#I could picture Sherlock sending it to him way too clearly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ebaeschnbliah · 4 years ago

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SHERLOCK’S WEBSITE

‘Reading the document is the same as seeing the author’

This says a Chinese proverb (X). What does it mean then, when John tells Sherlock in A Scandal in Belgravia: ‘nobody is reading your website’?

SHERLOCK: I have a website. JOHN: In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website.

Some more musings about Sherlock’s website ‘The Science of Deduction’ and its content below the cut ...

Just a little while later in the same episode - while he writes aboout the unsolved plane crash case in Düsseldorf ... ‘Sherlock Holmes baffled’ - John describes his own blog as Sherlock’s ‘living’.

JOHN: Look at that. One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five. SHERLOCK: Sorry, what? JOHN: I re-set that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock – not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. SHERLOCK: Two hundred and forty-three.

‘This is your living’ is basically the same as ‘this is your life’. This is YOU. The way John describes Sherlock on his own blog, shapes how the public eye views the great detective. The same way as Dr Watson did in canon in his stories for The Strand. This fact becomes even more clear during the greenhouse scene in TAB. Although Dr Watson is aware that he doesn’t tell the truth about Holmes, he doesn’t change his stories about him either.

HOLMES: .... as I have often explained before, all emotion is abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument ... the crack in the lens. WATSON: Yes. HOLMES: Well, there you are, you see? I’ve said it all before. WATSON: No, I wrote all that. You’re quoting yourself from The Strand Magazine. HOLMES: Well, exactly. WATSON: No, those are my words, not yours! That is the version of you that I present to the public: the brain without a heart; the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it.

If John’s statement ‘my blog is your living’ can be translated into ‘my blog is your life’ - my blog is YOU - what then can be said about John’s other comment, regarding Sherlock’s website ‘The Science of Deduction’, when he tells Sherlock: ‘nobody’s reading your website’? If the document, the blog, the website reflects the personality of the writer, the author and when nobody is reading Sherlock’s website because nobody is interested in its content ... doesn’t this translate into: 'nobody’s interested in who you really are’? I assume one can indeed read it that way, because the plot confirms such a translation as well.

Oh, don’t worry. I know who you really are. I’m never off your website. (THOB, Dr Frankland)

If Dr Frankland knows who Sherlock really is, just by looking at his website - at Sherlock, the author - maybe it would be a good idea to take a look as well. ... the same way Sherlock advices Kitty Riley in TRF: ‘Well, look at ME and tell me what you see ... you can just read what you need’.

First of all, I’m not going to use the external internet website created for Sherlock BBC in this post. @possiblyimbiassed did already a detailed and very interesting analysis of it in ‘The Science of Reduction’. In the comments of that post I tried to exlpain the reasons for my doubts as to whether those external informations - as fascinating and tempting as they are - could lead to a solution for the story told on TV. Anyway, in this post I’m going to look at Sherlock’s website just as it is presented on screen. But what can be deduced about The Sciene of Deduction by using solely informations from TV? There’s not much to go on, one might say ... and as I’m no Sherlock Holmes either, I will most likely ‘miss almost everything of importance’, like John did with Carl’s shoes. But looking at Sherlock, the author, is definitely worth a try ... :))))

The Science of Deduction

Sherlock’s website ‘The Science of Deduction’ can be seen already in the Unaired PILOT when he is about to answer requests from various people. The very first message he is just writing, is directed at his brother Mycroft who apparently contacted him in a somewhat ... ‘impossible situation’. Sherlock’s answer is a quote from canon, probably the most well known and often used statement of the great detective ... in canon as well as in many adaptations:

Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth. (The Sign of the Four)

How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? (The Sign of the Four)

It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. (The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet)

We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. (Adventure of the Bruce Partington Plans)

When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. (Adventure of the Blanched Soldier)

Five more requests wait for Sherlock’s attention. His Inbox is indeed well filled ... at least six possible cases ...

