of your week. He's witty, kind, and there's something about the way how he can go back and forth between being articulate and eloquent with his words to bumbling around that's utterly charming.

   Your conversations usually revolve around life itself. It never gets too personal, details are never mentioned. It's more about the intricacies of how things work, of how life moves. Sometimes you come close to asking him for more details, asking him more closely what's going on but something always holds you back. Perhaps it's because you're so deeply private, you understand what it feels like to want to hide your wounds from others and you certainly don't want to make him feel as though he's been forced into telling you anything. Besides, it's comfortable this way. It's natural for the two of you to fall into these deep conversations without worrying about prying into each other. It's as if the two of you have been friends for ages without having to delve into all the subtle meanings that might lay behind some of the world-weary cynicism in your conversations.

   Every once in a while you want more. If nothing than to help ease the burden that seems to be superglued onto his shoulders. There might also be some...more carnal...reasons behind that, but you'd rather not dwell on that. You're not even sure if he thinks of you as a friend yet, let alone as a possible romantic suitor. Jesus, maybe you should stop reading all those historical romance novels if you're saying things like "romantic suitor." Who are you kidding, they're too good to stop reading. But try as you might every time your brain thinks about going further or entertaining the notion of asking him out suddenly everything shuts down and all your senses get crossed until you're mute or stumbling over your words. But you're safe in this acquaintanceship, and crossing the line is scary and means for rejection. So for now, you'll remain in the comfort of safety.

------------------3 months later-----------

   "Did your boyfriend come and visit you again today?" Jin has a shit-eating grin on his face before he blows his straw wrapper at you. You're already regretting agreeing to being dragged out of your sanctum and into his competitor's restaurant for this. You love Jin, you do. He has luckily calmed down as he's gotten older, but let's just say that you've bailed him out of jail more than once in college from some crazy nights. He is a man of impulse, and usually spending time outside with him leads to you turning into full blast mom mode.

   "How many times must I tell you that he is not my boyfriend." You ball up the wrapper and throw it at his face before promptly resuming your perusal of the menu.

   "Please, whatever. You want to kiss his face, admit it, love. Wow. How are they my competitors? Do you see this shit? This is pretentious for the sake of being pretentious. I'm sure it'll taste like shit."

   "It better not for the price. My god, $35 for lobster ravioli? I saw it come out earlier, they only had five on a plate! You can't even justify that by saying 'portion control.'" You're praying that by fueling his need to shit talk the restaurant will keep him off track of your desolate love life. Unfortunately, as you're speaking the waiter comes over. Well isn't that just your luck.

   "I can assure you ma'am while it might seem expensive for the size we only use the freshest ingredients. All of them are locally sourced."

   "And which vendors exactly do you go through?" Jin squints at the server with a fire in his eyes that the server clearly wasn't prepared for. Oh, this poor, poor soul. He has no clue just how deep of shit he's landed himself in and you can tell he's floundering for a moment as his eyes go wide and shoulders grow rigid.

   "You know sir, I don't know all of the vendors' names off the top of my head. But I'd be more than happy to ask the chef for you if you'd like?"

   "That would be wonderful. Thank you, what a peach you are in such an...interesting...place." Jin gives a wide smile, one that channels his inner Cheshire cat plotting nefarious outcomes as you sink further into your seat. You love Jin, he is your best friend after all, but you know that look all too well. Competitive is putting it lightly. Sinister is a slightly more apt description and you want nothing more than to dive under the table before he begins to wage war. You had, for whatever naive reason, believed that he would have remained in perfect behavior so as not to blow his cover. Clearly, he had no cover and most likely wanted the head chef to know he was here. Goodbye, peaceful night.

   You watch the server turn on his heels and quickly stride back towards the kitchen. "Now things are getting interesting."

   "Jin no."

   "Jin, yes."

   "Jin..." You try pleading, eyes turned up into maximum puppy capacity but he's long since been impervious to your charms and instead, he just winks at you. You fight the groan bubbling up in your chest as your shoulders sag in defeat.

   "I promise love, this'll be quick and painless. I wouldn't drag you in here without a master plan and so far it's going just swimmingly. Although I would just adore it if the boy making eyes at you from the bar would come over because he is one tall slab of fine and it's a damn shame that he isn't looking at this world-wide handsome face over here because oh honey the things that I would do to him." Your face involuntarily jerks in the direction of the bar only to see Namjoon perched on a stool with a glass of wine looking right back at you. You can feel heat rising up on your cheeks when Jin picks up your hand and forces you to give a wave. And much to your surprise, you see him smile. A genuine smile. The kind that flashes his pearly whites and dimples and has your heart melting and brain overheating.  

   You aren't sure if it's to your relief or disappointment that the server comes back at this time, now with the head chef in tow. "Good evening, I heard you have some questions for-Seokjin." The chef's eyes narrow on Jin's, a crackle of indignant energy fills the area.

   "Why hello Kihyun. According to your lovely server, everything here is locally sourced."

   "You already know that. We use the same vendors."

       "Why yes, yes we do. And yet you still charge your poor customers an arm and a leg for subpar slop."

   "Please Seokjin, it's just not agreeable to hear someone talk down about their own food that way." Jin cackles loudly at this, the sound of windshield wipers roaming in the distance as you glance back to see Namjoon watching the battle with open curiosity.

   "Oh please little man, my food is good and you know it. I just came here to check how the competition is doing seeing as you did the same just last week." You watch the chef sigh wearily as he rubs at his temples while Jin rails on. "What, did you think I wouldn't know? I think it's only fair to return the favor."

   "Fine, I'll make you a deal so long as you keep quiet."

   "Mum's the word, tiny chef."

   "And stop making short jokes." His eyes narrow on Jin as he carelessly throws up his hands as if to admit defeat. "I'll be bringing out our specials momentarily. Only our best for our 'esteemed' guest." You can almost feel the animosity rolling off him in waves as he finger quotes 'esteemed' before stomping off.

   "Well, now that worked out just swimmingly. While we wait for our food how about you go mingle with mister tall dark and handsome?"

   "That's Namjoon, my customer." You dodge a shot of water from Jin's mouth before scrambling when he gets ready to stand up. "No Jin, no no no no no. I beg you, please for the love of all that is holy don't. I can see you scheming and I've been through enough shenanigans thanks to you tonight."

   Ever so slowly he sits back down, but not without giving you a face that lays somewhere between a scowl and a pout. "Fine, ms. party pooper, I won't go. Under one condition and one condition alone. You are in serious need of taking out that stick that's been shoved up your ass for the last 20 something years. So I will only agree to be the polite good boy you so desperately wish I was in public if you go over there and ask him out."

   "What? I can't do that! He's my customer, that...that crosses the line. And besides, he most certainly doesn't see me that way. I don't think he even sees me as a friend. An acquaintance at best. And another thing! I most certainly do not have a stick shoved up my ass, you just put caution to the wind far too often for your own good!" You're trying your best to calm your frenzied nerves by taking in slow steady gulps of air.

   "Do people look at mere acquaintances like they're a slab of steak after not eating for a day? And yes, yes you do have a stick shoved up your ass! I love you kid, but you are pedantically logical to a fault. You overthink, over analyze, and you rarely try to force yourself outside of your comfort zone even if it means sacrificing possible happiness all for the sake of not possibly facing rejection. As your best friend of over a decade, I refuse to continue sitting idly while you continue to ruin possible chances of intrigue. Besides, sitting with you at this rate is going to give me indigestion." Jin takes a swig of his water before narrowing his eyes on you as if to say 'try me bitch, I dare you.' He's right. You really wish he wasn't, but damnit he does actually have a point. Not that you'll ever admit that.

   Fuck, you really wish that you could knock back a stiff drink before this. Okay, just calm down. What's the worst that could happen? You could be rejected, laughed at, and have your heart ripped from your chest and stomped on. But according to Jin, that's not that bad. Not that he's giving you much choice. So here goes nothing. You take a deep breath and march over before Jin can pick you up and hurl you into the direction of the bar.

   "Hi, mind if I join you for a drink?" Act normal, act cool. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. You've got this.

       "Oh, not at all. Please." Namjoon gives you another smile, and you take a moment to glance at his profile. He looks better today. Gradually he's been getting his old color back. You can hardly make out the bags under his eyes in the dim mood lighting of the restaurant. "What do you drink?"

   "Hm, oh well..." Your eyes dance over the spirits lining the back. Jesus, they don't even have jack. They have plenty of brandy though. "I guess I'll have whatever you're having. Mix things up a bit, you know?"

   He perks a brow up at you before waving over the bartender who's clearly been waiting patiently on the side. "I'll get two more." It's only a moment before a short glass of brandy is placed in front of you. You eye it for a moment before knocking it back, ignoring the burn that tears through your throat.

   "Jesus, rough day?" Namjoon's brow is quirked as he motions at the now empty glass.

   "More like a rough night."

   "Boyfriend problems?" Namjoon jerks his head back to Jin and you can't help but let out a loud laugh. The kind that sounds more like a cackle, a deep snort from the back of the throat and all.

   "Jin? No, god no. He's a friend. Also, he plays for the other team."

   "Oh, oooh!" He seems to relax at this revelation, sinking into his seat a bit more before sipping at his drink. "Well I'm sorry that you've had a rough night, maybe the liquor will make it better."

   "How about you Joon? Things going okay for you lately?" You try not to stare openly, instead gauging his reactions with a side-eye. He gives a simple shrug, running his hands through his hair before knocking back the rest of the drink.

   "Who knows. But I'm taking it one day at a time as a wise birdy once suggested."

   There's a lull in the conversation for a moment as you try to mull over what to say next, head swimming through all your possible small talk cards but none seeming right for the situation. "So-"

   "Um!" The two of you stop, Namjoon giving a small chuckle. "Sorry, go ahead."

   "Oh! Uh...I was just going to ask if you wanted to talk about...you know...whatever has been going on. It might help to open up."

   Namjoon pauses, shifting a bit in his seat as he slowly nods. "Ex drama? I guess? That makes it sound so high school." He gives a deep sigh, his hands gripping around his empty glass before slowly continuing. "I was engaged last year. We'd been together a long time, we'd even lived together for a couple of years. But after we moved out here or I don't know maybe even before that she decided that she needed to get a feel for other things. And by other things I mean other dicks. I learned that lovely fact when I walked in on her and some random dude who turned out to be her longtime side-piece or whatever. She came back into the shop a few months ago begging me to start over with her. And I don't know why but I thought maybe this time we could make it work, maybe this time things would be right. Her old habits didn't die though. So we ended things about a month back officially, this time for good."

   After a decent pause you finally pipe up, your earlier hesitance now masked with the alcohol that's slowly working through your brain. "She's an idiot. And a bitch. I say fuck her! Wait no, not like 'go fuck her' but as in I wish to acquaint her ass with a rusty sword." The full belly laughter he gives is worth your blunder with words. He lights up, and the sound has blood rushing to your cheeks.

   He wipes away a stray tear as he swivels around to face you. "Thanks, I appreciate that. And please, remind me to stay away from rusty swords if I ever accidentally piss you off. I've gotten a lot of advice from people recently, a lot of 'it'll get better' or 'she was wrong' but I think my favorite is the depiction of a rusty sword so thank you for the laugh."

   "No problemo, I'm here to help even if that means with impromptu comedic relief." Again silence returns, but this time it's comfortable. It almost always is around him, as if Namjoon brings peace and comfort to you every time you see him. It's safe around him. Safe to be you, safe to just relax. You aren't used to that, most men make you feel on edge. As if you have to be two steps ahead. Perhaps it's due to your mutual problems with the opposite gender. Or maybe it's just his personality.

   "Hey..." His quiet voice pulls you out of his thoughts and you jerk up to see his eyes cast stubbornly on the floor. "Feel free to say no or something but um, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get out of here with me? Maybe just walk around the city for a bit or something?"

   "There's a park a couple of blocks down from here actually, it's usually pretty quiet and there's even a little koi pond. Oh! But we'll need to pop into the grocery store to pick up lettuce first."

   "Can...can koi fish eat lettuce?"

   "Oh yeah! They love greens! I used to feed them bread but I found out it's hard for them to digest. They also really like garlic and shrimp."

   "I...I don't know what to do with this information."

   "Use it for the powers of good, and to keep Koi fish happy. So what do you say? Wanna go feed some Koi fish lettuce?"

   "Yeah! Yeah, oh but shouldn't you tell your friend?"

   You glance back at Jin to see him in the middle of what appears to be an amicable discussion (at least from the outside) with the head chef. You choose to send off a quick text while Namjoon slaps down a few bills, "done. Let's go!"

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

   It's not long before the two of you are tossing off bits of lettuce to hungry Koi fish. It was most likely an odd site for others to take in. The two of you were silently standing in front of the pond, taking turns tearing off strips from a head of lettuce and sipping from a dangerously cheap bottle of sangria. It didn't help that this area of the park had dim, ominously flickering lighting making the whole thing look stranger. Yet neither of you seemed to mind.

   It was oddly relaxing being here. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was actually heart warming. There's always been something about Namjoon's presence that's left you feeling fuzzy and floating. As if cocooned in safety under a pillow fort with plenty of blankets while a blizzard rages outside. Your eyes are trained on the Koi fish that jump up, gulping up the pieces of lettuce greedily and illuminated in the fluorescent yellow lighting cutting in and out every few seconds.

   "These guys really know how to eat." You glance up at the sound to see Namjoon smiling as he throws in another strip of the leafy greens. "I should have guessed that of all people you would be the one to take me to the middle of nowhere in a city just to feed fish at nearly midnight."

   "I'll take that as a compliment."

   "It is indeed. Do you know why I love going to your bookstore so much? I never know what I'm going to find. You always have an odd assortment of treasures but you also seem to know all of them. I've been inside plenty of bookstores and while they all have their own special ambiance that books tend to carry your's is otherworldly. It's like I step through a portal when I come into your shop. Like all is well with the world. But I'm starting to think it's not about the place. It's you." He glances over to give you a shy smile before quickly returning his sights on the pond.

   "Oh, I don't know I think it's probably the store. Maybe it's just rubbed off on me. When I was a kid I would try to spend all my time there with my grandpa. It was a safe haven, this little chunk of the world where I knew I could always get lost and find freedom even if the world was falling apart outside."

   "That sounds really deep for a kid. I guess it's my turn to ask, do you want to talk about it?"

   You take a moment to pause, sipping on the acidic sangria before nodding slowly. You suppose it's only fair to share just as he did. "My parents should have gotten a divorce way sooner than they did. The vast majority of my childhood is a blur of trying to run away from their fights. It never got physical, but the verbal abuse the two of them flung at each other was astronomical. I can remember distinctly thinking once as I read a book that had these lovely happy parents that that was the most fictional part of the whole thing. Harry Potter was more likely to be realistic than that bullshit. I think when I was thirteen and I got asked out for the first time I told the poor boy that love was a scam and I wasn't about to fall for it. I've tried dating a few times but I always think back on my parents and before things can ever progress I try to leave. I guess you could say I have commitment issues to everything in life but work. Jin, the guy at the restaurant, he's always trying to get me to loosen up. Have fun. But I just feel like it's all pointless. Why bother when it's all going to fall apart anyway?"        

   You let out a heavy, world-weary sigh out before chucking the last bit of lettuce into the pond. Namjoon gives you a moment of silence, either to be polite or to gather his thoughts. Or perhaps you've scared him off. You're not really sure of the reasoning behind his muteness but you're too lost in your own thoughts to dwell on it.

   Finally, Namjoon takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry that you went through that. I know it might sound absurd coming from me, but what's so bad about believing in romance? In the fairy tale ever after? In believing that sometimes things can go right? Maybe I'm a buffoon for still being a hopeless romantic after everything I've been through but I think the saddest part in all of that was that you gave up before you even tried. There's a lot to explore in life beyond your comfort zones. It might not always be good, but I think that's the beauty of it. Sometimes the bad makes us appreciate the good all that much more."

   You're torn between wanting to stare in awe at him for managing to actually feel this way after everything he's been through and wanting to smack him upside his face and tell him to wake up. But that's the cynic in you speaking. The cynic that awoke in you far too early in life has still after all these years refused to die. If reincarnation is real then perhaps you were fucked over in love previously as well and that's why your feelings are so intense. It's probably just your shitty childhood that you try to avoid remembering at all costs. After a moment of tense silence, you finally speak up. "How...how can you still feel that way?"

   "Because the world is a sad lonely place and I want to believe that there's something better out there. I don't mean like soulmates bullshit or anything, just that you shouldn't give up when you find a really good person. Love takes two to tango, and for whatever reason, your parents lost sight of that. But the real fucked up thing is that you still carry that with you as an adult as if it's your burden to carry. But it's not. Imagine if I said that it's my fault I was cheated on, how would you feel?"

   "But it wasn't your fault. She was a blind idiot who made terrible life choices."

   "Exactly, and it's not your fault that your parents were bumbling idiots who didn't understand how to effectively communicate with one another." He takes a swig of the sangria before hooking one of his arms over your shoulder and you take a moment to admire the inky artwork under the night sky as he lowers his voice. "So you know what I say? It's time both of us stop ruminating in pain. I say we let it all go, right now."

   "And how, pray tell, do we go about this?"

   "I say we just scream everything out into the night. Just let it all go."

   "I'm sorry what?" You squint up at him, your brain freezing as you try to make sense of his therapy method.

   "You know, everything we've bottled up just fucking let it out. Let it go. Here, I'll go first." He takes another swig of the sangria before tilting his face up at the moon. "Fuck you, Jessica! Fuck you and your fucking boy toy. I was good enough! I tried so hard to make it work and you still couldn't be bothered to put in any effort! It wasn't fair! And another thing, fuck your stupid fucking mom for always shitting on my tattoos and thinking her bitchy daughter was perfect!" You're quick to plug your ears as he shouts at full volume, eyes scanning the park praying that no one is nearby to call the cops on the two of you. After a theatrical sigh, he turns around, plants both hands on your shoulders as he leans down and says, "Okay kid, it's your turn."

   There's frenetic energy hanging in the air and while you want to laugh and tell him this is ridiculous there's something that stops you from holding back for once. So you follow suit and tilt your head up as you begin to scream, "Fuck you dad for placing unrealistic expectations on how women should behave! Fuck you mom for thinking the only thing men were worth was money! Fuck both of you for caring more about fighting than nurturing your only fucking kid! Fuck you for leaving me to fend for myself all the time! I just wanted love from you! I want to fall in love, I want to believe that you two were wrong! I want someone to look at me like I look at the last slice of cheese pizza! I want someone to care about me the way I deserve to be cared for!" By the time you get halfway through your monologue, you can feel a weight shifting off your shoulders. Rather literally as Namjoon plugs his ears, but also emotionally. Spiritually. It's as if something is born in you. As if under all that hate you've held onto for so long there's still that glimmer of hope.

   When you've finally stopped screaming, your lungs are on fire and hot tears are trickling down your cheeks. Slowly you begin to hear the sound of Namjoon golf clapping in front of you. "Bravo young grasshopper, bravo. You finally said how you really felt. So tell me, how do you feel now?"

   "I...feel different. Lighter. How...how about you Namjoon?"

   "Pretty fantastic, but that might be the shitty sangria talking." He gives a wide grin at the giggles that bubble out of you before handing over the sangria.

   The rest of the night flies by in a tipsy blur, the two of you talking about life and your own choices and how you've come to your own points in life. Normally you'd have run away by now, but you realized something tonight by screaming out into the void with him. You've always run away, you've refused to face life head-on. It's still a scary thought, but the alcohol numbs it easily and then there's the fact that nothing seems as intimidating when Namjoon's nearby.

---------4 months later-------

   It's almost impossible for you to now think of a time when Namjoon was simply a customer and not a good friend. The two of you, much to Jin's delight, are rather inseparable. You have lunch together most days of the week. Sometimes the two of you will hang out and watch movies together, or go back to the park to feed the always hungry koi fish. On a few occasions, Namjoon has even tagged along with you to go bug Jin to feed the two of you. This time though you find yourself without your new partner in crime as you stuff your face with homemade pasta by Jin.

   "Please try to breathe in between bites. I don't know CPR." Jin pokes one of your cheeks as you try to quickly chew.

   "Sorry I was just really hungry. Also, I have something I wanted to tell you!"

   "You finally professed your undying love for Joony boy?"

   He quickly dodges the napkin you throw at him before blowing you a raspberry. "No, I told you we aren't like that. But it is about Joon! His parents have a beach house that he wants to go to so he invited us to come over next weekend."

   "Oh drat, unfortunately, I have plans."

   "That is such bullshit. You were literally just bitching about how you don't have anything to do next weekend because that new boy toy, Jimin or whatever, is going on a trip for work."