Sherlock answers Gregson’s request about a ‘Church bell theft’. This done, he is clearly pleased about DI Lestrade’s not very informative message ‘Please call me’. When he is about to answer Jones request about ‘Samson and Del’, Mike Stamford and John Watson enter the room and Sherlock stops working through his Inbox.

The next day Sherlock and John meet for the first time at Baker Street 221b. John mentions that he’d found Sherlock’s website the night prior but contrary to Sherlock’s big expectations, John isn’t much impressed (unlike Jeff Hope who thinks Sherlock’s Science of Deduction is brilliant). This scene happens in both versions - PILOT and ASIP - almost identically.

JOHN: Oh, I, um, looked you up on the internet last night. SHERLOCK: Anything interesting? JOHN: Found your website, The Science of Deduction. SHERLOCK: What did you think? JOHN: Quite amusing, I suppose. SHERLOCK: “Amusing”? JOHN: You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and – what was it? – a retired plumber by his left hand. SHERLOCK: Yes; and I can read your military career by your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits by your mobile phone. JOHN: How? SHERLOCK: You read the article. JOHN: The article was absurd. SHERLOCK: But I know about his drinking habits. I even know that he left his wife.

Sherlock BBC, PILOT

One of the small and also strange differences between the two versions is the ‘identification’ text line from Sherlock’s website, quoted by John. In PILOT Sherlock refers to a plumber and his left hand and in ASIP to an airline pilot and his left thumb. “It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles” tells Holmes in The Man with the Twisted Lip and “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important” in A Case of Identity. A lot of such little, seemingly unnecessary modifications and inconsistencies can be found throughout this adaptation. Maybe they are indeed there for a reason?

JOHN: I looked you up on the internet last night. SHERLOCK: Anything interesting? JOHN: Found your website, The Science of Deduction. SHERLOCK: What did you think? JOHN: You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. SHERLOCK: Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone. JOHN: How?

Sherlock BBC, ASIP

Why had the profession to be changed from plumber to airline pilot and the body part from hand to thumb, one wonders? Unless it’s because plumbers have to do with water and work down to earth or even underground. They install pipes/tubes or mend broken ones. By the way, in german language the phrase ‘install a pipe’ (ein Rohr verlegen) has the same meaning as the english ‘put up shelves’. Airline pilots on the other hand often tend to be situated high up above the clouds. Well, this sort of topic runs like a red thread throuout the whole story. And that strange change of profession isn’t the only ‘small’ modification from PILOT to ASIP either.

(Strange little changes Plumber musings)

Also interesting ... there are no visuals of Sherlock’s website in the official episodes ASIP and TBB. Only in the following episode, TGG, the viewer is able to take a first ‘official’ look at The Science of Deductions, when Sherlock writes his messages to the bomber. The look of his website has changed completely.

The Great Game: the first entry in the Forum is about Carl Powers shoes and botulinum toxin ... that’s the reason for food poisoning. (Under the microscope)

Next time the website can be seen, is after Sherlock solved the second case and sends his congratulations regarding Ian Monford’s relocation to Columbia ...

And a third time when Sherlock has solved the murder of Conny Prince ...

There is no picture of Sherlock’s website connected to the fake Vermeer painting because this time Sherlock sends the solution not on his laptop but uses the pink phone dublicate instead (Yes, besides 2 Johns, 2 Faiths, 2 Charles, 2 serial killers, 2 empty houses, 2 flights of the dead, various pairs, doubles, twins ... etc, etc ... there are also 2 pink phones present in Sherlock BBC). Anyway, the Science of Deduction can be seen again when Sherlock suggests a meeting with the bomber at the same pool, where once little Carl died, to hand over the stolen missile defence plans ...

There’s no picture of Sherlock’s website in ASIB. The Science of Deduction turns up only in the two short but very interesting pieces of dialogue between John and Sherlock with which I started this post.

John utters the opinion that their clients come to Baker Street just because of his blog. Sherlock reminds him that he too has a website. John then mockingly mentions Sherlock’s analysis of 240 different types of tobacco ash on said website and adds ‘nobody is reading your website’. Sherlock is clearly offended and corrects the number of tobacco ashes from 240 to 243. Some time later John raises the tobacco-ash topic once more, proudly refers to his own blog - and the 1895 hits on it - and tells Sherlock ‘this is your living’.