   "I decided just now that I'm going to go visit Jimin to see his performance. You know, be supportive." He sighs at the glare you send him. "Okay, so I didn't decide that. I'd rather stick my head in my far too expensive convection oven than drive five hours just to get blue balls from watching him dance. But I also refuse to step in the way of what I really hope is time for you to finally get laid."

   "I told you Jin, he's just a friend."

   This time it's Jin's turn to scoff. "Oh, sure princess. Whatever you say. The two of you basically eye fuck each other every time you come over to steal my food."

   "WE DO NOT."

   "Do fucking too! What I just don't understand is why you can't admit it. He's a great catch, why are you holding back? You even told me yourself that it was time for you to start moving on with life. You know, get past all of your cynical doom and gloom mentality that everything will inevitably fall apart. So the real question is, why are you holding back from happiness still? Even after all that 'ra ra I'm going to get my shit together' you've been spouting for months now?"

   Your anger dissipates quickly, all air leaving your lungs for a moment as you stare at the floor unable to look at Jin's oddly serious gaze. The silence drags on until finally you quietly speak up. "Namjoon just got out of a really serious relationship. Jessica really hurt him you know, it wasn't one of those 'oh we just grew apart' type of situations. And even though he was so broken the first time he tried again and I think that time might have been worse. The first time it seems like he was just angry, the second time was when he felt anguish. I...I don't just like Namjoon. I love him. Every time I'm around him I feel so happy like the world lights up and all the color comes back. It's so easy being around him, I know I can just be myself and I'm safe. But I don't want to throw these feelings at him when he's probably still healing. I don't want to be a rebound. I watched my parents get divorced with each other and jump into relationship after relationship with other people just to fill that void. I want to be more than that. I want this to be something that works for a long time. I'm tired of running from commitment so I've decided I'll wait. I'll wait until he makes a move first."

   "Did you never stop to ask yourself if maybe he's waiting for the same thing? I mean honey, it's painfully obvious he feels the same way. He knows that you've never really tried to be in a relationship, he might be waiting for you too. So then what? The two of you just go in circles until someone grows tired of it and leaves? I think it's noble of you to be patient and wait, but I also think that's an easy way out for you. Making the first move is scary, and I think that by saying you're waiting for him to be all healed up you're actually just pushing off the notion of rejection. If you don't say anything then you'll be safe. If you say something you might hear something you don't want to hear. So while I do believe you actually feel that you want to make sure this isn't a rebound, I think that a much larger portion of this is still you just running away."

   Jin sighs softly at the crestfallen look that takes over your place, gingerly wrapping you up in his arms before he continues. "Of all the people I've known in life I can't say any of them have been as brilliant, strong, sweet, and funny as you. You're the type of person that when you love you love with all your heart. I just want to see you be happy, I want you to realize that you are worth all the loves and hugs and kisses that you've told yourself are empty and meaningless. It's okay to go slow if you need to, but as your best friend, I'm rooting for you. And as a person who has seen the way that Joony looks at you I feel it's safe to say that you should try moving forward. But I don't want to push you if you're too nervous you know? Just one step at a time kiddo."

   Words fail you, as much as you'd like to argue or try to tell him he's wrong he isn't. Jin has always been quick to catch on to these things, and you had a sinking suspicion that he would say something about it all soon enough anyway. You nestle your face further into the crook of his neck and inhale the comforting scent of his fabric softener. After taking a moment to have your two brain cells muster up something to say you simply shuffle away and give him a quiet thank you. The warm smile you receive back in turn is all that either of you need.

-------The next weekend------

   You've been through a rollercoaster of emotions in the last week, although the anxiety you've felt has always loomed somewhere on the ride. Sometimes in the front seat, sometimes somewhere in the back just waiting for the drop to happen. Now that the day is finally here the nerves are present more than ever. Somehow everyone else who was invited fell through and it's now just the two of you. The rational, logical side of your brain says that this was extremely last minute and therefore difficult for others to rearrange their schedules to come with. Your gut argued that all the others had decided to give the two of you space. Perhaps to encourage the feelings you've been secretly fostering, and not very well according to Jin.

   Namjoon had made the trip out to the beach house before you, thank goodness. The two-hour drive had given you ample time to try to rationalize everything and see all the various possibilities this weekend held in store in the sanctum of privacy. Of course, you've also been doing this all week prior, but on the drive, it went into overtime. The most likely options you foresee from this weekend are:

   A. You get up the courage to ask him out and he turns you down flat.

   B. You get up the courage to ask him out and he says yes. The two of you ride off into the sunset on the beach where a dolphin will flip over a rainbow and all is well in the world.

   C. You fumble awkwardly through the weekend and end up saying nothing.

   Strangely enough, while you see option C as being the most plausible, you also want that one to happen the least. At least with rejection, you can move on, in that sense Jin is right. But if you end up missing your chance to shoot your shot you don't know how the game could have ended. By the time you pull into the driveway of the house you've made up your mind. On Monday, right before the two of you leave, you'll say something. You aren't sure how yet, but for once you're just going to put caution to the wind and try not to overthink it. At least that's what you were trying to convey to your measly remaining brain cells.

   You take a deep breath and grab your backpack in the seat next to you. It's now or never. Showtime baby. You can do this. You can do this. You can-before you even get a chance to ring the doorbell Namjoon is ripping open the door. His hair looks freshly dried and fluffy. His eyes seem to light up and his pearly whites flash at you as he gives you an excited smile. Fuck. You don't think you'll make it through this weekend sane, not if it's just going to be the two of you. "Hey! Come on in! Make yourself at home!" He reaches down to grab your backpack before his warm hand slips into yours and he's dragging you into the refreshing AC. "Your room is just right over here. The bathroom is next door. I just ordered us some pizza it should be here any minute. I got just cheese for you, I wasn't sure what toppings you like."

   His words fly out a mile a minute but your brain trudges through everything slowly, your thoughts are instead focusing on the way his hand feels on yours. They're slightly calloused, much larger than you realized, and painfully perfect. My god, is there anything about this man you don't like? At the realization that you've already entered your room and Namjoon's head is tilted as if waiting for some sort of response you finally manage to spit out, "that's great. Cheese pizza is super great." Get it together brain cells! "Um, this place looks amazing."

   "You haven't even seen the best parts yet. It's a shame that none of the other guys could make it, but I'm glad you could come. Going to the beach by yourself just screams midlife crisis and honestly, I don't think I'm ready to be there just yet. I want to get a few more years under my belt before facing an age inspired existential crisis, you know? Uh, so anyway..." His eyes roam around the room before he shoots you another smile, "Do you...do you want me to show you around a bit first or would you rather unpack?"

   "Um, I think I'll unpack and then you can show me everything."

   "Cool, sounds great. I uh, I'll just go then. But if you need anything just holler!" In a blink of an eye, he's out the door. Leaving you alone with just your sluggish thoughts and backpack.

   You weren't really sure why you had told him you needed to unpack. It's not like you were going to be here for more than a few days, so there wasn't much need. And yet here you are, taking your sweet ass time unpacking toiletries and all of the extra underwear you brought with because uteruses can't be trusted. You stare down at the bathroom counter after unpacking the last bits of makeup and skincare products before leaving the room.

   You follow the wafting scent of pizza, it looks like somehow you had missed the sound of its arrival. In the fit of nerves earlier in the morning you had opted to not eat, and if the whale mating calls your stomach is making that decision is clearly catching up with you. You find the two pizza boxes right next to Namjoon out on the porch and you waste no time grabbing the largest slice before flopping down next to him.

   "It's beautiful out here today. Thanks again for joining me."

   "Are you kidding me? I'm getting basically a free vacation to chill at the beach. And I get to spend it with the second biggest book nerd I know. How could I possibly turn down the offer? Thank you for inviting me. I appreciate Joony." You don't miss the way the tips of his ears burn a bright red as he stuffs his face with another slice of pizza. You also don't miss that its fucking pineapple. "Are you really eating what I think you're eating? Please say that this is a mirage."

   "What? Pineapple tastes great, especially on pizza."

   "My god. I've heard of monsters like you, but I had never believed the myths. I thought...I thought the world just made up your kind to scare children into eating even the crappiest slices of cafeteria pizza at lunch."

   "You take that back! Don't you dare call this tastebud explosion of love monstrous! You know what, I bet that you're the type of person who eats mint chocolate chip ice cream. Those are the real monsters."

   "HOW DARE YOU! Mint chocolate chip is delicious!" How can someone so handsome, so witty, so great all around have the worst fucking taste in food?

   "It tastes like someone fucking smothered good chocolate icecream in toothpaste. And yet you dare desecrate the majesty that is pineapple pizza? Salty, sweet, perfection?" Before you can even respond he's forcing a bite of the vile concoction into your mouth. You have no choice but to chew. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. "See it's not that-oh my god are you going to throw up?" The heaving noises you make has him quickly rushing next to you, abandoning his evil ways for but a moment as he pats your back soothingly before bursting into a fit of giggles when you finally breathe again.

   "'S not funny Joon! Don't you laugh at me!"

   "I'm sorry, I swear I'm not laughing at you. It's just...that was such an over the top reaction." He wipes away a stray tear before smooshing your cheeks when you pout at him. "Okay, I promise that I'll never make you eat it again. But you know what I also think? I think we should set our opinions aside and agree that the true evil food is anchovies on pizza."

   You glare at him, words coming out wobbly with your lips smushed between his hands. "Thisth isth unfortunately true. Fine, I promisthe I won't bring up your poor tashte in food again under the agreeancthe that anchoviesth on pizza isth the fucking worsht." He stays there for a moment longer before finally dropping his hands from your face.

   "Alright well now that's been resolved, what do you say we do after eating? Movie? Beach? Plotting how to take down anchovy pizza lovers?"

   "Well, we did come all the way out here. It would be rather ridiculous to not spend time by the beach. Besides, that water looks awfully inviting. Say, what do your parents even do to afford digs like this?"

   "Ah, my father is a doctor and my mother is a lawyer."

    "Cripes, how did they feel about you pursuing a creative job like tattooing?"

   He gives a noncommittal shrug at this. "Not much, they just wanted me to be happy. At first, they thought I should stay in school, but considering I went in for philosophy they quickly decided that this was at least a fruitful endeavor. Besides, I make more than they did at my age and I didn't have to bury myself in debt to do it."

   "I can totally see you as a philosophy major. I can't believe I didn't see that sooner. It's cool that your parents didn't shit all over your work though. They sound like good people."

   He lights up at this, his eyes twinkling as he regales you with childhood stories and about how he got into the business to begin with. By the time the two of you are full, you feel as if you've learned all about Namjoon's family. His parents were college sweethearts, he's a complete mama's boy, and he has a younger sister he adores who's currently studying abroad as a journalism major. The sun is already beginning to go down, the tide rising up before the two of you trudge back inside to change.

   Once you've changed and headed back outside the sky is brilliant shades of creamy oranges and neon pinks that contrast beautifully with the brilliant blue of the ocean. You don't even want to think about how much his parents paid for this view. You also can't even fathom how someone can make enough to afford this as just a summer home. You throw down your towel before quickly stepping into the ocean, relishing the feeling of the chilly water in the sweltering heat before turning around at the sound of Namjoon calling out your name. Good lord, this weekend might be the end of you. You had somehow forgotten that beaches meant shirtless Namjoon. You've seen his sleeves, of course, the left one an intricate Japanese style piece with his right arm covered in various neo-traditional pieces. But what's grabbing your attention now is three things. One: he has very impressive pecs, something you didn't see coming. You had assumed for whatever reason that he didn't have the time to work out. Apparently, you were wrong. Two: He has multiple script pieces tattooed on the sides of his torso. Three: He has a happy trail and your eyes are refusing to budge and you're now openly ogling.

   "Say cheese!" Before you can blink he's snapping a picture with a Polaroid. Not one of the newer ones that have come out, no this looks like it was imported straight out of the '70s. He jogs closer to you before wrapping his arm gently around your waist, pulling you in as he angles the camera and snaps another one. You can feel your cheeks heat up at the proximity, your skin tingling under his gentle touch even after he pulls away to run back to the patio and set the old camera safely away from the sand and water. Fuck what are you going to do? Are you really going to be able to make it through this whole weekend without pouncing on him? Is it just you that feels like there's a slight buzz of sexual tension, has it been so long since you've last gotten laid that now you're imagining things?

   Your thoughts are spinning around when he returns to your side, your hearing only picking up on the tail end of what he was saying, "-it's going to look great in my scrapbook!"

   "What?"

   "The pictures. I was saying the pictures came out awesome with the sunset in the background. Are you okay?"

   "Yeah, just kind of spacey. Carb coma I think. You have a scrapbook?"

   "Yup! Ever since my dad gave me his old Polaroid when I was in high school I've kept scrapbooks." This just isn't fair. No grown man should be this cute. If you just take out his terrible taste in food and ability to destroy things just by breathing in its direction he really is perfect. Man, you are so fucked. He really isn't making it easy for you to give up.

   "I'd like to see them sometime. The scrapbooks, that is." He lights up at this, nodding animatedly as he wades further into the water.

   "Yeah! I mean, they aren't the best done but I like being able to look back on all the fun memories sometimes you know?" This is a good sign right, he's already seeing this as a fun memory. That means he thinks of you positively. Right? This means that your odds may be higher in favor than you anticipated. Maybe.

   For the next few minutes, the two of you simply bask in the beauty of the sunset. Jitters seem to fade, your ever-present anxiety even catching the hint and letting you just enjoy the night for a moment. "It's beautiful out here. Thank you again for inviting me, Joon."

   "Anytime. I used to come out here all the time. You would think that when I moved closer I would spend more time over here, it's not like I had to drive six hours. But work and life got in the way. And then at a certain point, it just seemed meaningless if I'm just going alone. Of all the people I invited I really just wanted you to come. I felt like you would appreciate the ordinary beauty of it, the simplicity of just wading in the ocean as the moon starts to come out and the stars light up the sky."

   "And how exactly did you decide that I, of all people, would appreciate the scenery? You aren't wrong, but now I'm curious." You sink deeper into the water until the waves crash around your waste and you can finally feel relief from the sweltering heat lingering even into the evening.

   "Because that's just who you are. You see the extraordinary in the ordinary. It's just the way you operate, I knew that about you the first time you ever fixed up my childhood worn and torn Harry Potter books. Even though they weren't these amazing collector pieces you treated them with such care and brought them back to a state better than brand new. From that moment on I knew that you were the type of person who could appreciate the subtle complexities that make life all that much better. And the more I've gotten to know you the further you've deepened this conviction. I mean who else would take me out to feed koi fish lettuce in a city in the middle of the night? Who else would drive me over an hour to the outskirts just for the best matcha latte they've ever had only to spend more than an hour discussing the process of making it with the owner? Or take me to an art gallery just to tell me about how the janitor deserves more recognition for his street murals? I mean sure, you might have terrible tastebuds and be unable to see the glory in pineapple on pizza, but I'm willing to overlook that character flaw because it's you. Because honestly you could do just about anything and I'd-"

   You cut him off abruptly, your lips melding onto his with slightly too much force and knocking you both slightly off balance when the wave hits, the two of you tumbling into the shallow waters. It still doesn't exactly dawn on you what's going on, your brain is still narrowly focused on how soft his lips felt under yours for that nanosecond before you're drawn out by Namjoon's barking laughter.

   "I never would have expected you to actually sweep me off my feet. I assumed it was supposed to be hyperbole, not a physical action. I guess I should learn to expect the unexpected with you." Before you can respond, he's hoisting you out of the water and his hands are placed gently on the small of your back as he leans down and places a featherlight kiss on you. It's almost uncertain, a kiss that's testing the waters asking for approval. It's magical, the way he feels against you. It's as if music will start playing and the little mermaid is about to burst forth and congratulate the two of you. The second kiss is firmer, one that you initiate as you tug at his hair and lean up on your tiptoes just to get all that much closer. When you break away for a moment he's quick to pull you back in, and this time you can feel your toes want to curl, your knees go weak and your brain grows dizzy as he nips at your lower lip and his tongue slips into your mouth. You might have to rethink this pineapple business after all.

   You've dreamt of this moment a thousand times, wondering from perhaps the moment he first stumbled into your small little shop what he would be like. And yet in all of your various daydreams (and wet dreams if you're very honest) you still never pictured it being so perfect. It's that mix of gentle timidity at the beginning that melds into an all-consuming passion that's just so Namjoon and just so right. It's addictive, a new kind of high you want to chase forever. "I don't think you know just how long I've wanted to do that."

   "I really wish you would have sooner, but I'm glad you did now because if I'm perfectly honest I was way too nervous to do it first." He presses his forehead gently on yours as he speaks, his hands moving rhythmically along the small of your back as he holds you tighter. God bless Jin and the others for refusing to come so you could finally have this moment. "So that being said, can I kiss you again?"

   "Please do." You're barely louder than a whisper, your eyes focused on the way his lips quirk up and dimples show before he's kissing you again. It's slower this time, longer. There's something more sensual looming underneath it this time. The way his hands pull you in closer, hands gripping your hips tightly. The way your tongues dance together. The feeling of desire coils up in your belly as a soft moan falls out of your lips when his hand roams tentatively lower until he's kneading at the soft flesh of your ass. If there's an award for best kisser then you have no doubt that Namjoon deserves it.

       The only thing that breaks the two of you out of your trance is the sounds of a group of people encroaching closer into witnessing what should be private bliss. The two of you glance over to see people setting up a bonfire not too terribly far away before looking back at each other. His hands remain in place for just a moment longer before he reluctantly pulls back and nods his head in the direction of his parent's summer home. "I suppose we should go inside now." His hand laces together with yours when you nod softly, leading you back without an ounce of worry or rushing. It's as if he's silently telling you that the two of you will have all the time in the world. So you reciprocate this possible hidden sentiment with an equally silent agreeance by squeezing his hand a few times.

   It doesn't take long for the two of you to hang up your towels and be right back inside. For a moment the silence just hangs in the air, the only noises heard are the distant partiers outside and the hum of the chilly AC when it kicks to life. "So...do you want to watch a movie?" Namjoon's words come out slightly rough and hoarse as if he hasn't spoken in hours.

   "Sure, we can do that. Whatever you pick I'm fine with. I'll just go take a shower and change real quick first." What you really want to do is jump his bones and drag him to the nearest soft landing spot. It's been a long time since you've felt lust consume you in such a carnal way. But you aren't sure if he's asking if you want to watch movies for his sake or yours. Perhaps he wants to take things slow. Either way, you figure that if perchance the two of you do decide to do something it might be best to wash off the salty ocean water currently drying out your skin.

       It isn't long before you've returned to the living room, this time clad in comfy warm sweat pants and a t-shirt. You find that Namjoon seems to have done the same and is currently lounging on the sofa as he browses through the international movie section of Netflix. If you're honest you're not much of a movie buff, but there's something about how excited he gets about watching obscure indie films from around the world that lights you up inside. "Hey, I'm kind of thinking of watching this one. It's about purgatory but it's not a horror movie, it says it's a coming of age movie."

   "A coming of age movie about purgatory, is that even possible?" You slide into the spot next to him on the couch, casting a quirked eyebrow at him before looking back at the screen. "Now I'm curious to see how they work that out. I say we watch it." There's a hum of content that leaves him as he starts up the movie before tossing a blanket over the two of you and bringing you closer to him. He smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, an earthy spicy blend that you inhale deeply as you nestle into his shoulder. You suppose there's a lot that the two of you still need to work out, still need to figure out or actually say. But right now everything feels so right, so cozy. As if the world has finally stopped spinning long enough for the two of you to just enjoy the moment.

   One of his arms is wrapped around your shoulders while you lace your hand with the free one. You never noticed before but he has much larger hands than yours. It's comforting in a sense, the feeling of just being in his arms cloaks you with safety and squashes any anxiety. But the desire is still looming in the distance as you take in the sight of him. The domestic side of him you haven't seen often. Freshly showered, in pajamas, his skin glowing with a soft tan and hair drying in floppy waves. It shouldn't excite you this much, but you can still feel the lingering sensation of his hands gripping your ass as his teeth nibble on your lower lip and now you want more. You want so much more. You want to feel him, you want to explore everything he has to offer.

   He casts a glance to the side to see you staring at him, a shy smile coming over his face. "Aren't you going to watch the movie?"

   "I kind of really want to kiss you again. I think that sounds far more interesting, no offense to the movie or anything." You watch Namjoon's eyes grow wide, his ears burning a bright cherry red as your hand snakes up his neck and you move in closer. "May I? Kiss you that is?" You watch him nod slowly before you inch in closer, your lips slowly melding with his. But you want more, and this peck is just the beginning. When he finally starts to reciprocate you twist and shuffle until you're straddling his lap. There is no uncertainty now, just a needy passion that consumes each movement. His hands begin to finally roam, slowly gliding up the back of your thighs to your ass until the creep forward yet again and he's moving to the hem of your shirt. He breaks away slowly, a thin trail of saliva breaking off as his gaze moves between your lips and your eyes.

   "Can I...take off your shirt?" You might have nodded a smidge too enthusiastically if the light chuckle you get in response is anything to go by. But at this point, you're too far gone to care if you look a little needy. Even just the brush of his knuckles against your bare skin as he tugs your shirt up and over feels scorching hot. The way his molten brown eyes take everything in, searching greedily, has your desire spinning further out of control. You can't remember the last time a partner of yours has looked at you this way, as if you're the finest delicacy they've ever seen and they want nothing more than to just dive in. Your lips connect hungrily to his neck as his hands snake up to unlatch your bra.

   "You're so beautiful, you know that?" His words are gruff with desire as you tug off his shirt and admire the firm planes of his stomach. For a moment everything stops, the two of you simply drink in the sights of one another until you're back on each other in a frenzy. You aren't sure when or how it happens but it feels like in just a fraction of a second the two of you are finally bare, and now you've twisted around with his face just inches away from your pussy. "I can't wait to taste you, you don't know how many times I've thought of this. How many times I’ve thought of how you’d feel, (y/n). How you’d sound when you moan my name."

   His eyes flicker up to yours for a moment as his hands stroke softly at the inside of your thighs. There's something softer in his gaze, something that says while he wants you physically he's also wanted this emotionally for some time. "Please taste me already Joon, I want to feel you already." He gives a small grunt in response before his tongue is licking a wide stripe along your dripping cunt. The sensation has your nerves on fire, your neck falling back into the couch as you grab onto his hair. He moves in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. His tongue delves between your folds and always comes up to plant a smattering of wet kisses on your clit. Each brush of his tongue has you moaning, each time his teeth scrape by with just enough pressure you can feel that familiar coil wind tighter. "Fuck, you're really good at this."

   It shouldn't be legal for your heart to melt over the dimples that appear when his face is literally buried in your pussy. But with Namjoon there's always this air of domestic bliss, a safe haven of comfort, the shines through even in the most carnal debauchery. The praise seems to drive him forward, his mouth latching onto your clit as two fingers slowly stretch you out. When his fingers curl up at just the right spot you can feel your climax hurtle closer, but you don't want it just yet. You want to feel him inside you, you want to finally feel full of nothing but him before your release. "Stop, stop Joony I'm going to come if you don't stop. I wanna cum with you-fuck-inside me." That finally gets his attention, his fingers finally snake out and you watch him pop them into his mouth with delight before his hands tug your hips closer to him.

   This time your kisses are sloppy, needy, and rushed. The taste of your tangy arousal on his tongue has small moans of delight bubbling out of you. "Fuck, I really want you. I can't wait to feel you." He pauses for a moment to stare down at the couch and you can tell that his gears are slowly grinding underneath the haze of lust. "I think I have a condom somewhere in my luggage. Give me a moment, I'll be right back." Before you can nod in response he's already taken off, your eyes glued to his ass as he runs away. If you thought he had a cute ass before, it looks all that much better without the clothing.

   After a minute or so of radio silence, you hear a loud crash, some banging, and muffled cursing. "You okay Joon?" You're quick on your feet and when you open the door you see his luggage strewn about on the floor with a large lamp laying next to it. "Oh, I hate when lamps try to run away from me. But really, are you okay?"

   "Physically, just fine. The only thing that's been damaged is my pride. Good news though, I did manage to find that condom!" He presents the gold foil with childlike glee, his smile reaching from ear to ear and you can't help but laugh. "Wait! I should probably mention that I didn't even pack them, Yoongi's fiance did saying that I really needed to get laid so I swear, this wasn't some large diabolical-"

   "Joon, it's fine. I'm glad you have a condom because I would really, really like to fuck you." The atmosphere shifts again, earlier playful twitterings are thrown out the door as you sit down on his bed. "If you still want to, that is."

   "God, you're going to be the death of me." With a groan, he's back up and by your side, his hand fisting over his half hard cock to get it to spring back to life as he peppers kisses over your face and pushes you into his feather-down pillows. "I can't wait to feel you, I can't wait to make you mine."

   "I'm pretty sure that emotionally I've been yours since the moment you went with me to feed the koi fish."

   "Remind me to send them a thank you present in that case." You prop yourself up on your elbows as he rips back the foil and slowly rolls the rubber over his length. You feel enough delight to border on delirium over the fact that you're finally going to feel him. Finally, after all this time of late night frustrations caused by even the smallest of contact with him, you're going to be able to feel him. The sensation of him coating himself in your arousals as he lines up has your nerves dancing with anticipation. He enters at an agonizingly slow pace, the stretch has you gripping onto the sheets and toes curling as his name leaves you in slow whines.

   "Please move, I can't take it. I need to feel you. Deeper." Lust has fogged over your brain and your words come out wobbly, slower, lower than normal. His hips push deeper, faster until his pace is almost brutal. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, loud wet squelches, and groans of satisfaction fill the room. His lips find yours again, his teeth nipping playfully as one hand sneaks down to rub circles on your clit.

   "I wanna make you cum, I want to see you all fucked out on my cock. Does this feel good?" The lower timber of his voice mixed with the clitoral stimulation has you spasming around him.

   "Fuck, yeah. Yeah just-fuck-just like that. Fuck! Don't stop, please don't stop I-I" His hips piston deeper, further into you as he presses kisses onto your neck.

   "Let go, baby, just let go." Your climax hits you quickly, stars spotting your vision as your legs hook around his waist. It feels like you're floating, it's transcendental. As if sex has brought you to a higher realm, a place where everything is perfect and right as you cry out in pleasure. He fucks you through it, new waves of satisfaction rolling in with each movement. You're slightly delirious as you come back to reality, a smile gracing your face as you hear words of praise roll off his tongue.

   "I could watch you cum all day. Fuck, you're so tight now. I'm not going to last much longer. Hold on, turn around." He helps you reposition until your ass is up in the air and your face is pressed snuggly into the pillows. His hands guide your hips in place as he quickly bottoms out, his pace picking up until you're a mewling mess.

   "Joon, fuck, please cum. I wanna feel you cum." The groans of satisfaction in response to your words has you spasming again, toes curling as his hands grip the flesh of your ass. You can feel his movements become sloppier, the rhythm falling out of sync as he pushes himself further to the edge that's teetering just out of reach. You snake your hand down to gently cup his balls and he gives a guttural moan in response. It only takes four more thrusts before he's spilling into the condom, lodged deep inside of your wet heat still as he slumps forward.

   "Holy shit." He catches his breath before he rolls over, carefully tieing off the condom and tossing it into a waste bin before he pulls you into his arms. "That was-"

   "Amazing? Mind-blowing? The best sex of your life?"

   "Yeah."

   "Good. It was for me too. I'll probably owe Jin for life now though for refusing to come. He kept saying that I needed to get laid." Namjoon laughs as he presses a kiss to your temple.

   "You know that's actually the same thing that Yoongi and his fiance said? I'm glad that they were right though. They kept telling me to just tell you that I liked you but for some reason, I was so nervous. You're just so sweet, and funny, and caring and perfect and I was convinced that you would think I had too much baggage to want to try with me."

   "You? Baggage? Please, I'm the one with the mommy and daddy issues, I think I trump you on the baggage claim. Besides, you're this witty, charming, intelligent, and painfully handsome man. How could I not fall for you?"

   That night the two of you fall asleep in between stolen kisses, cuddling, and conversations of love and life and what the future might have in store. As it turns out the future held pretty good things if you do say so yourself. Somehow the two of you helped each other heal, encouraged each other to grow and expand as people. It isn't always easy, but the two of you develop further into love when things get harder. And so somehow you managed not only to find love but after five years the government knows you're in love too. Three years after the wedding bells and you adopt your first child. Another two years later and you welcome in your second child and you finally realize that your biggest dream was coming true. You finally got the family you always wanted. And Jin was sure to remind you often that really it was all thanks to him. You can't say he's entirely wrong though, after all, he did help give you the chance to sweep Namjoon off his feet.

[potaetaezz]

|| Sweet Like Coffee || 15

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pairing: Nct Dream x Reader  [female]

genre/au: fluff | angst | enemies to lovers | Everyone is just a clueless bunch of weirdos, you get the drill… or so you thought.

warnings: slight swearing, immature content, underage drinking

A/N: its’s my first fanfic so no judgment lol | Longer Chp | here we go~

_____________________________________

You read the words over and over again until you couldn’t bear it. But your eyes wouldn’t leave the screen. Embarrassment kissed a blush to your cheeks. How could you ever face him again, after that? You didn’t even want to try and understand your meaning, your mentality. You just wanted to forget it, forget your words. The words that weren’t even true, you knew, you hoped. 

Your confidence to say those words surprised you, but still, you’d give anything to take them back. The worst part of it all was knowing that he saw it. There was no hoping he didn’t, or praying he had his phone off. He saw it. He knew. And you couldn’t take that back. The embarrassment, the humiliation, you couldn’t stop them from overpowering you. At that moment you wanted nothing more than to hide in a pile of blankets, bury yourself in a book, and escape reality.

A grunt from Lila tore your eyes away.

“What’s that?” She was staring right at your phone, right at his name. 

You dropped it onto the bed, “Uhh nothing.”

“Did I just see Jaemin’s name on your phone?”

“No. Nope.”

“Did it just read ‘I miss you’?” 

“Don’t think so…”

“Y/n….”

“Well, you kissed Haechan!” It was the only thing you could think of. 

“What’re you on about?” Her voice up an octave. You could see her smile building. 

“What the fuck did we do last night.” She held her face in her hands, laughing. Or crying. Maybe both. She must’ve been confused as well. She peered through her fingers to look at you.

“You’re situation is still worse.” 

“No shit Sherlock.” You joined in on the laugh.

You took out your phone again, reluctantly. Your eyes caught glimpse of your words once again before you pressed ‘delete’. You needed to forget. Perhaps the more you looked at it, the greater the chance you might trick yourself into believing it, believing the words. Maybe the more you read it, the easier it was to fall for your hearts trick. 

“Just try to forget about it.” Lila said.

“I will.”

———

Monday [2:11pm]

It was safe to say, you didn’t forget about it, any of it. It rung inside your ears daily. You suffocated in the memory of your words, in his response - silence. There was no point in telling Renjun because nothing could save you from that, nothing could bring you back. It was your own mistake, your own humiliation, and you had to deal with it. That was the first day you were glad Jaemin wasn’t in. You were glad you didn’t hear him run in late for class, or catch his eye in the hall. You were grateful you didn’t see him. It allowed you to relax.

“Hello? Earth to y/n” Renjun said whilst waving a hand in front of your face.

He pulled you back from your daydream, brought you back to reality. It was just you, Renjun and Lila sitting at the cafeteria table

“What’re you doing for tomorrow?”

“What’re happening tomorrow?” You replied. 

Renjun rolled his eyes, “Uhm your birthday.”

You never imagined you’d become so forgetful that you’d forget your own birthday. You’d probably need a Facebook reminder to remember it. Your mind has been so swamped lately. Confused and embarrassed and everything under the sun. 

“How am I the one to remember your birthday?” Renjun laughed. “So what you gonna do?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t know, nothing?” 

Renjun let out a huge sigh, shaking his head. He almost couldn’t believe it. Stuck in thought attempting to comprehend the fact that you don’t want to do something special for your birthday. To you, a birthday was just another day of the year. It would be nice to hang out with friends, sure, but you didn’t need to. You would be just as fine chilling at home.

“We’re doing something.” He slammed his hands onto the table, a fire in his eyes, “Let me plan it.”

He looked so excited, how could you say no. “Fine,” you sighed, “but I’m warning you, don’t go overboard.”

Renjun never mastered simplicity. He was always extra, in everything he did, especially when it came to planning. But you loved it anyway. 

———

Tuesday [5:48pm]

Ten said your present was on the way, but you knew he forgot. 

You were grateful for Renjun hosting your birthday party because you couldn’t imagine putting the effort into it yourself. You were worried that it would be extravagance at its finest, and you didn’t even know who was going to be there. But you were grateful nonetheless. Walking up the steps, you wondered if Jaemin knew it was your birthday, you wondered if he cared. 

But you waved that thought off fast, as the door opened for you. Renjun stood in the doorway, a birthday balloon in his hand. 

“Good evening y/n.” he smiled.

“Hello Renjun.” 

He passed you the balloon, and led you into the sitting room. 

He turned down his extravagance just for you. There were a few balloons and party decorations scattered around the room, and music softly playing in the background. You noticed Lila sitting down. And all of a sudden, it was the trio once again. Nostalgia warmed your heart. But with the addition of Jeno and Haechan who were walking in with food, lots of food.

You remembered the bet, that awful bet. But you couldn’t hate it, you didn’t regret it. If it wasn’t for the bet you would never be there. It was the bet that brought you all together, surrounded by old friends and new ones. Surrounded by friends who cared. 

There was already so much food on the table, but Haechan added delivered pizza to it anyways. Jeno was carrying drinks. There was a board game laid out on the table. 

“I know I’ve banned monopoly, but this is a special occasion,” Renjun said.

He banned monopoly for good reason too. You tend to become overly competitive when monopoly is involved, you couldn’t help it. You may have just maybe hit Renjun across the face when he cheated. He forgave you, but it took a while.

You pulled Renjun in for a hug. 

You had never appreciated him more than at that moment. You were so touched you could nearly cry. 

“Nice gesture, but I don’t feel safe around monopoly anymore.” you said as you let go. You lost control around monopoly. You couldn’t deny it.

“Oh thank god. And you don’t feel safe? I’m the one that got hit!”

“Whatever whatever, but we’re not playing Mario Kart.”

“Don’t do this to me y/n, I just got better.” Renjun began to whine.

“Mario Bros?”

“I guess it is your birthday.” He tried to pout but ended up laughing instead. “Mario Bros it  is.”

Before you could sit down to play, Jeno pulled you back by the hood.

“I didn’t forget.” he said. A book in his hand. “It’s the second part to the last one I gave you.”

“Did you underline your favourite parts?” You couldn’t help but ask.

“Only for you.”

“Thank you Jeno.”

Haechan joined in, “I didn’t know what to get you, so I got you the one thing I know you love.” He handed you a set of coffee capsules.

“But I don’t own a coffee machine…”

“Just like- just open them up? No?”

“No Haechan but thanks for the effort.”

“Anytime y/n.” He smiled that innocent smile.

Lila swore she would give you her present tomorrow, and Renjun said the party was his gift to you.

All you guys did all night was play video games, ate pizza and chilled. But it was perfect. You couldn’t have asked for anything more. It was relaxing, and casual, and just what you wanted. You doubted how well Renjun knew you.

But something strange happened when you were watching them play. 

Everyone was laughing, smiling. You joined in but something was pulling you back, isolating you. You were with everyone, but you felt alone. It was an emptiness growing inside you, harassing your emotions, pestering your mind. You tried to swallow it, but it was consuming you and your thoughts. You noticed Jaemin’s absence for the hundredth time that night, you could feel it. 

You remembered the weight of his gaze, the look in his eye. You wished to smell the amber and musk once more, or to see the curl of his smirk. You craved to see him, to feel him. His absence was becoming too much. You were remembering, wishing too much. Your mind was a mess, your smile was dismantling, and Lila was beginning to notice. Her eyes analysed you. She realised.

“Do you want a drink y/n?” she called you out.

“Sure.”

You followed her out to the kitchen, until she stopped.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I just can’t forget about it.”

A chuckle escaped her mouth, “is that it?” She knew there was more.

You paused, hesitated, “I just can’t forget about him. Like what if it’s true? What if I miss him? Hell what if I like him? No I don’t, I can’t. I just I-“

“Stop spiralling. Breath.”

You took in some air. And then she hit you with the facts.

“You know Jaemin has a bad rep. You know he’s arrogant and cocky.”

“Jeno was like that.” you interrupted.

“But Jeno is different. Jeno has changed. Jeno didn’t disappear. You know Jaemin can be such a prick, you know that, but you don’t know much more about him.”

But she didn’t know Jaemin like you did. She didn’t know how close you two got, she didn’t know what happened. Lila didn’t feel the warmth and comfort when he wrapped his arms around you. She didn’t hear the hitch in his voice when he brought up his father. She didn’t see the vulnerability in his dark eyes when he basked beneath the moonlight. She didn’t understand.

“He’s bad news y/n, I’m saying this because I care for you. Just, try not to overthink everything, let your mind rest. He probably didn’t even take notice of the message.”

Those words hurt more than they should’ve, affected you more than they were meant to.

You took another deep breath and turned around. As you were walking back, Lila coughed, loudly. You heard a light switch click. And suddenly everything went silent. You stopped just before the door, but Lila pushed you from behind. 

The room was dark, you couldn’t see anything. A flame grew in the darkness, flickering. And that’s when you saw it. The candle, the cake, everyone.

“Happy Birthday~” they began to sing. 

You were comforted by the smiles on their faces, just by them being there. That was the first birthday where you weren’t embarrassed when everyone sang ‘happy birthday’. You had no reason to be embarrassed. You just enjoyed it. 

Soon enough Renjun was holding the cake in front of you. The flicker of the flame taunted you. So you blew it out. Darkness cascaded around you. Everyone began to cheer. 

And right there, in the midst of darkness, you made your wish.

———

The isolation you felt disappeared as you walked home. 

But still, Jaemin popped into your head, flooded it. You wondered what he was doing, who he was with. All these questions yet you knew they would never be answered. It was becoming easier to think of him, think about him. You felt your grip loosen over your control, over your power. But whilst it was getting easier to wonder about him, it was getting harder to forget. About everything.

Before you entered your apartment, you noticed something was off. Something had been shoved into your mailbox, in a rush. You walked over and attempted to pull it out, but it was stuck. By the time you got it out, the wrapping paper had been torn off.

But it revealed something beautiful.

It was a book. The book you read with Jaemin, in his library, under the light of the moon.

A flurry of memories hit you. But warmed your heart as well. He remembered. He remembered it was your birthday. He remembered what book you read. He remembered you. A sense of urgency raced through your heart. Despite his disappearance, he made sure to give you a birthday present, he tried. Your heart fluttered. A burning desire ignited inside of you. A craving that you couldn’t get rid of. You had to do something. You had to thank him. 

You started walking. You had no idea what you were going to say, but you had to say something. You had enough of his silence. Enough of his disappearance. You started to run. You forgot about your message, about his reputation. You forgot about everything, except for his face. His eyes, his smile, his hair. You had been suppressing feelings you always knew were there.

You hated Jaemin at the start, and maybe that’s why you hated your feelings. You hated that you cared, you hated how you noticed his absence, you hated how he had an effect on you. You were becoming like all the other girls, victim to his charm, fallen prey to his lure. But you didn’t care. Not anymore.

You witnessed pain on his face, you saw a part of him he kept hidden, you knew him. You were sure. He was good. You were sure. 

You could only run so far before you arrived, standing in front of his house. It was dark, but you could always spot Jaemin. Your heart warmed.

He was sitting on the steps, head in his hands, the darkness embracing him. 

You took one step closer. Still catching your breath.

He looked up, and you looked into his eyes for the first time in ages. You forgot how his features were carved by Aphrodite herself, how his eyes held all the stars in the sky. You forgot how intense his gaze was, how hard it was to hold. You forgot how good he looked. You let out a shaky sigh. He didn’t even seem surprised to see you.

“What’re you doing here?” he said. Voice empty, monotone, dead.

You just held up the book. 

“Did you think I forgot?” There was no emotion behind his words. 

“Yes.”

He looked down, letting out a soft chuckle. 

“Look, y/n, you need to go.” Whatever amusement filled his voice before was gone. 

“Where the hell have you been? What’s wrong?” you couldn’t hold back.

“You just need to leave.”

“Why?”

He stood up and began to close the space between you. 

“I don’t have to explain myself.”

“If all you were going to do was tell me to leave why’d you give me a present? Why give me this book? You knew I’d come, so why?”

There was tension strained between you both. He took one last step closer. You looked up at him. The darkness in his eyes consumed you.

“If you read it you would’ve realised. It was a goodbye gift.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No. But I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what Jaemin? Make sense.”

“Your message? I can’t do that. I can’t reply to that. I know you know about the bet. That’s what this was. That’s why I kissed you. That’s why I tried. Did you really think I cared about you?”