The next visual presentation of the website can be seen in THOB, when Sherlock shows John the Inbox message of little Kirsty about her vanished, luminous rabbit Bluebell ...

In the same episode Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson that a ‘little blog on the identification of perfumes’ can be found on his website. It turns out that Sherlock hasn’t only extensive knowledge regarding ash, he also knows a lot about perfumes. (Perfumes in Sherlock BBC by @gosherlocked )

The HOUND-episode is also the one in which Dr Frankland tells Sherlock: ’I know who you really are. I’m never off your website’. The Baskerville scientist knows John’s blog as well and is a bit confused that Sherlock isn’t wearing the deerstalker hat, as shown there.

The Science of Deductions turns up next in TRF, in an newspaper article about the recovery of Turner’s masterpiece, the ‘Falls of the Reichenbach’, that Sherlock was able to recover (last line on the left column).

Sherlock’s website is mentioned a last time in TSOT. Not on Sherlock’s laptop but on John’s phone. Mary suggests that John should go on a case with Sherlock. John opens The Science of Deduction on his own phone and asks Sherlock to pick a case from his already ‘bursting Inbox’. Sherlock chooses The Bloody Guardsman. Sadly it’s impossible to get a clear shot of the small mobile-screen. (John’s blog stops at TSOT by @gosherlocked)

THE LOOK

Blue is the main colour Sherlock has chosen for his website ... shades of different blue ... a dark midnight blue and the skyline of a city by night can be dimly seen in the background and - a little bit clearer - on both sides.

As Sherlock Holmes is one of London’s most popular characters, it’s easy to assume that the skyline used for his website is that of GBs capital. With this in mind, the water in the bottom right corner, that can be seen rather good on the first pic above, should be the Thames and the shallow arch above it, most likely one of its many bridges. On the opposite site, in the upper left corner, next to the small, pale tower and right behind the ‘The’ of the website’s headline, the vast vault of Saint Paul’s Cathedral can be dimly seen (the view is better on a TV screen).

If one connects the images of river and bridge on the left with St Paul’s on the right, I guess the background of Sherlock’s website could be a panorama photo similar to the one below. That’s a view from the Southbank of the Thames with Blackfriars Bridge in the foreground. And this location does play a role in the story ....

Blackfriars Bridge is located between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo Bridge. The name derives from Black Freres ... the French 'frère' meaning 'brother'. This referes to the black habits of the Dominican monks. A monk is also called a brother, a nun is also called a sister and the opposite of a ‘black brother’ would be a (ghostly) ‘white sister’. Just saying. :)

(The Roads we walk Vatican Cameos A Christmas Tale)

As mentioned above, this particular cityscape plays a role in Sherlock BBC. It’s a crime scene from TGG.

SHERLOCK: View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.

At this place, Alex Woodbridge was found, the security guard and hobby stargazer, killed by the Golem, in the Vermeer case ... the same case which doesn’t turn up in the messages on Sherlock’s website because he uses the pink phone and conveys the solution verbally. Viewed metaphorically ... he speaks through the heart.

Blue is the colour of the sky ... high up, where the aeroplanes fly. Blue is also the colour of the water, deep down below ... where powerful emotions run freely and London is Sherlock’s city. The country, the city, the houses, even cars are closely linked to the famous detective. They seem to represent his ‘body’.

Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart. (Sherlock, TEH)

Brother Mycroft IS government and ‘queen’ at the same time. There are all kinds of networks above and below ground and steam trains run behind fake facades. Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the river Thames are often special eye-catcher. The coat of arms ... with dragon, lion and Saint George’s cross ... make their appearance as well as the great fire of London in 1666, the Isle of Dogs and the Greenwich pips. ‘Transport’ goes from standstill to movement ....