You took a step back, shuddering at his words. He was different, he was cruel. It was becoming hard to breathe, his scent suffocating. You were drowning in your memories, in his words.

He leaned in close, so close you could almost kiss him. And he spoke in that low, husky voice:

“I told you you were going to regret this. I warned you.”

Before you could look him in the eyes, before you could respond, before you could breathe, you heard the door click. A girl came out, wearing a dress filled with roses, hair neatly did, makeup perfect. She was perfect. And she was staring right at Jaemin.

“Are you coming in?” she called out, not even sparing you a glance.

“Yeah, yeah I am.”

And he turned his back on you and he walked away. 

_____________________________________

a/n: Jaemin has changed, clearly. What happened to him? Who is that girl? What did he write inside the book? Hope you liked it!!

_____________________________________

See you soon -> Thursday 14th xx

 _____________________________________

[afteriwake]

(Banner by @strangelock221b)

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures - It all begins with an invitation to Mycroft’s wedding to his PA and seven days at a resort in Jamaica, with the assumption that Molly pretends to be his girlfriend that his mother might be under the impression that he’s going to propose to sooner rather than later. It ends up being so much more than that…

READ CHAPTER 1 | READ CHAPTER 5 | BUY ME A COFFEE?

It wasn’t until they had arrived at the airport that he realized just how wonderful an actress Molly really was. She was not quite as she had been the last two nights, when there had been plenty of “practice” for them to act as a couple, practice he had quite enjoyed, but she stayed close, always keeping a hand of hers in his or on his arm, smiling brightly at the assorted members of the families who would be traveling with them and, at least for a first impression, pulling off the charade quite nicely. Not that he found it hard to play along; with Molly being the lead in most of the interactions, he simply followed and reacted accordingly.

He was only thankful this group of guests were the ones from London and his parents were not among them. That was the introduction he was dreading the most, as while he was sure his parents would adore Molly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the “impending” engagement questions just yet. His mother was as tenacious as he was when she wanted something, and what she wanted was the sons she was still talking to to give her grandchildren. She’d succeeded with Mycroft, so now all her attention would be on him.

They settled into their seats on the plane and Molly leaned over with her mouth near his ear. “That seemed to go well,” she said quietly.

“They were an easier audience to trick than my parents will be,” he murmured back.

“Oh, I think your mum will love me,” she said with a smile before kissing his cheek and then reaching for the book she’d taken out of her handbag to read. Molly didn’t quite realize that was among the problems with this charade: his mother would absolutely adore her and when it eventually came time to explain how the relationship had ended, he would be a disappointment in her eyes. Maybe not as much as his eldest brother was, but enough that it would make things decidedly more frosty between them.

Of course, as long as he wasn’t as despised as Sherrinford, he supposed he could tolerate a bit of a cold shoulder from his parents.

He settled further into his seat. It wasn’t often he thought of his eldest brother. There was usually no real reason to. The age difference between the two of them was considerable enough that Sherrinford had been nearly a teenager when he was born, and Mycroft not that far behind. He was considered a blessing by his parents, and a burden to Mycroft, but Sherrinford had never really liked him much, as far as he could tell. Sherrinford was the one in the family who had gotten the innate ability to make people at ease almost immediately, a skill his father had not managed to pass down to either he or Mycroft. It seemed his mother’s brilliance had skipped Sherrinford as a result, and he despised his younger siblings for being the one their mother was proudest of.

To this day he still wasn’t entirely sure of what had caused the rift between his parents and his eldest brother, but he knew it had to do with a large sum of money disappearing from accounts and Sherrinford scampering off in the middle of the night. It was never discussed even when he asked, time and again, and eventually, he simply stopped asking. It was the one mystery he’d decided not to solve in his entire life because, really, he was glad Sherrinford was gone. He had never liked the way Sherrinford treated him, and while his life was not necessarily better once he was gone, it was easier, at least.

He decided he’d done enough ruminating on the past once the plane began its ascent into the air. It had been some time since he was able to fully relax on a trip away from England, probably since early on in his association with John. The trip to Karachi had been fraught with danger and getting Irene to relative safety had been his tantamount priority, and obviously working on destroying the web Moriarty had woven had not been easy of safe. And then the last time he had been on a plane he had purposefully overdosed so that he could concentrate on the case in his head. Whether he had made it to Russia alive had been of little consequence, as he had more drugs on hand in case he’d had to finish the trip, but he was grateful for the second chance.

Not that he would ever admit that, of course.

He’d been surly when it was over, and only dropped the attitude when it had been decided Molly would be there during his withdrawal. He hadn’t seen her since before he had shot Magnussen, and the fact she wasn’t more angry at him for overdosing had been surprising, considering the scene in the lab. But she was there when no one else was, and he’d decided if she would be with him through the worst of it, he would make things better between them. And it was a promise he had done a good enough job keeping since they were in the position they were in now. He doubted even for a trip to Jamaica for free that she would agree to be his girlfriend and potential fiancee, unless possibly it had been for a case.

Still, he should have recognized long before the first night in Baker Street for this charade that his feeling had changed. When they had been curled up on the sofa and she had leaned in for their first kiss, he had been fairly sure he had made a mistake. And he knew he had for certain when she kissed him because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to go back to simply being friends, not after this week. Either he would try his best to convince her to make the fiction a reality, or he would lose the most important person in his life.

Of course, her mixed signals, vacillating between the breakup quip and then the simple kiss on the cheek now did nothing to help him figure out which direction she might go in. Logic was of no help, and they still had the entire week to go. He tried slipping into his mind palace to focus on things related to cases he had abandoned for the week, but he kept turning to look at Molly, completely immersed in her book. He knew that that image was going to be a sight frequently seen in his mind palace for a long time to come.

He hadn’t managed to settle anything in his head by the time they had arrived in Jamaica, and he was a bit cranky when they were deboarded and put into cars to get to the resort. Molly had barely taken her eyes off the book she was reading, and continued to read in the car they shared with his Uncle Harrington.

Of all the members of his family that he had contact with, this particular uncle was the only one he rather liked. His Uncle Rudy had favoured Mycroft, and no one at all had really liked Sherrinford, as far as he could tell, but it had been his Uncle Harrington who had fostered his love of deductive reasoning, sending hard to find books on any subject Sherlock wished from either his own private collection or those of friends and colleagues. There were books that were worth thousands of pounds at Baker Street because Harrington had never asked for them to be returned, always saying you would never know when you needed a good book, and as a literature professor at Oxford, he supposed Harrington knew that lesson well.

“You picked a woman who likes to read,” Harrington said, his voice laced with approval.

“I did,” Sherlock said, relaxing. This would be easy to talk about. He had found Molly’s sterling qualities were something he could expound on for quite a while if needed. He was sure John and Mary were tired of his talking about her, at least. “She has a personal library in her home. Not a large one, but the contents are varied.”

“Medical texts, classical literature, modern pulpy romances, and a few other goodies,” Molly said as she turned in the seat in front of them to join the conversation. She gave Harrington a smile. “Sherlock mentioned you gave him quite a few of the books he has now?”

Harrington nodded. “Mycroft and Sherrinford were interested in learning certain things. William wanted to learn everything. You don’t squander a mind like that by not feeding it with sufficient knowledge.”

Sherlock glowered slightly at the use of his real name but Molly simply nodded. “Oh yes. A beautiful brain like his would go to waste if it was starved in such an unnecessary way.”

Harrington’s smile back at her got brighter. “It’s good to see we see eye to eye,” he replied.

“We certainly do.”

Sherlock watched the two of them launch into a conversation about him and he listened with only mild embarrassment. It was one thing to think highly of himself, but it was another to hear two people discuss him in such high regard. He wasn’t used to that; while he knew Mary adored him, she didn’t have these kinds of discussions with her husband in front of him. Lestrade usually didn’t need to defend him anymore so he didn’t, and while he was used to Molly saying a few kind words, this was different. Perhaps he had made up for the trouble he had caused her after all.

By the time they arrived at the resort Harrington and Molly were quite deep in a conversation about the intricacies of Austen’s works, and it was because he had tuned out their conversation he saw his brother exit out of his car with a smile that quickly dropped to a scowl. It only took seconds for his attention to shift in the same direction, and he knew his own expression was similar.

“Brother dear,” Sherrinford Holmes said from where he had been smoking a cigarette. Then he spotted Sherlock as well. “And you too.”

“Sherrinford,” Mycroft said, his tone steely. “Why are you here?”

“Mummy invited me, as an attempt to mend some broken fences,” he said. “She’s getting settled but you know me.” He held up the cigarette. “Bad habit.”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock heard his uncle say quietly as Sherlock reached over for Molly’s hand.

“Who is that?” Molly asked.

“My eldest brother,” he said, watching as Sherrinford’s gaze swept back to him and then to Molly. His eyes widened and then got brighter, and Sherlock decided then and there he would show Molly was not to be looked at in that way by anyone other than him. He turned to face her and leaned in, kissing her soundly, feeling her knees buckle slightly as he set his hands on her waist to keep her up. When she pulled away to catch her breath she looked up at him, speechless. “Why don’t you and Andrea go find out where we’re staying in the resort?”

Molly caught on quickly, giving him a dazzling smile as she went in for her own kiss, giving him one that was nearly as breathtaking as it was unexpected. “I’ll make sure the bed is adequate,” she said with a wink in Sherrinford’s direction before she and Andrea headed inside.

“So the tabloids weren’t lying?” Sherrinford asked with a smirk. “Wonder how you kept her under wraps. She’s got quite a nice...” His smirk widened.

“Go back to whatever hole you’ve been hiding in,” Mycroft said, his tone more flat and hostile than before.

“And miss out on the wedding of my brother? Never,” he said. “Get used to it, Mycroft. I’m here and I think I’d like to have a bit of fun.” He walked away from his brothers then, putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling.

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock as their uncle made his way in the same direction the women had. “He’s trouble,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, he always was,” Mycroft said. “I think we’ll need to put aside our pettiness and make sure he doesn’t do anything that will ruin this for any of us.” Mycroft held out his hand to Sherlock. “Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded, shaking his brother’s hand. “Agreed.” Just what neither of them needed, he thought to himself. Complications...

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Choices Halloween Party

This is mostly to help me keep the story straight...

I noticed that not all the posts were coming up in the #ChoicesHalloweenParty tag so I hope it is okay to compile the ones I’ve found all together @the-devil-writes-drabbles   ?

All of these were written by the talented @the-devil-writes-drabbles as part of #ChoicesHalloweenParty. I take no credit for any of this. I’m just having fun following along. I also have no idea if these are in the right order. Feel free to make edits/suggestions and I can move them around and let me know if I missed any.

Via @tayab12  

The first snow of the season was falling down upon the tens stranger who boarded the train. Each of the couples had their reasons to take the trip. One thing was certain though. Once the train takes off, it won’t just stop. One of the things that was special about this train, was the people who worked on it. A company which unsuccessfully tried to program robots as romantic lovers, did succeed in programming robots to perform simple tasks such as housekeeping and driving a train. [SOURCE]

via @annekebbphotography

As the couples awaited their first dinner in the shared relaxation area, some used the time to mingle with the other guest. Charming as they were, Bryce and Priya were exchanging small talk Damien, Colt and Cal, while each of them enjoyed a glass of champagne. Thomas and Liam were seated in the red chairs, playing a game of chess. Kenna sat in the corner, losing herself in the book she was reading. Annabelle and Vanessa joined the others as soon as the bell rang and dinner was served. [SOURCE]

via @ao719

After dinner most of them went to their own rooms. Only Bryce, Priya, Liam and Cal stayed behind. They bonded and laughed over card games and glasses of whiskey. Priya and Cal even found out that they knew some of the same people. They shared stories about them, making Bryce and Liam laugh. None of them was aware of the stranger that was sitting with his back against them, hidden from their sight by the embrace of a large chair. In silence he heard them speak and he watched the world go by. [SOURCE]

via @burnsoslow

The sun had only just started to rise when a piercing scream broke the silence in the train. Those already awake hurried to find out where the screaming came from. Those who were still asleep were woken when more people started to scream. One by one they got together. In horror they looked at the bloodied body of a men they didn’t know. His throat was slid and something was stuffed into his mouth. They didn’t have to take a good look. The bloody mess between his legs, made it pretty obvious. [SOURCE]

via @givemeoneethan

Fuck, this was supposed to be a relaxing trip. Colt had been bitching he was too busy with work. Of course trouble would follow him wherever he went. Why couldn’t he just let it go? He wanted to, but it wasn’t like him. So he did the thing that was natural to him, he took charge. “Please step, back. I’m a private investigator.” Behind him he could hear Colt mumble “and he used to be a cop.” It made him smile “This body wasn’t here yesterday, the train hasn’t stopped, so one of us did this.” [SOURCE]

via @lapisreviewsstuff  & @sirbeepsalot

His many years as a surgeon didn’t prepare him for this sight. His face looked paler than it had ever done before as he stumbled to speak the words. “I…I…know this guy.” All around him, the others start to speak. Everyone wanted to know who the mysterious man was. “He.. uh… he was a doctor at the..uh.. hospital were I started. Actually…he was pretty brilliant. He got fired in the same year I started though, the words goes round that he had an inappropriate relationship with a female intern.” [SOURCE]

via @bobasheebaby

In all the centuries she had lived, this wasn’t the weirdest thing Priya had seen. If she was honest she thought it was very funny. One thing she had learned in her years, is that others didn’t share her sense of humour. Realizing that just in time she tried to cover up the chuckle that left her mouth with an awkward cough. It was too little too late 'cause almost instantly she felt Damien’s eyes bore right through her. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. Like he knew exactly what she was. [SOURCE]

via @speedyoperarascalparty

You revelled in their panic. The one who pretended he could fix it because he was some kind of Sherlock Holmes was a complication. It was nothing you couldn’t handle though. Too bad he and that boyfriend of him looked too strong to just finish them off. The risk of losing that fight wasn’t one you would be willing to take. Good thing there were still 7 other people to play with. 6 if you didn’t count your partner, not that you wanted to hurt them, but if it was you or them, the choice was made. [SOURCE]

via @drakewalkerfantasy

Damien was searching the room for any clues when he felt a presence near him. Oh how he wished he had brought a gun with him, but Colt wanted him to leave it at home. He grabbed the closest thing to him what could work as a weapon. With a wine bottle in his hand he turned around to find Liam staring at him. “I wanted to see if you needed any help. I know a thing or two about being under attack.” He chuckled, the guy had an air about him, that told him he’d never had to work a day in his life. [SOURCE]

via @cocomaxley

“Don’t you dare looking at me like that” he spit out. If only he’d still be a king, he would have him executed for treason just for the look on his face. But alas that was no longer an option. It only made Damien laugh louder. “Why don’t you just leave it to the professional. Go back to your room and make sure to lock the door. It might not be safe for Cal to be there alone right now.” Cal’s safety was the last thing Liam worried about, he knew perfectly well he would be able to safe himself. [SOURCE]

via @kennaxval

Annabelle sat down on the bed in their room and watched how Vanessa locked the door behind them. “I swear, if we make it out of here alive, I’m going to sue the railroads. This is not what we signed up for.” Despite everything she felt a familiar heat pool between her legs. To her there was nothing as sexy as seeing Vanessa all in her element. Sometimes she sat in the gallery of the court, just so she could watch her all day. She smirked at Vanessa “We could practice those self-defence moves.” [SOURCE]

via @msjpuddleduck

“I don’t like to admit this but I am consumed by fear, Kenna.” He whispered into her hair. She turned around, facing him. Placing a hand on his cheek, she kissed him tenderly. “As long as I am with you, you don’t have to worry, Thomas. You know I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.” “It is you that I fear for my love.” She laughed at those silly words. “I defeated an evil empress, I have no doubt I can keep us safe until this trains reaches the station. I’m sure we’ll be alright.” [SOURCE]

via @notoriouscs

Meanwhile further down the train, Bryce and Priya were lying on their bed. Bryce had her hands pinned above her head. His teeth were scraping gently against her throat. “Are you sure it wasn’t you?” She used her power to get out from under his grip and switched them so she was on top. “Trust me dear. If it was me you would have known, besides I won’t leave such a mess behind in a place I can’t leave.” He moaned in pleasure as her fangs pierced his skin. “I have everything I need right here.” [SOURCE]

via @theartoflovingthomashunt

You were pacing around the room. You hated that he’d ordered everyone to stay in. The taste of blood left you wanting for more. Figuratively of course, you weren’t one of those bloodsuckers. If only your partner would go to sleep you could leave and see if an opportunity might rise or at the very least see if the investigation really did lead to something. You were sure you got rid of everything that could lead to you, but that didn’t made the fear disappear. You couldn’t wait for night to fall. [SOURCE]

via @moodyvalentinestories

Liam slipped outside his room, he wanted to try on more time if his phone did work. If only one of his messages did came through it would be enough. They had to send help to their former King. He still meant something to them, he just had to. He cursed under his breath when he saw there was still no service. He was so wrapped up in his own head, he never saw the man sneaking up to him from behind, nor did he feel how the knife cut through him. Without realizing it he breathed his last breath. [SOURCE]

via @lapisreviewsstuff

You could still smell the blood on your hands when you walked back to your own room. From the room next to yours you heard the sound of moaning and giggles. Apparently your neighbours hadn’t that much trouble with being stuck in their rooms. With them otherwise occupied, this opportunity was too good not to use. You made sure the hallway was empty when you picked their lock. Luck was on your side tonight, because they both had their eyes closed in pleasure. They would never see you coming. [SOURCE]

via @annekebbphotography

Everyone panicked once the word got round that 3 more bodies had been found. Within hours the train would arrive at the station, but no one dared to believe they would make it. Damien had decided that it was safest to stay together. That way it would be all against one. They all gathered in the common area, but it didn’t take long for them to realize that someone was missing. Damien rushed off to their room, a cry left his mouth when he saw the signs of a struggle and the wide open window. [SOURCE]

via @burnsoslow (I think this is one)

An uncharacteristic smirk appeared on his face when he left the train. He thought back about the first time he met her, she was still so young, so innocent when she appeared in one of his movies. She was like the daughter he’d never had, he knew he had to protect her at all costs, but she wouldn’t hear about it. So he watched her from afar. He’d been so proud when she left the film industry to study medicine. But the world was cruel & he had to watch how her mentor destroyed her & her career. [SOURCE]

via @cocomaxley​

He watched her as she tried to make a living in a shady New York bar. He of all people knew never to give up hope. Oh, the hope that he felt when a prince visited town. He made sure faith brought them together. It should have worked out perfectly. If only he married her, she would never have to worry about anything else, never had to work a day in her live again. But alas, he had more attention for the wolfman who visited town than for his precious little girl. Still he hadn’t given up hope.[SOURCE]

via @theartoflovingthomashunt

His heart cried out when he saw her getting involved with the wrong people. He cringed when he remembered those days. Every time she stepped on that scumbags motorcycle his hearth nearly stopped. If only she’d listened to reason, but she didn’t see that he only wanted the best for her. At that time he was thankful that the police caught up with her. Maybe she would be wise enough to listen to them. How relieved he was when a decent lawyer was appointed to her case, little did he know.... [SOURCE]

via @tayab12

That bitch hadn’t been interested in his precious little girl, she only cared about how it looked that she paid attention to what she thought were lesser persons. She didn’t care if she won or lose. So he had to watch how his dear little girl was sentenced to prison. He knew right there and then she would never survive in a place like that. Within two months the news of her passing reached him. Driven crazy by grief he promised he would destroy all those who did her wrong. [SOURCE]

via @msjpuddleduck

It was when she saw his smirk it all made sense to Priya. All the pieces of the puzzle fell together. She could appreciate his evil, but she couldn’t allow a greater evil in the world than herself. Using her powers she boiled his body from the inside out, once it was done she threw him in the river. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he woke up in a small cabin. He felt as if he had died, a woman was watching over him. “Who are you?” She kissed him “I’m Cassiopeia.” THE END. [SOURCE]

[darkdevasofdestruction]

When you get kidnapped

((I’m getting unusually hooked on Sherlock feels and I need H E L P))

SHERLOCK HOLMES

If Sherlock somehow got a S/O, it’s because he saw something in you, something sparkling, like a combination of intelligence, charisma and empathy that he doesn’t even realise caught his attention in the first place, but it definitely did.

He didn’t even realise it until John told him one day and he felt like all reality shattered around him -

He is a high functioning sociopath, he couldn’t POSSIBLY be having romantic feelings for another human being...Right?

But he did, and it took a hella long time (and persuasion) to admit it, but finally he did, and asked you out.

After this important step, the other even more important ones followed, which involved accepting that he, SHERLOCK HOLMES, actually had a relationship, and even more, he LOVED it more than he could have imagined.

All the hugs, the little touches, the cuddles, the casual talks, the emotions, the warmth...

All these things and even more made him feel like he was in touch with reality, and despite feeling vulnerable, he felt alive.

Not like when he is chasing after Moriarty or other intriguing cases that only he would be able to solve, but in ways exponentially more calming and soothing.

He was finally able to relax, smile and be content with sitting next to the person he calls his Significant Other.

However, all this came to an end and it was like the whole world crumbled down on him, when he got a crypted message saying that you were kidnapped and he only has 72 hours to save you before you’ll be publicly executed.

Sherlock went insane with rage hearing that and without a second thought he dragged John out of the house and went to Mycroft and Greg because NOBODY in this life is going to harm the only person who showed him empathy.

He is going to make sure you are rescued, safe and sound and at home as soon as possible.

He won’t bother with even one blink of sleep, being too stressed and drinking way too much black coffee - He would forget to stay hydrated and eat, so much that everyone around him will get worried for his health and try to help, but would get rejected anyways because Sherlock is Sherlock.

Hell, he would even go back on drugs and heavy nicotine just to get rid of the stress because it is absolutely killing him - Knowing that you are in danger would make it very difficult for him to concentrate and think objectively or access his mind palace.

And exactly because Sherlock is Sherlock, he’d have her rescued in 2 days tops, but his aggressiveness would show off very clearly, beating the kidnapper until he falls on the ground, unconscious, then calming down, taking deep breaths, and running to your side, hugging you tightly to his chest, whispering reassuring words in your ear - Words that seemed to be more of a way to reassure himself that you are okay, but worked either ways.

He would carry you home bridal style and won’t let anyone get close to you for a long time, especially not when you’re still under shock and fear.

He would be very attentive with you - Like breakfast in bed, tea, hot chocolate, books near you at all times, playing the violin whenever you looked stressed, asking Mycroft for extra security around the house and around you, just in case something like this happens again

And of course, he’d get more protective, not wanting anything like that to happen ever again, especially if Moriarty happens to be in the picture during those times

He knows you are his weakness, but bloody hell, love isn’t an advantage, but it feels very good nonetheless.

James “Jim” Moriarty

Jim getting an S/O? Well that's gonna be interesting. 

I can imagine you met at a Karaoke pub or something because DAMN this boy L O V E S his 80s and 90s songs more than he loves  (almost) anything else in this world. 

If he goes to a pub to have fun one night and one of his fave songs is gonna play, you bet he'll go right to the mic and sing his heart out. 

Please, at any time, go right to the stage and have a passionate duet with him because no matter how you sing, he will melt.

He will take an interest in you, your love for cool stuff that he’s also into, then your charisma, your sense of humour and of course, your intellect.

Oh boy, if he hears you making super dark jokes, he’ll have the biggest grin on his face and will try to see just how far your jokes/puns will go (Hopefully very dark)

He will ask you out in a very clichee way, with great classic rock songs playing in the background.

Maybe at a vintage pub or some outdoors cinema ‘cause it’s super romantic and lovely and he lives for having fun.

He’d take you EVERYWHERE and ANYWHERE with him - From then on you’re his Queen and he’s going to make sure you and everyone else knows it

All his associates know better than to say anything about you, or there will be hell to pay.

“Somehow”, even life at work/University got an infinite times better and it looked like everywhere you went, flowers bloomed, butterflies flew around and life was wonderful, just like a Queen Deserves.

But you’re not just any Queen - 

You are HIS Queen.

And if anyone dared disrespect his Queen, the whole city would burn.

And that’s exactly what happened when he came home, expecting to see pancakes, maple syrup, popcorn and Lord of the Rings prepared in the bedroom, as you talked before, for a perfect evening of relaxation and fun, but instead found your apartment a mess.

It was pretty obvious to Moriarty who dared kidnap you, of course, competition, a petty underground mobster who thought he could bait him to get what he wants.

Of course, that won’t work for Moriarty because he would die before letting anyone foil his plans, which means that he literally burnt and skinned alive anyone who went in his path of rescuing you.

As soon as he got to the place where you were taken, he made sure to make a very grant and dramatic entrance, worthy of remembering - Lots of explosions, screams, fire and him being a King.

If the kidnapper even dared touch a hair on your head, he would wreak havoc and torture him to death no joke, but first of all, he’d make sure you are alright and get you home, preparing the perfect evening at home, just as you dreamt to do before getting kidnapped.

After that, he’d pamper you even more than before, but he’d ask if you’d want to move in with him, because his home is more secure, and when you need to leave the house, you will be assured that security guards will always be there to save the day.

Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft, the “Ice man” Holmes, the one known to Sherlock and his friends as the “British Government” , is also a human being and has his own elegant and fancy hobbies.

And one of them is exactly the way he met his S/O, despite not even realising it at first, or rather said, not wanting to believe that he fell in love so easily.

Whenever he has enough free time to take a break from being such an important person, he goes to the same small vintage cafe where the smell of aromatic tea and cake fills the air and the sound of classical music helps him relax.

There were never too many people there so he never felt cramped or uncomfortable, but one day he went there and he found only his reserved table empty, only to quickly find out from the waitress that there was a holiday and it was only natural for there to be more people than usual.

Sighing, he went to his usual seat by the window and waited for the tea to get brewed, only to hear the door bell clink again, and a gorgeous woman in a beautiful dress entered the cafe, rather shy and unsure, looking rather lost like a meerkat, then went to the waitress, asking if there were any empty seats.

Feeling bad for you, since you were a regular there, much like Mycroft, so the waitress humbly asked him if he was okay with you staying there, and he agreed with no second thought.

Feeling shy and awkward, you softly give your thanks to the man in front of you, promising that you won’t bother him, then took out your book, “Pride and Prejudice” and started reading from where you left it.

Unknown to you, Mycroft’s eyes were on you as soon as you took out your book because, despite not wanting everyone to know it, he loved such books.

As you kept reading, the gentle rays of Sun lit up your face like you were a Goddess and Mycroft found himself enchanted by your presence, until the waitress came and brought you two the tea and cake you ordered and the funny coincidence was that you both ordered the same type of cake.

Smiling at each other, you started conversing lightly about casual topics that went deeper with each “accidental date” you two kept having each time you kept buming into each other at the cafe, but let’s face it, from Mycroft it was never accidental.

It took a lot from him to ask you out, but after many dates that involved casual walks through the parks, library dates, cafe dates, opera dates and so on, he just couldn’t not do that because....

Because you are special.

And he would threaten everyone with his umbrella sword if they dared come close to you, with evil intent.

Of course, he is a gentleman and he doesn’t get jealous easily.

On the other hand, when he first showed off his Umbrella sword, you got super excited and asked him to show you how to fence, because you wanted to be a fencing princess - A lady with many tricks up her frilly sleeves.

Unfortunately, no amount of fencing classes or sword umbrellas could save you from being kidnapped during your walk through the park, when you were about to meet Mycroft.

Since you were extremely punctual, and if something happened, you’d call in advance to explain the situation, the elder Holmes started worrying when you didn’t arrive and wouldn’t pick up your phone either.

He kept pacing around until he received a phone from his subordinates who informed him that you got kidnapped and the evil man asked for a huge Government favour and a pretty significant ransom.

He was livid with rage, but as usual, he wouldn’t show it.

Instead, he called his younger brother to help him solve the case and find where the kidnapped was hidden so he could rescue you faster and make sure you weren’t harmed in any way.

He’d make your safety his top priority, letting Sherlock and the rest deal with the kidnapper before he would ensure he never sees daylight again, but until then, you must relax and get tend to.

If you were hurt, he’d bring the best doctors at his home to make sure you’re okay.

If you were okay, he’d make sure to stay and reassure you for a long time, taking a mini-break from work, watching movies, walking through parks and listening to music with you, just so you’ll regain some trust in the world around you.

When you’re feeling better, he will of course have to return to his busy and hectic life style, but would try to keep you around his office more often, instead of staying home alone - Because let’s face it, his office is like a gorgeous old school library - And the security would be SO much tighter.

There is nobody in this world who would dare touch Mycroft’s S/O, because they will get obliterated before they could even think about using such a pure and angelic being as a bait to get him to do something against the Government and so on.

He treasures you to infinity and beyond and wants you to know that, even though he doesn’t say it too often, but he’s a man of actions, not words, and so, you never feel neglected.

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

Miss Me?

I knew that title would get your attention.

This is for @mousedetective who prompted me number 1 and the letter L in this prompt list

This takes place Post-TRF, and if you squint, you’ll see I was also inspired by My Dear Bessie in a way.

.

               Twenty-two months. It had already been nearly two years of this torture. Sherlock sat upon his makeshift bed within a secret bunker in the middle of the woods. How much longer would he have to endure this wretched pain? He knew the answer: not until those he loved would be safe. Those very same people did not realize how much he cared, and it was because of this that made Sherlock wish he could be a bit more human—just enough to show them that. Especially Molly.

               At the thought of her name, Sherlock buried his head in his hands. Just a couple of months in and he had already forgotten important details about her. But now, he couldn’t even conjure up her voice in his head the correct way. It was always off when he’d visit memories of her in his mind palace. It just went to show that even the most observant, absorbent people would soon forget the little things. How he longed to breathe in her sweet floral scent…or was it fruity? His brain felt scattered.

               There was one memory of his that was still very much intact, and that was the last time he saw her. He was to stay at her flat until Mycroft’s randomized time of four-twenty eight in the morning, when he had left for his mission. He could still recall every word spoken, and every action taken. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock honed in on this memory, if only to remind himself of what he had waiting for him.

               He was stoic, sitting there on Molly’s bed. He couldn’t quite speak, let alone hear her words properly. What he did notice was the sound of the kettle whistling, and the smell of herbal tea leaves. What was it that she told him? Oh, yes, he was in shock. So, she sat him on her bed, and offered to make him some tea. A creak sounding from the floorboards notified him that she had entered the room.

               “I know things are difficult to process right now, but a nice warm cuppa should help you relax,” Molly assured him, handing over the mug. “My grandmother uses to say that nothing seems quite as bleak after a cup of tea.” She sat down beside him, obviously at a loss of what else she could possibly do.

               Sherlock lifted the mug to his lips, sipping tentatively. They sat in silence as he drank down every last drop. He was comforted by her presence alone. She was something real to hold on to. After setting the cup aside, he turned to her. “Thank you, Molly. For everything you’ve done for me.”

               She nodded in response before changing the subject. “You should get some rest. Your brother texted, and you need to get up early. I’ve already taken the liberty of setting an alarm on your phone for you.”

               “How did you know the passcode to my phone?” he wondered, knowing full well what this meant.

               “Wishful thinking, I suppose.” Molly blushed furiously.  “Mo for molybdenum, and Li for lithium. I was just trying to think the way you would, and your love of chemistry mixed with the fact I’m the last person even you would think of, I figured—“

               “Nonsense,” Sherlock interrupted, clearly upset by what she had said. “You have never been the last person I think of. In fact, you are always the first person I wake up thinking about. Of course I’d never let anyone figure out that you are much too important to me, because otherwise, you’d be a target. I obviously succeeded in keeping you out of harm’s way if your life wasn’t threatened.”

               “Sherlock, I—“

               “And furthermore, I only recently realised the extent of my heart. My love for you runs bone deep, and shakes me to my very core. It aches me to even think about leaving you now.” He was surprised at himself for the confession he had made. He loved her. But, God, he did not want to leave her. This was a cruel fate, considering he didn’t even expect to make it back alive, but maybe that’s why he was being given the courage to say these words to her.

               Molly caressed his face with her hand, her eyes desperately searching his for truth. He looked at her like a man who was deeply in love, the yearning clear on his face. Sherlock knew what she must be sensing. She probably knew now more than ever that he didn’t want to leave. He knew she didn’t want him to either, but this was bigger than both of them. Opening her mouth to speak, Sherlock cut in once more, possibly out of fear of what she might say.

               “I need you to miss me, Molly. I don’t expect to survive this mission, but if I know you are missing me, it may give me just enough strength to make it through. It will give me something—someone—to hold onto.” His voice was broken, and unsure. It was clear that he was scared.

               “Sherlock Holmes, I will be right here waiting for you. I don’t care how long it takes.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, as her voice broke up with sobs. “I— I love you so. Very. Much. I will miss you every single day you are gone. Hell, I miss you already. All I ask is that you don’t take any unnecessary risks. Do what is needed, but do not chase after death in an attempt to escape it. There is no guarantee you’ll survive if you play games. Promise me.”

               “I promise.” It was a notable fact that the soft baritone of his voice enveloped her with a comfort.  He hoped she wouldn’t forget him.

 .

               Sherlock awoke a full thirty minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He took in the woman whose arms were locked around him, her head resting upon his chest where his heart beat for her. His hand was positioned at the small of her back, holding her in place. Her hair smelled of exotic fruits, whilst her skin smelled of lilac due to the body scrub she loved to use. Her breathing was steady as she slept comfortably, despite the fact she knew he’d be gone before she woke in the morning.

               “I’ll come back to you,” he whispered softly. “Never doubt that I will.” And though he knew it could possibly wake her, he re-positioned himself for his last selfish act. Leaning down ever so slowly, Sherlock pressed his lips to hers, eager to taste her before he had to leave. He was a masochist, but God, it was just what he needed, especially when he sensed that she was awake. She deepened the kiss, her hands in his hair, and her tongue slipping between his lips to meet with his. When he nuzzled his nose against hers, he felt the tear drops that had been sliding down her face.

               “Make good on that promise, Sherlock. I’m holding you to it.” Her dark eyes held his in place. “If Mycroft will allow it, I will send you a letter as often as he deems it safe. I know you won’t be able to write back, but I want you to have something whilst you’re out there, all alone.”

               “Even if it’s only one, I shall cherish it always,” he replied, his thumb gently rubbing circles along her jawline. “Go back to sleep, my darling. If you’re awake when I leave, I fear that I may not be able to.”

               Sherlock had successfully helped ease her back into a restful sleep, singing softly to her. He had turned off his alarm before it went off so as to not wake her. A town car had just pulled up outside of the building. Mycroft. He donned his coat, and slung his pack over his shoulder. With one last backward glance at the woman he loved, he stepped over the threshold. “Once more unto the breach.”

 .

                Sherlock opened his eyes, coming out of his trip down memory lane. He dug in his coat for the letter he had read several times over in the two months he had it. It was the only letter Molly had been able to send him, and though it had taken so long for him to receive one, it never wavered his hope that he would be coming home soon. Even Molly sensed it.

Dearest Sherlock,

               I hope this letter finds you in time. I have written several over the course of these arduous months, but I decided to send you the most recent one when your brother informed me that I had an opening. My love, I feel you close. I don’t know how, but I feel it deep within my bones that it won’t be much longer now. I can feel your heart beating through mine across countries. I haven’t the slightest idea where you are, and rightly so, but what I do know is you’re on your way back, steadily.

               I miss you fiercely. Every night, I ache for you kiss, your touch. I dream of you often. Sometimes I am there with you, though I don’t know where that is. And sometimes, you are telling me to hold on a little longer; that you’ll be home before I know it. My heart calls out to you often. Do you feel it? Do you feel me?

               You will be happy to hear that Mrs. Hudson didn’t have the heart to let out your flat. Everything has been left untouched, thought covered in thick layers of dust. I stop by to visit every couple of weeks or so to check in on her. I finally had the heart to step foot into 221B just last week. I know you aren’t dead, but there are times that I forget you’re alive, and it shatters my heart to pieces. I hate that I’ve forgotten so many small details about you, as I’m sure you have as well about me.

               I have tried to keep myself as busy as possible to get through each day. And I know what you’re thinking…I promise I’m not working myself to death. I’ve taken up with a book club, and I often go to the pub with Greg Lestrade. One time, Anderson was there, sharing his crackpot theories. He annoys Lestrade, but I have to say that Anderson isn’t as dumb as you think. He’s quite sure that you faked your death. He’s right, of course, but a personal favorite of mine is where he thinks you snogged me after crashing back through a hospital window. I think he watches too many Bond movies. I have also been babysitting Meena’s two-year old daughter, Clarissa, as of late. She’s just separated from her husband. Anyways, this is probably boring you now.

I love you, my darling. Don’t ever forget that.

Forever yours,

Molly.

               Sherlock now stared at the small polaroid photo that had been enclosed within the letter. He didn’t know who took it, but it was a perfect candid of Molly smiling brightly at who he assumed was Meena’s daughter. It stirred feelings within him he never thought he possessed. The urge to start a family with Molly was brought to the surface every time he looked at the photo. Just as she did, he felt that he would, indeed, be finished with his mission in one piece. He was coming home very soon.

Ao3 | FFN | buy me a coffee?

[sagesparrow394]

Making a Family

Fandom: Sanders Sides

AU: Human, Orphanage

Summary: All Logan’s ever wanted is to meet his father and have a real family. But what if his dad isn’t all he’d dreamed him up to be? What if blood isn’t what really defines a family?

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains themes of domestic abuse and murder, as well as swearing.

Previous / Chapter 2 / Next

Later that day, Patton and Roman had been called away by Thomas as well as a few other kids, so Logan figured there was no reason to stay downstairs. He headed upstairs to his room and read for a while. He was currently reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, and found it very interesting to read about the rise and fall of Pip’s fortune.

He was just nearing the last chapter of the novel when there was a knock on his door. He slotted his bookmark in before slipping down off his bunk. When he opened his door, he found the corridor before him empty of anyone else. However, there was something else there: by his feet, a jar of his favourite jam, Crofters.

He stepped forward and picked it up, confused. When he turned around, he saw yet another jar further down the corridor, and then a third after that.

He followed the jam trail, picking up jar after jar until his arms were full, by which time he had reached the common room. He pushed open the door, confused, and stepped in.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Logan’s eyes widened. Decorations were all around the room: balloons, banners, and a few gifts on a table in the corner. All the kids in the orphanage were there as well as Thomas.

“What is all this…?” Logan asked. The birthday celebrations at the orphanage were never usually this extravagant.

“Logan, it’s not just your fifth birthday, but your fifth anniversary of living in the orphanage,” Thomas explained. “I figured that deserved a special celebration.”

Patton ran over to Logan, taking his hand, and pulled him fully into the room and over to the gift table. “Roman and I went out with Thomas to get you presents! I hope you like them!”

Logan was speechless. A special celebration just for him? Everyone attending? Two people he only properly met today getting him gifts? He almost felt like he was going to cry.

The celebrations started with Logan opening cards and presents. Thomas got him a book of Sherlock short stories, Patton got him a onesie (Logan was initially wasn’t fond of it being a unicorn, but found the softness made it worth it), and Roman got him a dress with a galaxy pattern, which must have inspired by a conversation Logan had started about space when they were playing. When some kids snickered about Logan getting a dress, Roman had stood up, glared at them, and adamantly quoted Logan, “Clothes shouldn’t be just for boys or just for girls! Kids should just wear what they want.”

Once again, Logan came close to crying.

After, it was games. Pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey, piñata, all the usual party games.

It was the best day of Logan’s life. He got to throw away the books, the knowledge, the maturity and just be a kid for once in his life. He had two friends, and got to pretend he had more with the rest of the children.

After the many games, it was time for the part they’d all been waiting for. Everyone was sat down, waiting for Thomas to come back. Soon, the man came in, holding a tray which had a large cake on top, decorated with blue icing, five candles, and black writing that read ‘Happy Birthday Logan!”

Thomas started singing as he entered, all the other children joining in and singing to Logan who flushed a little but did kind of love the attention.

Once the song was over and the cake was placed on the coffee table in front of him, Logan closed his eyes.

I wish to meet my dad.

He blew out the candles.

From out in the hall, there was the sound of a knock on the front door. Logan’s heart leapt. Could it be…?

Thomas got up where he was crouched with the kids and left the room, muttering about not expecting any guests. Logan listened carefully, hoping to hear a man’s voice asking for him when Thomas opened the front door.

However, the sound that followed the door opening was not a man’s voice, but a baby’s cries.

“Oh my gosh, are you two okay?! What are you doing out on your own so late?” Thomas’ voice came from the hall.

The was a reply from what sounded like a child, who spoke through sobs. “I-I didn’t know wh-where else to go…”

A few seconds later, Thomas came back into the common room. Trailing behind him was a boy about Logan, Patton and Roman’s age. He was wearing purple pyjamas and black slippers. He had black hair, dark skin, and heterochromia. His right eye was purple, and his left was green. In his arms, he held a baby, which was wrapped in a yellow blanket. The baby, like the boy, had dark skin, black hair, and heterochromia - though their eyes were brown and yellow. The baby also had vitiligo, most prominently on the left side of their face.