666-The number of the beast Every quiver of his beating heart Saint Paul’s Cathedral Still at the centre of the web From standstill to movement

WEBSITE ... A SITE FOR THE WEB

Sherlock has a website .... John has a blog. Why the difference? Both men, Sherlock and John, are given strongly internet-related nicknames ... Hat-man and Robin:The web detectives ... Sherlock & John: Blogger Detectives. Sherlock is also called ‘Net Tec’ and ‘net phenomenon’. What’s the difference between Blog and Website:

BLOG: The word ‘blog’ is short for ‘weblog’ (web=net + log=logbook), jokingly broken into the phrase ‘we blog’. A blog is a discussion or informational website published on the World Wide Web consisting of discrete, often informal diary-style text entries. Posts are typically displayed in reverse chronological order, so that the most recent post appears first, at the top of the web page. 'Blog' and 'blogging' are now loosely used for content creation and sharing on social media, especially when the content is long-form and one creates and shares content on regular basis. (X)

WEBSITE: The word website consists of web=net + site=place. Literally web-site means ‘a place in the net’. A website can be used in various fashions: a personal website, a corporate website for a company, a government website, an organization website, etc. Websites can be the work of an individual, a business or other organization, and are typically dedicated to a particular topic or purpose. All publicly accessible websites collectively constitute the World Wide Web. (X)

Of course, the word ‘web’ immediately reminds me of Jim Moriarty. The spider at the centre of a criminal web, woven with thousands of threads and Jim knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances. Sherlock is going to monitor the underworld in order to notice every quiver of that web, so he will notice when the spider makes his move.

As mentioned above, all kinds of networks - above and below ground - play a major role in Sherlock BBC. There are Mycroft’s people, his agents and spies. There are terrorists who threaten London with a massive attack. General Shan has a vast network with thousands of operatives and Sherlock calls it ‘a cult’. A surveillance web is closing in on Baker Street, their attention focussed on Sherlock. An Underground network as well as an underground network runs below the surface of the big city. A secret cult of revenging birdes meets in the crypt of a desanctified church. Sherlock is convinced that the ‘world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other. What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics’. So many threads - linked and interwoven - they create a web, a net .... a web-net. Basically, that’s exactly how brains work as well. Every brain is a very vast and highly functional biological network ... and Sherlock’s is faster than most ‘... still catching up with my brain. It’s terribly fast’.

Recent models in modern neuroscience treat the brain as a biological computer, very different in mechanism from an electronic computer, but similar in the sense that it acquires information from the surrounding world, stores it, and processes it in a variety of ways. Neurons typically communicate with one another by means of long fibers, which carry trains of signal pulses to distant parts of the brain or body. (X)

And then there's also Sherlock’s ‘own’ network ... the ‘homeless network’ it is called. According to Sherlock, it is ‘indispensible and faster than the police’. Those group of people is based on the Baker Street Irregulars from canon. There, in Victorian London, they are street boys, sometimes employed by Holmes to run errands for him. Holmes speaks of them as ‘division of the detecitve police force’. Dr Watson describes them as ‘little scoundrels’ and ‘half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on’.

While the idea of homeless people who sometimes assist Sherlock in his cases is taken from canon, the name - homeless network - is not. Names are always important in this story. So basically, what is a homless network? It is a network that has no home. At times it is usefull for Sherlock and he pays them for their help. In a way this reminds me of Eurus. She says abut herself: 'to remember everything one just needs a big enough hard drive’. Her intellectual abilities are also of occasional use for the government. In return she requires treats. Similar to Sherlock’s homeless network, Eurus has no home either. She lost it long ago in her childhood days. Sherlock has a website ... a site, a place in the web ... but only very few people are interested in it. Actually just Jeff Hope and Dr Frankland as it seems. Sherlock has a homless network ... a network without a home.

The women of the ‘cult’ from TAB first gave me the idea that all those dangerous groups ... agents, spies, terrorists and the various networks ... could actually be metaphors for something that happens inside Sherlock’s mind. That all those groups represent the awakening of emotional stirrings ... desires, fears, impulses ... that haunt the great detective. There seem to be aspects of Sherlock’s personality which he views as rightous criminal and puts them behind padded walls or elephant glass. Others are just annoying and distracting. Some he ignores most of the time because he considers them to be irrelevant for his system. Some have no home, although they turn out to be usefull now and then. Then something unexpected happens ... something new is coming ... and this marks the beginning of a change of perception in Sherlock Holmes, maybe a revolution.