Thomas sat the boy down on the couch, checking over him and the baby for injuries. He didn’t see any, but could hear the baby’s tummy rumble. He turned to one of the older children. “Emile, I keep baby formula up in one of the cupboards in the kitchen. Would you mind going and making up a bottle?”

“No problem!” Emile turned and left the room, heading to the kitchen. Thomas turned back to the newcomers.

“What are your names?”

The boy sniffled before replying. “I’m Virgil… A-and this is my b-brother, Deceit…”

“Deceit?” Logan couldn’t help but inquire about the baby’s odd name.

Virgil’s eyes flickered to Logan for a moment before going back to his brother. “H-he was named after m-my mom’s nickname for m-my dad… ‘Deceitful Bastard’.”

Thomas, Logan and all the older kids looked shocked and surprised, while most of the younger kids were looking confused and curious at the new word. Virgil kept his eyes down.

“I just call him Dee for short…”

Thomas crouched in front of Virgil, looking up at him. “Virgil, can you tell me why you came here? What happened to your parents?”

Tears welled in Virgil’s eyes again, and he sniffed again before explaining. “I-I was putting Dee to bed, wh-when I started hearing yells from downstairs… Mom and Dad fight a lot, s-so I didn’t think anything of it… Until I heard a bang and a thud… Curious, I w-went downstairs… a-and into the k-kitchen…” He choked on a sob. “Mom holding a f-frying pan… and Dad o-on the g-g-ground… B-blood w-was all o-over the f-floor… I d-didn’t know wh-what to do, s-so I just grabbed Dee and r-ran…”

“Oh, Virge… I’m so sorry...” Thomas sat down next to him, rubbing the boy’s back soothingly. “I promise you’re safe now, and we’ll take care of you here. I’m Thomas, I own this place and take care of everyone here. I’ll go start getting you and Dee rooms set up. We’ll make you feel at home here, I promise.” He gave Virgil a small hug, before getting up and leaving the room.

Virgil kept his eyes down on his brother, rocking Dee gently to calm him down. Emile came back in, a baby bottle in hand, and sat beside Virgil. He held the bottle out to him, giving a kind smile. Virgil finally looked up. He muttered a thank you before taking the bottle and raising it to Dee’s lips. The baby immediately fell quiet, drinking the milk.

“Th-there was a birthday party g-going on, wasn’t there…” Virgil spoke up. “I’m sorry, f-for ruining it…”

“Don’t be,” Logan replied. “You shouldn’t be apologising for seeking asylum and safety.” He pulled the candles from his birthday cake, before picking up the knife beside it and cutting a slice. He placed it on a plate with a fork, before holding out to Virgil.

Virgil blinked in surprise, looking between Logan and the cake slice. His eyes went down to Dee, silently communicating that he can’t take the slice while he’s holding his brother. Patton saw this and came over, plopping down next to Virgil.

“I can hold him while you eat if you want,” he offered, holding out his arms. Virgil was uncertain at first, but after looking over Patton, he moved Dee into the other’s arms. Patton smiled down at the baby. “He’s adorable…”

Virgil smiled a little as he took the cake slice from Logan. Roman sat on the couch next to Patton, peering over his shoulder at Dee. “What’s with his face?”

Virgil’s face fell, about to glare at Roman, when Logan spoke up.

“It’s called vitiligo. It’s a skin condition characterized by patches of the skin losing their pigment. The patches of skin affected become white.”

Virgil looked back to Logan, surprised. “You know about vitiligo…? I’ve never met anyone my age who does…”

Logan shrugged. “I read a lot. My name’s Logan, by the way.”

“I’m Patton!”

“And I’m Roman.”

Virgil’s smile returned. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

At that moment, Dee pulled away from his bottle, starting to cry again. Virgil put his cake to the side and took Dee from Patton’s arms, lifting him onto his shoulder. He gently patted Dee’s back until the baby burped and relaxed, no longer crying.

“You’re really good with children,” Patton commented, shuffling closer to Virgil, who shrugged.

“Mom went out a lot and Dad had work. I had to learn to look after him.”

Logan couldn’t help but draw the connection to how he had to learn to look after himself.

Thomas came back in then. “Lucky we had a crib up in the attic Dee can use. I also put in an order for anything he’d need. Changing table, plush toys, rocking chair to use to rock him to sleep. The only problem is, the room I’ve moved him in is the smallest one.”

“Mine’s the smallest one!” Roman spoke up.

“That’s what I was going to say. Since all the stuff for Dee is going to take up all the room, I moved your bed to the biggest room. Virgil will take the other bunk on your bed, and you both will share a room with Logan and Patton.”

Patton let out a cheer. “We’re all roomies!” He wrapped his arms around his three new friends, causing Virgil to have to adjust his hold on Dee. It also made Logan freeze up. He wasn’t used to hugs and physical contact.

It was actually pretty nice.

Taglist:@justcallmepancake, @the-doctor-demigod-wizard, @absolutesandersidestrash, @youre-lazy-and-youre-gay0-0, @lilygold23, @analogicallythinking, @bunny222 

[bears-writing]

It’s Beautiful

Words: 1971 Characters/Relationships: Reader x Mycroft Warnings: None Author’s Notes: This is my work I’ve also shared with amazing writers on a different Sherlock appreciation blog. I am also posting it on here for followers to enjoy. 

Part two if requested!

When it rains, everything becomes a little more beautiful. I don't really know what it is… maybe it's the way the air felt cool on skin… or the calmness that radiated around. But there was something different that day. The air felt charged with something exciting. You stared across the Thames and the raindrops thundered onto the asphalt of the bridge. Little smatters began appearing on your clothes and your hair. It clouded your sight and you breathed in the dampness around you. And it was beautiful.

That was when it seemed to stop. You looked up to see an umbrella. The faint smell of smoke, cologne, and old paper mingled with the rain. Turning around you saw blue eyes, cold like the rain, fascinating, and glinting with equally matched curiosity. He was well dressed, impeccably so, and tall.

“I’d hate to see a young lady like you catching a cold in this weather…,” his smooth voice trailed off.

“ Ah…thank you,” you replied not breaking eye contact.

“If it’s not too rude to ask, what might you be doing out here?”

“I’d ask you the same thing.”

Mycroft smiled at this and a small chuckle escaped, so rarely did someone make small talk so easily with him. He felt elated at the queer reply, so quick, yet so smart.

Hearing his chuckle made you smile for some reason. Your eyes couldn’t help but drift to the roof of the umbrella.

“Do you like the sound of the rain on a brelly?” you asked innocently.

Mycroft blinked a few times...he’d never wondered about that. He looked up as well and you glanced at him. A comfortable silence settled over the both of you and when he made eye contact again he caught you smiling softly.

“It is not often I stop and observe such minute things… but I suppose the sound is rather pleasing,” he started.

You beamed at his reply, and the corner of his mouth turned up. Mycroft took in a deep breath and let out a relaxed and quiet sigh. The rain only deepened the smells of the earth and something drew him to your form. Softness was one of the words that came to mind, a femininity, and strikingly beautiful… perhaps tragically so in this rain.

The bench next to the Thames became a welcome home for the both of you and conversation drifted from one subject to the next. Mycroft found your wittiness endearing, and your passion even more so. But too soon, the clouds began to still, and the ripples in water gathered on the road faded. Both eyes glanced up and stared quietly at the brightening sky.

“Perhaps this is our cue to leave…,” Mycroft broke the silence.

“I suppose,” you replied, watching him quietly shut the umbrella.

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

The rain came soon, and a few days later you found yourself once again at the bench, reading this time. It only began with a few drops. You shut the book and attempted to protect the pages with the sleeves of your sweater as you admired the rain on your jeans. But the drops soon fell more and more frequently. You glanced at the river and took in the way the water melted into each other. It flowed seamlessly, and your mind drifted and the world faded too.

But the sound of the rain on an umbrella soon brought you back to reality.

“It seems we meet once again,” you heard.

“Once again in the rain it seems,” you replied, his umbrella sheltering both of you and your book from the water.

“Poems?” He asked glancing at the cover.

“Yes...I enjoy them more in this weather,” you explained. Mycroft joined you on the bench, making sure to shield you from the rain. He nodded, and you scooted over to make sure the pages would be safe.

“Where were you, I’d hate to have disrupted your reading,” Mycroft said softly.

“Just started,” you replied. Your fingers gently opened the book and you held it between the two of you. The only sound was the occasional flipping of pages, and the soft rumble of the storm.

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

This time rain was slow in coming, and it was a week before you would walk to the Thames again. Your hand was resting against your lips, the knit sweater warm against your cheek. You were lost in thought as the drizzle slowly grew heavier.

“No book this time?” a voice asked gently. You turned your head to face him and smiled.

“No.” You replied softly. He had two cups in his hands as the wooden hook of his umbrella rested against his arm. Staring curiously, you stood from the bench and stepped towards him.

“Jasmine?” you asked gesturing to a cup.

“Yes…,” he moved it towards you hesitantly. Your eyes moved from the cup to his face and a gentle smile formed on your lips.

“Thank you,” you said as your hand moved to his to accept the drink.

“Your welcome,” he replied, taking in the softness of your skin on his.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess…,” he didn’t want to scare you by saying he noticed last time. That he remembered the way jasmine had mingled with the smell of the rain… and that he found it intoxicating. He didn’t even want to admit that to himself.

“Coffee for you I suppose?”

“Only when the days are long and arduous,” he replied as the corner of his mouth turned up.

“And when they’re not?”

“...earl grey.”

In between the soft-spoken words, gentle laughs, and shy glances, Mycroft found himself more and more intrigued, and for some strange reason he didn’t mind.

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

“England’s rainy season seems longer than ever this year,” the radio played as your fingers fiddled with the hem of your sweater. Watching the sky, you saw the first few drops of water trail down your window and couldn’t stop the grin on your face. You turned towards the door and soon found your way to the Thames like before.

Minutes passed painfully and became an hour. Drops joined the river as you stared and flowed past the bridge. You thought about the rain. As it fell, the water would run, down the streets, or the river, lost among London.

This time no umbrella kept you from the storm.

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

Mycroft looked out from the window of the airplane. Rain.

Would you be there waiting for him? His brows furrowed as he analyzed his thought. Why did it matter? He had business to attend to anyways. The view was blurred by the water.

“May I ask what you’d like to drink, sir?” an attendant asked.

“... jasmine…,” he replied slowly

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

Even under the awning you could feel the mist cool against your skin. You stared a bit solemnly at the bench a few yards away, near the bridge. You heard the quiet flick of a lighter and looked to the side. Mycroft stood, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m surprised to see you under this awning,” he said, exhaling a wafting stream of smoke.

You looked into his eyes, unasked questions filling your own.

“I apologize… I was away for some …  business,” he replied, not missing a beat. 

You nodded, satisfied with his answer, and turned to look to the other side. Mycroft arched an eyebrow, observing you, and surprised you had accepted his rather unsavory reply without a care.

He cleared his throat and procured a book. You had glanced back, and your eyes widened with surprise.

“We never finished this… last time.”

“We didn’t, did we…,” you said.

“Perhaps this dry bench under the awning would be more suitable,” Mycroft offered.

“I suppose it would.”

After settling comfortably, he opened the literature, and you moved closer to see the pages. His left arm lifted and unsurely settled around you. Not paying much attention you settled comfortably, and he relaxed, though still a bit anxious. With you being so close, he could smell the shampoo in your hair, the smell of the jasmine tea, and the cleanness of your clothes. He filed each scent away carefully.

“Ready to turn the page?”

Your voice had startled him out of his thoughts.

“Ah- yes,” he replied.

“What were you thinking about?”

“... a lot.”

Eventually the warmth from his form and his voice reading the words lulled you to sleep. Mycroft softly admired you and gently closed the book.

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

It didn’t really matter when or where a raindrop fell. They all led to the sea eventually. You realized no matter where the water was lost in London, they’d meet again in the ocean.

And you met him once more.

Both of you knew it wouldn’t rain many more days in London. He was standing in front of you with his umbrella in his left hand and his right hand in his coat pocket. You shivered, and he stepped closer towards you. Mycroft slowly took his hand out of his pocket, and he hesitated, letting his fingers rest delicately along your cheek. You leaned into his touch and your own hand found its way to the lapel of his coat.

His breath ghosted across you, and he could tell the faintest bit of mint in yours. Mycroft’s eyes glanced down towards your lips, and you both could feel the tension in the air. Your eyes fluttered shut when he leaned in. His lips felt warm against yours and both of your hands were pressed against his chest gently. Mycroft’s hand had moved to the small of your back, barely aware; all he could focus on was the softness of your lips and the smell of your skin.

When he slowly parted, you were both out of breath. A small laugh escaped your lips, and a lopsided grin peeked from the corner of his lips.

“You’re quite stunning in the rain,” Mycroft mumbled. You blushed and shyly hid your face in his coat, your hands resting flatly along the material.

“Thank you,” you replied. After a pause you took a step back and stared at your feet. “What is this?”

Mycroft blinked and swallowed. “I don’t understand myself… but I can fathom that I find it very pleasant with you… and I look forward to rainy days, books, and coffee.”

The world around seemed to blur as you gazed into each other’s eyes; but you both looked away when a sleek car appeared, and the rain slowed to near nothing.

“I had better get going.” Mycroft parted, and entered the black car.

You found it became cold quickly in the damp air of London and you watched the car pull away to become lost in the traffic. You tilted your head to the sky and breathed in the cool air, unsure of what had just happened.

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

The sky was cloudy, and even without a drizzle in the air you were making your way down to the Thames. You rested your forearms on the cold metal of the railing and let out a soft sigh. The sound of soft steps drew your attention and you turned around.

But it wasn’t Mycroft.

A young couple was making their way along the Thames, and you admired the way they so freely laughed, joyfully relishing the other’s presence, sharing a moment.

“It’s beautiful…” A voice said behind you.

You looked over your shoulder, one hand holding onto the rail. He was here.

“They are, aren’t they…” You replied. The pair of you, with a bit of distance between you continued to watch the disappearing couple.

Soft thunder slowly rumbled.

“It might rain…,” you said casually, “If it does… will you stay here with me?” Fear was ever present in the back of your mind as these words passed your lips.

Another low rumble crept among the air.

“Even if it doesn’t rain… I’ll stay here with you.”

[mousedetective]

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures (5/?)

And here is the twist of the uninvited guest...

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures - It all begins with an invitation to Mycroft’s wedding to his PA and seven days at a resort in Jamaica, with the assumption that Molly pretends to be his girlfriend that his mother might be under the impression that he’s going to propose to sooner rather than later. It ends up being so much more than that…

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 5 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

It wasn’t until they had arrived at the airport that he realized just how wonderful an actress Molly really was. She was not quite as she had been the last two nights, when there had been plenty of “practice” for them to act as a couple, practice he had quite enjoyed, but she stayed close, always keeping a hand of hers in his or on his arm, smiling brightly at the assorted members of the families who would be traveling with them and, at least for a first impression, pulling off the charade quite nicely. Not that he found it hard to play along; with Molly being the lead in most of the interactions, he simply followed and reacted accordingly.

He was only thankful this group of guests were the ones from London and his parents were not among them. That was the introduction he was dreading the most, as while he was sure his parents would adore Molly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the “impending” engagement questions just yet. His mother was as tenacious as he was when she wanted something, and what she wanted was the sons she was still talking to to give her grandchildren. She’d succeeded with Mycroft, so now all her attention would be on him.

They settled into their seats on the plane and Molly leaned over with her mouth near his ear. “That seemed to go well,” she said quietly.

“They were an easier audience to trick than my parents will be,” he murmured back.

“Oh, I think your mum will love me,” she said with a smile before kissing his cheek and then reaching for the book she’d taken out of her handbag to read. Molly didn’t quite realize that was among the problems with this charade: his mother would absolutely adore her and when it eventually came time to explain how the relationship had ended, he would be a disappointment in her eyes. Maybe not as much as his eldest brother was, but enough that it would make things decidedly more frosty between them.

Of course, as long as he wasn’t as despised as Sherrinford, he supposed he could tolerate a bit of a cold shoulder from his parents.

He settled further into his seat. It wasn’t often he thought of his eldest brother. There was usually no real reason to. The age difference between the two of them was considerable enough that Sherrinford had been nearly a teenager when he was born, and Mycroft not that far behind. He was considered a blessing by his parents, and a burden to Mycroft, but Sherrinford had never really liked him much, as far as he could tell. Sherrinford was the one in the family who had gotten the innate ability to make people at ease almost immediately, a skill his father had not managed to pass down to either he or Mycroft. It seemed his mother’s brilliance had skipped Sherrinford as a result, and he despised his younger siblings for being the one their mother was proudest of.

To this day he still wasn’t entirely sure of what had caused the rift between his parents and his eldest brother, but he knew it had to do with a large sum of money disappearing from accounts and Sherrinford scampering off in the middle of the night. It was never discussed even when he asked, time and again, and eventually, he simply stopped asking. It was the one mystery he’d decided not to solve in his entire life because, really, he was glad Sherrinford was gone. He had never liked the way Sherrinford treated him, and while his life was not necessarily better once he was gone, it was easier, at least.

He decided he’d done enough ruminating on the past once the plane began its ascent into the air. It had been some time since he was able to fully relax on a trip away from England, probably since early on in his association with John. The trip to Karachi had been fraught with danger and getting Irene to relative safety had been his tantamount priority, and obviously working on destroying the web Moriarty had woven had not been easy of safe. And then the last time he had been on a plane he had purposefully overdosed so that he could concentrate on the case in his head. Whether he had made it to Russia alive had been of little consequence, as he had more drugs on hand in case he’d had to finish the trip, but he was grateful for the second chance.

Not that he would ever admit that, of course.

He’d been surly when it was over, and only dropped the attitude when it had been decided Molly would be there during his withdrawal. He hadn’t seen her since before he had shot Magnussen, and the fact she wasn’t more angry at him for overdosing had been surprising, considering the scene in the lab. But she was there when no one else was, and he’d decided if she would be with him through the worst of it, he would make things better between them. And it was a promise he had done a good enough job keeping since they were in the position they were in now. He doubted even for a trip to Jamaica for free that she would agree to be his girlfriend and potential fiancee, unless possibly it had been for a case.

Still, he should have recognized long before the first night in Baker Street for this charade that his feeling had changed. When they had been curled up on the sofa and she had leaned in for their first kiss, he had been fairly sure he had made a mistake. And he knew he had for certain when she kissed him because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to go back to simply being friends, not after this week. Either he would try his best to convince her to make the fiction a reality, or he would lose the most important person in his life.

Of course, her mixed signals, vacillating between the breakup quip and then the simple kiss on the cheek now did nothing to help him figure out which direction she might go in. Logic was of no help, and they still had the entire week to go. He tried slipping into his mind palace to focus on things related to cases he had abandoned for the week, but he kept turning to look at Molly, completely immersed in her book. He knew that that image was going to be a sight frequently seen in his mind palace for a long time to come.

He hadn’t managed to settle anything in his head by the time they had arrived in Jamaica, and he was a bit cranky when they were deboarded and put into cars to get to the resort. Molly had barely taken her eyes off the book she was reading, and continued to read in the car they shared with his Uncle Harrington.

Of all the members of his family that he had contact with, this particular uncle was the only one he rather liked. His Uncle Rudy had favoured Mycroft, and no one at all had really liked Sherrinford, as far as he could tell, but it had been his Uncle Harrington who had fostered his love of deductive reasoning, sending hard to find books on any subject Sherlock wished from either his own private collection or those of friends and colleagues. There were books that were worth thousands of pounds at Baker Street because Harrington had never asked for them to be returned, always saying you would never know when you needed a good book, and as a literature professor at Oxford, he supposed Harrington knew that lesson well.

“You picked a woman who likes to read,” Harrington said, his voice laced with approval.

“I did,” Sherlock said, relaxing. This would be easy to talk about. He had found Molly’s sterling qualities were something he could expound on for quite a while if needed. He was sure John and Mary were tired of his talking about her, at least. “She has a personal library in her home. Not a large one, but the contents are varied.”

“Medical texts, classical literature, modern pulpy romances, and a few other goodies,” Molly said as she turned in the seat in front of them to join the conversation. She gave Harrington a smile. “Sherlock mentioned you gave him quite a few of the books he has now?”

Harrington nodded. “Mycroft and Sherrinford were interested in learning certain things. William wanted to learn everything. You don’t squander a mind like that by not feeding it with sufficient knowledge.”

Sherlock glowered slightly at the use of his real name but Molly simply nodded. “Oh yes. A beautiful brain like his would go to waste if it was starved in such an unnecessary way.”

Harrington’s smile back at her got brighter. “It’s good to see we see eye to eye,” he replied.

“We certainly do.”

Sherlock watched the two of them launch into a conversation about him and he listened with only mild embarrassment. It was one thing to think highly of himself, but it was another to hear two people discuss him in such high regard. He wasn’t used to that; while he knew Mary adored him, she didn’t have these kinds of discussions with her husband in front of him. Lestrade usually didn’t need to defend him anymore so he didn’t, and while he was used to Molly saying a few kind words, this was different. Perhaps he had made up for the trouble he had caused her after all.

By the time they arrived at the resort Harrington and Molly were quite deep in a conversation about the intricacies of Austen’s works, and it was because he had tuned out their conversation he saw his brother exit out of his car with a smile that quickly dropped to a scowl. It only took seconds for his attention to shift in the same direction, and he knew his own expression was similar.

“Brother dear,” Sherrinford Holmes said from where he had been smoking a cigarette. Then he spotted Sherlock as well. “And you too.”

“Sherrinford,” Mycroft said, his tone steely. “Why are you here?”

“Mummy invited me, as an attempt to mend some broken fences,” he said. “She’s getting settled but you know me.” He held up the cigarette. “Bad habit.”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock heard his uncle say quietly as Sherlock reached over for Molly’s hand.

“Who is that?” Molly asked.

“My eldest brother,” he said, watching as Sherrinford’s gaze swept back to him and then to Molly. His eyes widened and then got brighter, and Sherlock decided then and there he would show Molly was not to be looked at in that way by anyone other than him. He turned to face her and leaned in, kissing her soundly, feeling her knees buckle slightly as he set his hands on her waist to keep her up. When she pulled away to catch her breath she looked up at him, speechless. “Why don’t you and Andrea go find out where we’re staying in the resort?”

Molly caught on quickly, giving him a dazzling smile as she went in for her own kiss, giving him one that was nearly as breathtaking as it was unexpected. “I’ll make sure the bed is adequate,” she said with a wink in Sherrinford’s direction before she and Andrea headed inside.

“So the tabloids weren’t lying?” Sherrinford asked with a smirk. “Wonder how you kept her under wraps. She’s got quite a nice...” His smirk widened.

“Go back to whatever hole you’ve been hiding in,” Mycroft said, his tone more flat and hostile than before.

“And miss out on the wedding of my brother? Never,” he said. “Get used to it, Mycroft. I’m here and I think I’d like to have a bit of fun.” He walked away from his brothers then, putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling.

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock as their uncle made his way in the same direction the women had. “He’s trouble,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, he always was,” Mycroft said. “I think we’ll need to put aside our pettiness and make sure he doesn’t do anything that will ruin this for any of us.” Mycroft held out his hand to Sherlock. “Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded, shaking his brother’s hand. “Agreed.” Just what neither of them needed, he thought to himself. Complications...

[mama-orion]

Sacre Coeur, chapter 5

_____

Chapter one + chapter two + chapter three + chapter four

The flat is quiet. The paramedics have gone, the armed guards have become invisible somewhere on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson has finally stopped fussing and retreated to her flat. Sherlock smells cinnamon and knows she is relieving her anxiety with her customary ritualistic baking. Molly fusses with the makeshift lab in the kitchen.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay? I could assist, let you focus on John, be on hand.”

“Thank you, Molly, no, I’ve already monopolized too much of your time. I’m sure the stiffs are backing up in the morgue.”

“Well, alright. But you text me if anything changes.” While Sherlock stares out the window, she sterilizes one more set of glassware, wraps back up in her coat and scarf, and gives his shoulder a squeeze as she passes. He catches her hand.

“Molly, truly, thank you. Without your help and clarity these last few days, I think I would have lost my mind.”

Molly grimaces a smile. “Take care of yourself, too. At least, try to.” She pads away quietly across the carpet, picks up Mycroft’s umbrella, and hurries down the stairs.

Sherlock stands in the sudden silence. He wrinkles his nose – the usual smells of the flat are swirled with the slightly medical pong of hospital antiseptic. He peeks in again on John, stationed in his room, looking more comfortable in the old pajamas Sherlock took from his house that morning. Detached from all the wires and monitors, he looks as if he’s just nodded off in Sherlock’s bed. Molly thought the sensation of it would be helpful, make him feel at home, no matter how many times Sherlock insisted nothing ever happened and what’s more, 221B hasn’t been home to John Watson for almost 3 years.

“Won’t matter,” she’d said with a wise smirk. “It’ll still feel like home to him.”

Sherlock snaps up his bow and rosins it while he paces the bedroom. “Well then, welcome home, John.” He pockets the rosin and picks up the violin, settles his chin, and begins to play.

…

Late afternoon light is pooling in the room when Sherlock finally puts the violin down on the bedside table. He stares at his immobile friend for a while, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, his relaxed face, then sighs. “Take a rest, John, I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

He’s halfway through the first experiment Molly had dictated when he gets up to check on John. Nothing has changed. He returns to the kitchen, moves a few petri dishes around. Checks on John again. After twenty minutes of this, he roughly pushes the kitchen table down the hall and through the bedroom door, clinking and rattling with the apparatus, and slides it under the window.

“Sorry, couldn’t be free of me for long.”

An hour later he’s got John propped up on pillows, a towel draped over his chest, experimenting with the best ways to spoon in bone broth so it doesn’t dribble down John’s chin. The first time he reflexively swallows, Sherlock feels triumphant. But when John erupts into a fit of coughing, he nearly falls over with the shock, thinking he’s killed him for sure. It passes. Sherlock’s shaking. “Sorry about that, John, I’m afraid you’ll be getting the worst of all my on-the-job training today.”

After clearing away “lunch,” he pulls a worn paperback from the duffel he’d brought from John’s house. Perching gingerly at the foot of the bed, he begins to read aloud the first chapter of The Two Towers. It had been on John’s night table. After a few paragraphs, Molly’s voice rings in his head. Patients in coma have, on occasion, responded positively to familiar stimuli, reassuring touch and voice. Human contact, Sherlock. His brain patterns indicate he is mentally active. He’s reachable. Help him know he’s not alone in there. Sherlock looks up from the book, taps his lip as he considers, then slides to sit next to John in the bed. Leaving a few inches between them, he continues to read.

Two chapters in, the words begin to blur and he recalls that he never did sleep last night. He lets the book drop to the blanket, head falling back against the propped-up pillows with an extravagant sigh. He watches John for a long while. He should go back to the experiment, he thinks. He should text Molly to bring over spirulina powder. Maybe he should play again, Bach this time.

Instead, he lifts a tentative hand and, heart racing, places it lightly on John’s shoulder. He almost expects John to flinch at the touch, but he sleeps on. Would John mind? Sherlock slips into his mind palace, heads directly to John’s wing, and opens the sturdy steamer trunk where he’s stored all of the confusing deductions he’s made of John over the years, the collection growing larger of late. Certain looks, sentiments expressed, an unexpected touch. It had all been so mixed up with John’s justified anger at the false suicide, the ridiculous wedding planning, and the constant threat of Mary that Sherlock silently struggled to disarm, always playing John’s amiable best man. To be anything other than that would have meant immediate threat to John’s life. Mrs. Watson was very clear about that.

In the perfect, quiet safety of his mind palace, Sherlock briefly rests his forehead against the edge of the chest, letting a bitter relief flood through him. He’s been holding it back for days. It wasn’t right to feel it when he should have been using is brain to save John. He can feel it now, for a moment. Yes, things are still dire, it’s been fucking terrifying for months – years, really – he was so rarely in control. But now, at least, Mary is no longer the cuckoo in the nest with her fingers around John’s throat, playing Sherlock like a puppet. The cuckoo flown is something to chase, to trap. And he will find her. He has absolutely no doubt.

Rubbing his hands roughly over his face to focus his attention, he pulls out weathered maps and navigation charts from the chest, each one a key to some moment he saw something in John’s behavior and wondered, Does he? He studies the touches John had offered, freely, though always with qualifiers. In particular, the dancing lessons at the flat (educational purposes); the hand on his knee during stag night (inebriated), the hug during his best man’s speech (high emotion). None had made John perceptibly uncomfortable. He decides it’s at least appropriate for him to proceed with light touch.

But there is the… other evidence. Sherlock pauses, then reaches to the bottom of the steamer trunk, unlocks a hidden compartment in the false wooden floor, and takes out a small round object swaddled in soft velvet that’s the precise blue of John’s irises. Protected inside the folds is a smooth glass egg, shot through with wisps of silver-gold, the color of John’s hair in afternoon light. If he didn’t have the artifact, he wouldn’t believe it had happened at all.

Snapping open the egg on a hidden hinge, he unlocks the memory of John at his bedside when it was he lying in hospital, unreachable.

…

The memory of the shooting was fresh, hours old. Had John’s memory begun to degrade by then? It had been too difficult to observe, thanks to the anesthesia... And John had been in a state he’d not witnessed before that made it…difficult to read him.

John had been shattered that night. Sherlock had expected the grief. He had anticipated anger, it was an unavoidable necessity. But the sudden horror of the lie he’d been living coupled with the imminent death of his best friend...who had kept it all from him… Well, it was almost a relief when John had forgotten it all in the morning.

Sherlock had known it was going to be a bad night. That was rather the point. But he wasn’t supposed to get shot. He was supposed to be helping John through the pain, explaining everything, doing better this time, including him so they could finally face it together. He’d wanted to reach out so badly, hold his hand, hold him.

But Sherlock could not even push his eyes open. By some trick of his astounding, ridiculous brain, he could hear everything, watched as the scene was painstakingly recreated in his mind’s eye: John sitting by his head leaning close to him – his voice near, the scent of him strong, still in the same plaid shirt, rumpled now, sweaty, the jumper removed­ – perhaps from exposure to blood. He perceived John’s face to be slick with tears – frequent sniffling and choked breathing – and often buried in his hands, his halting voice muffled. He would have looked exhausted and worn, the anger and worry creasing his face into an older version of himself.

As if afraid to touch him, John had only once lightly brushed his fingertips down the side of Sherlock’s arm where it had rested on the sheet. It had tickled, but he couldn’t even flinch. And his words... Despite the absolute shit-show the night had become, he is grateful to have been left with the artifact of his words. He will cherish them in the years of solitude that undoubtedly lie ahead.

“Was on my way to say something to you today... Wish like hell I had. Might have prevented... this. Somehow. (a long silence) You should know, Sherlock. When I met you, I was given something amazing. Something precious. Saved my life. But I fled from it. I wanted it so badly, but I was terrified. Jesus, what did it say about me?

And you, one moment you were a heartless sociopathic prick and the next some brilliant, benevolent creature who could read my mind with a look. I knew I had been given something… but I had no idea what to do with it. I figured I could live that way, long as you were nearby, didn’t matter what it was. “And then I lost you. I knew then that I’d wasted it. Utterly. I was broken. Worse than before I met you, because then I knew what I was missing. Tried moving on. God, what a bloody mess…couldn’t even do that properly. I thought she was (his voice cracks and the words are choked, almost silent) …thought she was safe.

“And when you returned, Sherlock, what that did to me… You watch what you wish for, you just might get it. So yea, I got you back. But too late. All wrong. I should never have gone on with the wedding, but I was angry, so terribly angry... How could I ever forgive you for putting me through those two years? I made myself believe it was better this way.

“It wasn’t. Even if this whole nightmare was what I’d actually thought it was. Marrying a nice woman, starting a family. I’d botched it. Knew it on my wedding day, bloody hell the things you said, your face...

“When you were away… I should have been helping you, should have been with you, Sherlock. (A long pause. He wipes his face, takes deep breaths as he’s been taught in therapy, and when he speaks again there is iron in his voice.) “Because it’s not the damn danger, Sherlock. It’s not, though we both know we love it. We’re more than that, always have been. We’re like some equation that doesn’t make any sense in its parts, then you put it together and it’s… it’s right. (Deep intake of breath) I realized, of course, much too late. It’s always been you, Sherlock. Only you. God, I love you.”

There had been noticeable changes on the monitors, but John had been too focused on his thoughts, too exhausted, too certain of Sherlock’s unconsciousness to notice.

“There. Said it. Case you hadn’t deduced it already. So. Please, will you do this for me? Another miracle. Wake up. Be okay. For me. So I can try to get the courage to say this to your face one day. I can’t make this mistake again, Sherlock. Christ, if you’ll even have me…”

Lestrade had come round the next morning for John’s statement and found him asleep in a chair by Sherlock’s bedside. John had woken confused, the details of the shooting blurring, jumbled, no memory of how he’d gotten to the hospital or what had occurred after. The nurse attending to Sherlock took pity on him and filled him in on Sherlock’s condition. Lestrade attributed it to shock. Sherlock knew better.

John had called Mary from Sherlock’s room, bewildered, apologizing profusely for not coming home - god, she must have been so worried - gushing his relief to her that Sherlock had lived through the night, had become stable. When he rang off, he’d said, ‘Love you, too.’

 …

Sherlock snaps the egg closed, carefully rewrapping the velvet and sealing it deep inside the chest. Then he slams the lid down hard.

Slipping out of his mind palace, he very carefully shifts across the bed, closing the gap between them, and eases himself against John’s side. He stays like that a moment, stiff and terrified. Gradually, the sound of John’s steady breathing lulls him, the warmth of him soothing. He drops his head to John’s chest and listens to his heartbeat. He is asleep in moments.

…

Sherlock wakes with a jolt. The room is dark. Sitting up carefully, he realizes he’s been asleep with his head on John for hours, drooled on his shirtfront a bit. He can tell from the pitch and frequency of the traffic on Baker Street that it’s about 2am.

“John,” his voice is gravelly from sleep, “I’ll trust you didn’t mind too much that I kipped on you instead of a pillow.” He scrubs the cobwebs from his eyes, pushes up from the bed and shuffles to the door. While he has woken marginally refreshed, the human contact does not appear to have changed John in the slightest.

Outside the bedroom door, he finds a tray on the floor holding a cold pot of tea and a covered dish that smells of curried chicken. He gives it a small smile. Though his stomach growls traitorously, he steps past it, returning minutes later from the bathroom with a basin of soapy warm water, a soft sponge, a clean towel, and a change of absorbent pants for John. He settles his nursing gear by the bed and considers John for several moments, fingers nervously tapping his thighs. This is clinical. “As I’ve had to use the loo, I’ll trust you’re in need of some… refreshment.” This is nursing. He pulls on fresh latex gloves and sighs. “I’m sorry, John, but you will need to suffer more of my trainee fumbling.”

…

221B, 3 days later

Sherlock is hunched over his microscope in the bedroom. He’s surrounded by petri dishes and slides, beakers of solutions, scraps of paper covered in his spidery writing and formulae, Mrs. Hudson’s empty dishes. He’s wearing his blue dressing gown tied over his oldest, softest pajamas, hair sticking out at odd angles from frequent tugging.

Suddenly he pushes back from the microscope and slams his fists on the table, the glass apparatus clinking in protest. Dressing gown swirling, he spins out of the chair, knocking it over with a clatter, and strides to the door. Just as he’s about to storm out, he notices John from the corner of his eye, lying ever-motionless in his bed. He freezes, hands pulling at his hair, and stares at him, trying to bring his breathing under control.

His mobile pings a pre-set alarm, jolting him out of his thoughts. Running his hands over his face, he scrubs at his eyes and sniffs loudly. It’s time to take care of John.

“Sorry, that one didn’t work, either. Time for a break, hm? I’ll get your lunch.” He ducks into a small, portable refrigerator that’s been moved next to his dresser, reaches past a rack with several stoppered vials of blood, and removes two jars. One is a container of the bone broth Mrs. Hudson simmered up for him, and another holds a thin, chlorophyll-green slurry he’d made of spirulina and pureed vegetables.

With the deft actions of an experienced care provider, he plucks up a short pipette from the lab table (the spoon was inefficient), balances all of his containers in the crook of his left arm, and scoops up the fallen chair as he walks past, settling it with a bang (no response). Sherlock deposits his jars on the bedside table, which also hold his violin and bow, and The Return of the King, which he began reading aloud that morning. Bending over, he gently slides his arm under John’s back and shifts him up onto several pillows, then scoots next to him on the bed, sitting closely so he can support John’s head. With several small feedings each day, he’s gotten quite good at this.

Though he has taken immaculate care of John, Sherlock hasn’t changed his own clothing, hasn’t slept since the first nap, hasn’t shaved, has hardly left this room and not once left the flat. Mrs. Hudson has been leaving baked goods and pots of tea outside his bedroom door. Despite his original plan to only eat what John is eating to better monitor his needs, he had noted the increasing protests of his transport, his caloric need obviously more demanding than one who is sleeping soundly all day. He takes a blueberry muffin from his dressing gown pocket and eats it in three bites.

Propping the broth between his knees, Sherlock leans toward John and says firmly, “Alright John. It’s time to eat.” Delicately, he pipettes cool broth through John’s lips, waiting for the reflexive swallow before adding more. When he’s painstakingly fed him a half-pint of the broth, he moves to his green drink. John grimaces in his sleep at the taste, which Sherlock finds incredibly endearing. “There now, see it as motivation. Wake up from this and I’ll order you tamarind duck as a reward.” He absently wipes John’s chin.

He wonders, for perhaps the thousandth time, at this utterly vulnerable version of John before him who would loathe to be the subject of such care, could barely stand it when Sherlock brought him mint tea for his colds. John would just as soon solve this problem with a hare-brained sprint across London, gun tucked out of sight. While Sherlock misses that, pines for that, the deep aches in his own recovering chest tell him how unlikely that’s going to be for the foreseeable future. If John wakes, when he wakes, he corrects himself, will he ever forgive Sherlock for seeing him so weak? Will he drift away if their days of danger together are subdued to accommodate an invalid? Doesn’t much matter. Once he understands everything, he won’t be staying.

He pushes the thoughts into a shadowy corner of his mind palace, stashes the jars back in the tiny fridge and pulls out a black vinyl case holding rudimentary physician’s tools. He takes John’s temperature, checks his blood pressure and pulse, studies his fluttering eyelids – evidence of REM sleep, interesting – taps reflexes, and notes everything in a small blue book. Then he rolls John onto his side to take the pressure off of his back and surreptitiously reaches for the IV. He hasn’t attempted it since the first day, tests the sensitivity of the bruise on his chin where John had lashed out. But signs of dehydration are becoming evident, even with the liquidy feedings. He has to risk another try.

“John, you’re a doctor, you know how important it is that I keep you hydrated. So just put up with this for a bag’s worth and I’ll take it away. Can you do that for me? Please?” 

Snapping on pale blue latex gloves and dabbing at John’s wrist with an alcohol swab, he deftly inserts the IV and efficiently tapes it onto John’s skin. John frowns in his sleep and begins to roll roughly. Sherlock tenses. “Alright, let’s not have a repeat of last time, John, I don’t need you to wake up to me with a broken nose.”

John continues to struggle, as if wrestling something in a nightmare. Sherlock watches him, biting his lip, deliberating. With a quick nod, he quickly tosses the gloves onto the floor and slides onto the bed behind John, wrapping his arms around his chest and holding him tightly, speaking soothingly into his ear. John fights for only a moment more. As soon as Sherlock has pressed close to him, John gives a deep shudder and calms.

Heart racing, Sherlock marvels at this immediate change, marvels that he is holding John. Though he was motivated by purely medical need, the warm contact sends bolts of electricity through his chest and his breath comes fast and shallow. Would he object? Be angry?

Show him he’s not alone.

It’s always been you, Sherlock. Only you. God, I love you.

Sherlock thinks of those lazy afternoons they used to loll around the flat, reading through the papers over a long breakfast and mugs of tea, just saying whatever came to mind or nothing at all. He misses those days with a painful longing. He thinks John does, too. As the bag of saline empties into John’s body, Sherlock starts to talk. He tells him about old cases, about the 200 different kinds of ash and ways to discern them from one another, just to annoy him. He rambles about his childhood, his time at the university, a trip he took to the Alps, a dog he once loved.

The IV bag is empty. He hesitantly gets up, considers taking the opportunity to change it. John stirs and frowns in his sleep and Sherlock absently squeezes his shoulder as he stands. “It’s okay, John. I’m coming back.” He replaces the bag quickly – John is already starting to stir again – and curls back up with him on the warm spot on the blankets, this time less anxiously. Waiting for the second IV bag to empty, Sherlock settles his chin above John’s head. He dozes off.

Sherlock wakes with a startle to find the second bag empty and John still perfectly calm. Lifting himself heavily out of the bed, he pulls on new gloves and removes the IV, rubs the skin with an alcohol swab, and covers the wound with a small plaster. John does not stir. Well, we cracked that one just in the nick of time.