The reptile in 221b Underground networks AGRA-Under the sign of four Eurus, the emotional memory & The cold war by @raggedyblue

FOUR MESSAGES and a GAP

Four messages can be read on Sherlock’s website. All of them are from TGG, related to four of the five cases, written by Sherlock and directed at ‘the bomber’. As it turns out at the end of the episode, this person is none other than Jim Moriarty, the spider in the centre of the web.

FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia.

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

xxx

Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.

Only one of the cold cases is not mentioned on Sherlock’s website, because Sherlock uses the pink phone duplicate, sent to him by the bomber in a strong box at the beginning of the ‘great game’, to submit his message. Sometimes it is useful to ‘mind the gap’ as Sherlock says. Sometimes that, what is left out, is just as important as that, what is there. The ‘gap-case’ is the one about the fake Vermeer painting, whose forgery was first noticed by security guard and hobby stargazer Alex Woodbridge, murdered because of it by the Golem. His body was found at the Southbank of the Thames near Blackfriars Bridge ... the same location Sherlock uses as background for his website. Sherlock discovers and proves the truth due to the display of an impossible supernova on the painting.

A picture pretends to show a scene from the past, but the massive explosion painted on it reveals, that the picture has actually been created much more recently. That massive explosion had never happened in the past.

The bomber’s hostage in the Vermeer case is a kid who is never shown on screen. The little boy transmittes a countdown from 10 to 1, that mirrors Sherlock’s own countdown in TFP (Countdown) while the boy’s plea for help mirrors that of the girl on the plane and also that of Victor Trevor, the boy in the well near Musgrave Hall. Victor Trevor and Musgrave Hall represent two canon stories - The Adventure of the Gloria Scott and The Musgrave Ritual - both set in Sherlock Holmes’ university time, long before he met Dr Watson. Both cases lead back to a time ‘where Sherlock began’.

(Why Victor Trevor was turned into a child by @sagestreet)

THE HOUND & THE GUARDSMEN

Little Kirsty Stapleton’s cry for help in THOB to ‘please, please, please’ find Bluebell, her vanished, luminous rabbit, marks the beginning of the HOUND case. Chemistry, triggered by the pressure of feet, fills the air and drives everyone exposed to it, crazy. Love is in the air .... At the end Jim Moriarty (Mr Sex) walks free, released from his cell by Mycroft Holmes himself ...

Private Stephen Bainbridge’s request in TSOT, regarding a mysterious stalker, marks the beginning of the GUARDSMEN case. Jonathan Small (literally: Jonny Little), a brilliant, ruthless monomaniac (who strongly reminds me of Jim Moriarty), stabbs guardians/facades with a ‘meat dagger’. At the end Mary Watson is pregnant ... ‘stabbed’ by ‘Johnny boy’ (Hamish=James) Watson ... the HOUND hidden behind the facade of the facade .... Matroshka ‘poppets’ indeed.

“Mary – lots of love ... poppet ... oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM.” (Telegram from Magnussen, keeper of the deepest and darkest secrets and scandals,TSOT)

THE BLUEBELL COMPANIONS

Alongside little Kirsty’s message about Bluebell there appear two more requests on the Inbox page of Sherlock’s website (they can be easily read on TV screen). In films neiter images and certainly not texts appear on screen out of coincidence. Pictures are there for certain reasons, even if it’s just for the purpose of a fitting decoration. Texts on the other hand are much more specific. Someone must have had the idea to put it there and someone had to create the image. Especially the makers of Sherlock BBC have repeatedly mentioned that everything that appears on screen has its meaning. With this in mind, what can be deduced about those two earlier requests in Sherlock’s Inbox?

1- Please help victims of China earthquake. It costs just 5p.

China - right from the beginning a certain ‘easterly’ theme appears and runs from there throughout the whole story like a red ribbon until the moment the Eastwind finally approaches in the shape of Eurus. In a metaphorical reading I connect the East to emotions and memory.

An earthquake is a sudden outburst of held back and bottled-up energie. When the pressure gets too high it results in a violent release of that energy. Explosions .... rocks crack, the earth shakes. Earthquakes can trigger landslides, volcanic activity or cause a tsunami. Major changes are also often referred to as ‘earthquakes’.

Costs of 5p ... A penny (p) is a coin and a unit of the britisch pound (£), the official currency in the UK (a currency Sherlock doesn’t know how to spend?). 5p is money. The saying goes that time is money. A minute is a unit of time. Viewing it in reversed order ... money is time = 5 penny are 5 minutes. ‘It took her (Eurus) just five minutes to do all of this to us.’

Reading it that way, a possible translation of the first request in Sherlock’s Inbox could be: “Please help victims of emotional upheaval. It takes just 5 minutes.” :)

2- Re. Mudchute Query

Mudchute is a railway station situated in the Millwall area on the Isle of Dogs. The name Millwall has its source in the large number of windmills built on the river wall in the 19th century. They were needed to ground corn and wheat into flour that was brought along the Thames. The original station was located on an old Victorian railway line that had been disused for many years. An elevated station opened 1987. When the line was extended under the Thames, the station was rebuilt close to the tunnel entrance. It opened 1999 and was finally completed 2009. The station was originally intended to be named Millwall Park but then renamed in Mudchute, refering to the engineering overspill when Millwall Dock was being created in the 1840s. (X)

Basically ... the second request in Sherlock’s Inbox is about a query regarding a railway station, built in the Victorian area at a place linked to mills (♪ Remember the maid ... the maid of the mill ...♪, TAB), disused for years, rebuilt and elevated, named, renamed ... until it was completed in 2009, the same year the Unaired Pilot was created. Well .... that sounds a bit ... familiar?

PERFUME AND TOBACCO ASHES

Appart from Sherlock’s cold case messages addressed to Jim Moriarty and two requests from - Kirsty Stapleton and Stephen Bainbridge - there are only two other entries on The Science of Deduction ... Sherlock’s own analysis about perfumes and tobacco ashes. Basically that’s about ... scent/smell and fire residues.

SCENT: From Kasbah Nights to Claire de la Lune, perfumes play a significant role in this story and Sherlock is a true expert in smellig and recognizing the different brands. The first thing that comes to mind, related to the word ‘scent’ is a dog - more precisely a scent dog. One of the most prominent representatives of that breed is the Bloodhound. And it is well known that Sherlock Holmes is indeed compared to a blood hound in ACDs The Sign of Four. That same quote has been adopted in TEH (Sherlock the Bloodhound), it appears on John’s Blog and is read by Mary. But in Sherlock BBC the bloodhound isn’t only linked to Sherlock himself. The HOUND is also connected to John Watson, Jim Moriarty, Victor Trevor, Eurus and Redbeard the Irish Setter, also a scent dog.

(The dogs in Sherlock’s mind palace The bloodhound in his hands Transformation of Redbeard and the ‘Follow the dog’ series by @sagestreet)

FIRE RESIDUES: Sherlock has an extensive knowledge regarding tobacco ashes. This characteristic has also been taken from canon.

I have made a special study of cigar ashes—in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. (ACD, A Study in Scarlet)

In TSOT drunken Sherlock proclaims loudly ‘Ash! I know ash!’ Almost the same words (‘I know human ash’) uses the guy from ASIB, whose aunt had been among the plane crash victims in Düsseldorf (’Sherlock Holmes baffled’). In the same episode Sherlock steals an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. In TEH Sherlock’s return from hiatus is underlined with at least half a dozen scetches of phoenixes, rising from the ashes, at the walls of the Landmark Restaurant. Another bird that has great resemblance with a phoenix can be found on Brenda’s gravestone at Musgrave Hall (Among the funny gravestones).