Pushing the IV stand off to the side, Sherlock’s mobile pings an alarm again. He sighs. “John, as ever, I humbly ask your forgiveness for this encroachment of your personal space, but needs must.” Peeling back the covers, Sherlock finds the absorbent pants need changing and handles the cleaning and new application with minimal fumbling and only a few muttered curses at the adhesive tape. The first time, in his terror and haste, he’d put it on backwards and gotten a sodden mess of sheets for his trouble. He thinks gratefully of John’s Iranian nurse who did this so effortlessly. Perhaps the children were good training.

Sherlock’s hands freeze in mid-action as a memory bursts through his thoughts. The baby. What will become of it? Will Mary terminate the pregnancy? There’s still time. Or will she keep it as the spoils of her conquest? Retain it for future blackmail? He fumbles with the tapes, frowns. He can postulate all he likes about the child’s position in his game of chess with Mary, but the simple realization sits firmly in his mind, shocking him. I must find that child. For its sake. For John.

When everything seems to be correctly attached, he gently tugs a fresh pair of his own ancient pajamas onto John. They’re too big for him, but soft. This clinical familiarity with John’s skin feels natural now, though certain thoughts betray his professional demeanor. John’s skin is softer than it has any right being.

He should probably run another test on the blood samples, but exhaustion is prickling at the edges of his eyes and dulling his thoughts. It’s the middle of the afternoon on the third day. If John doesn’t wake, they’ll relocate him at midnight to the secure facility Mycroft has selected. At his own insistence, Sherlock will not be permitted to know its whereabouts until they apprehend Mary and determine the extent of her network, in case he is found and used again as a pressure point. He has no idea how long that could take and it galls him, how she can push them apart even after she’s fled.

He turns away from John, arms crossed tightly, hands white-knuckled. Failure. Idiot. You couldn’t do it. Couldn’t find the pattern. What an absolute fool he’d been to believe that some pretty violin music and unrequested snuggling would bring him back. They’re smarter than you. Just accept that you’ve been well and truly beaten this time.

“I’m so sorry, John. I tried to keep you safe.” He can’t keep it at bay anymore. “I failed you.” The grief washes into his mind palace in a flood of thick black water.

Sherlock lets the tears fall, lets his chest shake with sobs. Serves me right, my turn to know what it’s like being left behind.

Gradually, the wave of crying subsides. He rubs his face on the sleeve of his dressing gown, and even though there is no IV-related distress to justify it, he slides next to John on the bed again. Might be the last time. It still worries his heart to be holding John without his permission, but he can’t stop himself. He is home. The smell of him, the firm curves of his chest and arms, the scratch of his cheek stubble against his own. If this is wrong of me, John, I’m so terribly sorry. But if I must send you off, let me do it this way.

John, as ever, has no reaction, though Sherlock imagines that if he were to try anything like this with a lucid John Watson, he’d likely flinch away and reaffirm his not-gayness while magnetically pulling toward him with his eyes. “Oh John, why don’t you just wake up so we can be idiots together and flounder through this mess.” Burrowing his head next to John’s on the pillow, he holds him tightly.

Though he’s bone-weary, sleep won’t come. “John, do you remember when we used to play Rock Paper Scissor? We would always tie, the variables were too simple for me not to anticipate. So I added ridiculous items like dynamite and earthquake. To make you laugh. I miss your laugh. My eldest brother… he was a chemist, too, I’ve never told you. Saw the aptitude in me before the others… he added Catalysts to the game, two-handed combinations…” he rambles on.

“Please,” he whispers into John’s ear, holding him tightly. “Fight this. Wake up. Come back to me.” His tears fall onto John’s skin as he plummets headlong into dark, overpowering sleep.

…

221B, the present

Sherlock finally stops talking. He’s been far away, living the memory again as he’s shared it with John, every bit of it, and comes back to himself now with a startle and a sharp breath. He ducks his head, afraid of what he will see when he deduces John’s expression.

But before he can even turn, John’s fingertips are at his stubbled chin, gently pivoting Sherlock’s face toward his own. Confused, Sherlock lets him, locking onto his eyes, ocean-blue irises eclipsed by wide pupils.

John has a pained expression, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock’s, reading… what? Is he about to tell him how Sherlock selfishly jeopardized his well-being? That he overstepped every boundary? That he has no memory of his confession? Sherlock can feel his heart beating in his throat, sees John’s pulse in his neck. Is this a new side-effect of the drug? Should he take his blood pressure?

Leaning toward him, cupping his jaw, John says very quietly,

“I remember everything.”

Sherlock freezes. All mental functions come to a crashing halt. He can feel a strong exhale across his cheek just before the stubble of their thin beards rasp together. And then John’s lips are on his own. Moth-wing soft.

Vesuvius erupts in Sherlock’s mind, sending molten lava cascading through his chest and into his limbs.

...Oh.

 _____

Thanks so much to those of you who are following along! <3 Always happy to add tags. Message/comment if you’d like to be added.

@pinkrose423 @brilliantorinsane @ineedhugz

This is on AO3!

[afteriwake]

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures (5/?)

And here’s the rub in the celebration: the appearance of their eldest brother Sherrinford!

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures - It all begins with an invitation to Mycroft’s wedding to his PA and seven days at a resort in Jamaica, with the assumption that Molly pretends to be his girlfriend that his mother might be under the impression that he’s going to propose to sooner rather than later. It ends up being so much more than that…

READ CHAPTER 1 | READ CHAPTER 5 | HELP ME SURVIVE? | COMMISSION ME? | BUY ME A KOFI?

It wasn’t until they had arrived at the airport that he realized just how wonderful an actress Molly really was. She was not quite as she had been the last two nights, when there had been plenty of “practice” for them to act as a couple, practice he had quite enjoyed, but she stayed close, always keeping a hand of hers in his or on his arm, smiling brightly at the assorted members of the families who would be traveling with them and, at least for a first impression, pulling off the charade quite nicely. Not that he found it hard to play along; with Molly being the lead in most of the interactions, he simply followed and reacted accordingly.

He was only thankful this group of guests were the ones from London and his parents were not among them. That was the introduction he was dreading the most, as while he was sure his parents would adore Molly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with the “impending” engagement questions just yet. His mother was as tenacious as he was when she wanted something, and what she wanted was the sons she was still talking to to give her grandchildren. She’d succeeded with Mycroft, so now all her attention would be on him.

They settled into their seats on the plane and Molly leaned over with her mouth near his ear. “That seemed to go well,” she said quietly.

“They were an easier audience to trick than my parents will be,” he murmured back.

“Oh, I think your mum will love me,” she said with a smile before kissing his cheek and then reaching for the book she’d taken out of her handbag to read. Molly didn’t quite realize that was among the problems with this charade: his mother would absolutely adore her and when it eventually came time to explain how the relationship had ended, he would be a disappointment in her eyes. Maybe not as much as his eldest brother was, but enough that it would make things decidedly more frosty between them.

Of course, as long as he wasn’t as despised as Sherrinford, he supposed he could tolerate a bit of a cold shoulder from his parents.

He settled further into his seat. It wasn’t often he thought of his eldest brother. There was usually no real reason to. The age difference between the two of them was considerable enough that Sherrinford had been nearly a teenager when he was born, and Mycroft not that far behind. He was considered a blessing by his parents, and a burden to Mycroft, but Sherrinford had never really liked him much, as far as he could tell. Sherrinford was the one in the family who had gotten the innate ability to make people at ease almost immediately, a skill his father had not managed to pass down to either he or Mycroft. It seemed his mother’s brilliance had skipped Sherrinford as a result, and he despised his younger siblings for being the one their mother was proudest of.

To this day he still wasn’t entirely sure of what had caused the rift between his parents and his eldest brother, but he knew it had to do with a large sum of money disappearing from accounts and Sherrinford scampering off in the middle of the night. It was never discussed even when he asked, time and again, and eventually, he simply stopped asking. It was the one mystery he’d decided not to solve in his entire life because, really, he was glad Sherrinford was gone. He had never liked the way Sherrinford treated him, and while his life was not necessarily better once he was gone, it was easier, at least.

He decided he’d done enough ruminating on the past once the plane began its ascent into the air. It had been some time since he was able to fully relax on a trip away from England, probably since early on in his association with John. The trip to Karachi had been fraught with danger and getting Irene to relative safety had been his tantamount priority, and obviously working on destroying the web Moriarty had woven had not been easy of safe. And then the last time he had been on a plane he had purposefully overdosed so that he could concentrate on the case in his head. Whether he had made it to Russia alive had been of little consequence, as he had more drugs on hand in case he’d had to finish the trip, but he was grateful for the second chance.

Not that he would ever admit that, of course.

He’d been surly when it was over, and only dropped the attitude when it had been decided Molly would be there during his withdrawal. He hadn’t seen her since before he had shot Magnussen, and the fact she wasn’t more angry at him for overdosing had been surprising, considering the scene in the lab. But she was there when no one else was, and he’d decided if she would be with him through the worst of it, he would make things better between them. And it was a promise he had done a good enough job keeping since they were in the position they were in now. He doubted even for a trip to Jamaica for free that she would agree to be his girlfriend and potential fiancee, unless possibly it had been for a case.

Still, he should have recognized long before the first night in Baker Street for this charade that his feeling had changed. When they had been curled up on the sofa and she had leaned in for their first kiss, he had been fairly sure he had made a mistake. And he knew he had for certain when she kissed him because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to go back to simply being friends, not after this week. Either he would try his best to convince her to make the fiction a reality, or he would lose the most important person in his life.

Of course, her mixed signals, vacillating between the breakup quip and then the simple kiss on the cheek now did nothing to help him figure out which direction she might go in. Logic was of no help, and they still had the entire week to go. He tried slipping into his mind palace to focus on things related to cases he had abandoned for the week, but he kept turning to look at Molly, completely immersed in her book. He knew that that image was going to be a sight frequently seen in his mind palace for a long time to come.

He hadn’t managed to settle anything in his head by the time they had arrived in Jamaica, and he was a bit cranky when they were deboarded and put into cars to get to the resort. Molly had barely taken her eyes off the book she was reading, and continued to read in the car they shared with his Uncle Harrington.

Of all the members of his family that he had contact with, this particular uncle was the only one he rather liked. His Uncle Rudy had favoured Mycroft, and no one at all had really liked Sherrinford, as far as he could tell, but it had been his Uncle Harrington who had fostered his love of deductive reasoning, sending hard to find books on any subject Sherlock wished from either his own private collection or those of friends and colleagues. There were books that were worth thousands of pounds at Baker Street because Harrington had never asked for them to be returned, always saying you would never know when you needed a good book, and as a literature professor at Oxford, he supposed Harrington knew that lesson well.

“You picked a woman who likes to read,” Harrington said, his voice laced with approval.

“I did,” Sherlock said, relaxing. This would be easy to talk about. He had found Molly’s sterling qualities were something he could expound on for quite a while if needed. He was sure John and Mary were tired of his talking about her, at least. “She has a personal library in her home. Not a large one, but the contents are varied.”

“Medical texts, classical literature, modern pulpy romances, and a few other goodies,” Molly said as she turned in the seat in front of them to join the conversation. She gave Harrington a smile. “Sherlock mentioned you gave him quite a few of the books he has now?”

Harrington nodded. “Mycroft and Sherrinford were interested in learning certain things. William wanted to learn everything. You don’t squander a mind like that by not feeding it with sufficient knowledge.”

Sherlock glowered slightly at the use of his real name but Molly simply nodded. “Oh yes. A beautiful brain like his would go to waste if it was starved in such an unnecessary way.”

Harrington’s smile back at her got brighter. “It’s good to see we see eye to eye,” he replied.

“We certainly do.”

Sherlock watched the two of them launch into a conversation about him and he listened with only mild embarrassment. It was one thing to think highly of himself, but it was another to hear two people discuss him in such high regard. He wasn’t used to that; while he knew Mary adored him, she didn’t have these kinds of discussions with her husband in front of him. Lestrade usually didn’t need to defend him anymore so he didn’t, and while he was used to Molly saying a few kind words, this was different. Perhaps he had made up for the trouble he had caused her after all.

By the time they arrived at the resort Harrington and Molly were quite deep in a conversation about the intricacies of Austen’s works, and it was because he had tuned out their conversation he saw his brother exit out of his car with a smile that quickly dropped to a scowl. It only took seconds for his attention to shift in the same direction, and he knew his own expression was similar.

“Brother dear,” Sherrinford Holmes said from where he had been smoking a cigarette. Then he spotted Sherlock as well. “And you too.”

“Sherrinford,” Mycroft said, his tone steely. “Why are you here?”

“Mummy invited me, as an attempt to mend some broken fences,” he said. “She’s getting settled but you know me.” He held up the cigarette. “Bad habit.”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock heard his uncle say quietly as Sherlock reached over for Molly’s hand.

“Who is that?” Molly asked.

“My eldest brother,” he said, watching as Sherrinford’s gaze swept back to him and then to Molly. His eyes widened and then got brighter, and Sherlock decided then and there he would show Molly was not to be looked at in that way by anyone other than him. He turned to face her and leaned in, kissing her soundly, feeling her knees buckle slightly as he set his hands on her waist to keep her up. When she pulled away to catch her breath she looked up at him, speechless. “Why don’t you and Andrea go find out where we’re staying in the resort?”

Molly caught on quickly, giving him a dazzling smile as she went in for her own kiss, giving him one that was nearly as breathtaking as it was unexpected. “I’ll make sure the bed is adequate,” she said with a wink in Sherrinford’s direction before she and Andrea headed inside.

“So the tabloids weren’t lying?” Sherrinford asked with a smirk. “Wonder how you kept her under wraps. She’s got quite a nice...” His smirk widened.

“Go back to whatever hole you’ve been hiding in,” Mycroft said, his tone more flat and hostile than before.

“And miss out on the wedding of my brother? Never,” he said. “Get used to it, Mycroft. I’m here and I think I’d like to have a bit of fun.” He walked away from his brothers then, putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling.

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock as their uncle made his way in the same direction the women had. “He’s trouble,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, he always was,” Mycroft said. “I think we’ll need to put aside our pettiness and make sure he doesn’t do anything that will ruin this for any of us.” Mycroft held out his hand to Sherlock. “Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded, shaking his brother’s hand. “Agreed.” Just what neither of them needed, he thought to himself. Complications...

[mousedetective]

Children Of Light, Children Of Dark (13/?)

And another twist with new players!

Children Of Light, Children Of Dark - There are a series of murders going on that have a pattern, and Sherlock sees glimpses of it but can’t fathom it completely. But Molly realizes it’s reminiscent of an unsolved case her mentor had told her about, where the murders were based on a series of fantasy novels that Molly herself adores. Sherlock asks her to use her knowledge as a pathologist and a fan of the series to help him figure out both sets of murders, and in the process Molly gets quite a bit more than she bargained for.

Read Chapter 1 @ AO3 | Read Chapter 13 @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

There wasn’t much forward movement the rest of the day. Lestrade was concentrating on the bear killing at the zoo, John and Mary were busy at their day jobs and Sherlock didn’t seem to want to interact with Irene any more than he had to so the day was spent poring through notes and her finishing rereading the series. When they went to bed that evening the only thing of note that had really happened that day was that Mycroft had come back to London and told his brother he needed to meet with him first thing in the morning. Sherlock had balked slightly but later admitted Mycroft sounded a bit unsure of himself and so they would go.

It was a restless night’s sleep for her, tossing and turning as images she didn’t want to think about played in her head. She was rather surprised to wake up pressed against Sherlock, thinking he would have risen from bed already, but he was holding her in his arms, using one hand to stroke her hair back. “You’re awake,” he said.

She nodded, resting her hands on his chest. “It was not a pleasant night,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “You kicked me a few times.”

She flushed at that. “I’m sorry,” she replied.

“There’s no need to worry about it,” Sherlock said. “I expected it to happen at some point.”

She stayed close to him. “I know we need to go see Mycroft but part of me wants to just hide here in bed for a while, pretend everything is fine.”

“We can for a bit,” he replied. She shut her eyes and let him keep stroking her hair, relaxing under his ministrations, until all too soon he pulled his hand away. “I’ll make breakfast. Why don’t you take a shower and see if that helps?”

“Alright,” she said, pulling away from him. He got up and grabbed his mobile from the nightstand while she moved to the other side and stretched. She really did want to hide away for as long as she could, but there was no way to do that and still solve this string of murders. She would have to get up and face the day. She made her way to the loo and took an invigorating shower, cooler than normal to blast the bad dreams away, and then went back and got dressed.

She came out to see Sherlock hanging up his mobile. “Breakfast will have to wait,” he said. “Mycroft and Anthea got unwanted gifts this morning.”

“Totems?” Molly asked, and Sherlock nodded. “What on earth do they have to do with this?”

“We’ll find out,” he replied.

She made coffee while Sherlock went to the bedroom and began to get ready. When it was done she made two cups in traveler's mugs and handed one to Sherlock before they left Baker Street to go to his brother’s home. Molly wasn’t quite sure what the connection was before she looked over at Anthea and saw that for some reason, she looked quite unnerved, and so she decided to let Sherlock deal with the totems instead. “Why don’t we have a cuppa?” she said to the other woman.

Anthea nodded, not taking her eyes off the totems on the floor. “Alright,” she replied.

Molly gently laid her hand on Anthea’s arm and that seemed to snap her out of her trance, and the brusque business-like mask she usually wore when she was at Mycroft’s side came on. But Molly could see cracks in it, and she knew it would never last long under a few well-placed questions, questions she intended to ask, albeit with some gentleness. Sherlock could be direct about this case, but she would take a different direction.

They made their way to the dining area, where it appeared breakfast had been served and interrupted. Breakfast for two, which rather confirmed some suspicions to the relationship that Mycroft really had with his assistant, given her state of dress and his and this scene before her. If they didn’t want anyone to know she would keep it to herself and she would force Sherlock to do the same to the best of her abilities. Anthea took the pot off the tea service and an extra cup and served Molly some tea, and then went to her own cup, looking at it. Molly prepared her tea with milk and sugar and then waited. “You’re connected to the old cases, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.

“My father was the detective sergeant involved with the bulk of it,” she said. Molly’s eyes widened at that. Whatever she had expected to hear, that was not among the things she had imagined. She knew the detective inspector had died without children, but she hadn’t thought to ask about the detective sergeant. She let her fingers play along the edge of her cup. “I’d always been interested in his work, and this case was something we would puzzle over from time to time even after it went cold. He had his theories, a few that were a bit...wild...that he never shared with anyone but me…”

“And now you think you’re being pulled in because of Sherlock’s involvement,” she said.

Anthea nodded. “It’s one thing to speculate from the outside. It’s another to be directly involved. Especially when your father just would not let it go.”

“Anthea...” Molly said, reaching over to touch her arm. “What are you saying?”

“My father may have been the first victim of these new killers,” she said softly. “Not in a way that had anything to do with the books, but to keep him from looking into it more. That’s why Mycroft and I haven’t been in London. We’ve been taking care of his affairs. But someone ransacked his cottage. It was completely trashed. They didn’t find his notes and the evidence he’d collected, however. And when Mycroft was made aware of this case, he made sure we brought them back for safe keeping. The killers must have figured this out.”

Molly wrapped her hand around Anthea’s fingers. She would have thought Anthea had nerves of steel, with everything she had been through in Mycroft’s employ, but this must have hit too close to home for her comfort. Molly knew a little of how she felt, with Fraser’s death and all. Not entirely, but she could emphasize. “Sherlock and I will take it all off your hands, and then we’ll tell Mycroft to take you away. The government can survive his absence a little longer.”

Anthea gave her a small smile and then shook her head. “There’s too much we need to attend to here to run and hide.”

“Then we’ll find a way to keep you safe. I don’t want to lose my future sister-in-law before I have the chance to really get to know her, now do I?”

Anthea’s eyes widened, and then she shook her head. “How did you know we’re married?”

“I highly doubt Mycroft is the type to carry on a relationship that’s simply cohabitation for long before marriage becomes a topic of discussion. Especially when...” She trailed off and looked at Anthea’s abdomen. “You’re going to be a mum in the near future.”

“Oh, Sherlock picked well,” Anthea said, a genuine smile crossing her face. “Yes, we are married and yes, we are expecting. But don’t tell Sherlock. He may have guessed with Mrs. Watson but so far we have the drop on him.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Molly said, lifting Anthea’s hand up and squeezing it. This case was even more personal now because it was involving the family she was marrying into, and she would be damned if she would let anything cause Sherlock or Mycroft or Anthea any pain. Not if she could help it.