Ash is the residue of a fire damage. Fire and burning is one of the main themes in Sherlock BBC. From Jim’s threat to burn Sherlock’s heart out to the gingerbread man burned to a crisp, from John’s Guy Fawkes bonfire to Sherlock’s admission ‘I’m burning up’, from the Baker Street living room in flames to the great fire at Musgrave Hall ... not to mention all the exploding or not quite expoding bombs throughout the show ... fire anf burning is never far away in this story.

(Love is a burning thing A case ablaze Set this house on fire by @gosherlocked)

TOBACCO ASHES ... CHEMISTRY BURNED

Tobacco s the common name for plants belonging to the Nicotiana family. It contains the highly addictive stimulant nicotine. The dried leaves of the plant are mainly used for smoking in cigars, cigarettes, pipes, etc ... Nicotine is a widely used legal drug. The burning of tobacco results in smoke and the residue left behind is ash. Sherlock knows ash. Interestingly and unlike to canon, in this modern adaptation Sherlock doesn’t simply know ‘any known brand of cigar or tobacco ash’, he has analysed exactly 243 different types of those ashes and he explicitly corrects the number 240, cited by John. Is this seemingly unimportant correction just there to emphasise Sherlock’s annoyance over John’s mockery or is maybe another meaning hidden behind that corrected number?

243 ... ‘This is your living, Sherlock – not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash’ - ‘243!′

243 different types of tobacco ash are not Sherlock’s living. 243 different, tobacco products - burnt to ashes - are not Sherlock’s life.

As mentioned above, tobacco contains nicotine and nicotine is a drug. Viewing Sherlock BBC on a metaphorical level ... all drugs are chemistry and chemistry is love. The chemistry of love, burnt to ashes ... 243 times over. Hmmmm .... Then an idea hit me and I asked Google a question:

This answer is from January 2020. The first official series of Sherlock BBC aired 2010 and the Unaired Pilot has been produced in 2009. I seem to recall that the first and the second series have been accepted by the BBC at the same time and since 2009 several more Sherlock Holmes adaptations have seen the light of day (Guy Ritchie Holmes, Elementary, New Russian Holmes, Miss Sherlock, Mr Holmes, Sherlock Gnomes, Holmes&Watson, Enola Holmes ... to name just a few).

Could it be that the number of different tobacco ashes, analysed by Sherlock, mirrors the number of different adaptations about the famous detective? Sherlock Holmes ... reborn again and again with each adaptation, like a phoenix from the ashes, and yet he was never able to live a full life ... including emotions, love and sex?

‘All lives end. All hearts are broken’, that’s what Mycroft tells Sherlock in ASIB. Chemistry burned to ashes in an endless row. ‘So many days not lived, so many words unsaid’ ... says Eurus in TFP and referes to the coffin whose lid is adorned with a brass plate, I LOVE YOU, written on it (A coffin for love). You are absolutely right @loveismyrevolution with your idea of Sherlock standing between two ‘angels’ in that scene, although I would rather call them ‘choices’. Because this scene has great resemblance with the three solutions/choices Sherlock has to choose from after the event on Barth’s roof (Solutions or choices).

At that time Sherlock is confronted with two elemental forces ... love and sex. The one is represented by Molly (mirror for John) and the other one by Jim Moriarty, Mr Sex. Sherlock chooses neither one of the two. He backs away and walks a third path. He decides to live a celibate life - married to work - solely dedicated to reason and intellect, represented by Mycroft. That’s why he needs to create a strong facade to hide his true feelings for John. But then, unexpected and without noticing it at first (delayed action stabbing), even this facade gets ‘penetrated’ by John. Love (Rosie) is conceived and this changes everything. (Changing of the guard)

After the first shock (shot), Sherlock starts to go deeper into himself than ever before. He repeats the investigations about himself (the pink case) from a different perspective. Everything that happens in S4 reflects, in one way or another, occurances from S1-S3 ... arranged differently and some new actors are added. For example: the morgue-scene in TLD is a mirror of Sherlock’s fall in TRF ... it’s another Reichenbach. Eurus’ five tasks of Sherrinford seem to be a sort of ‘final distillate’ of Sherlock’s repeated analysis. In the coffin-scene Sherlock is once more confronted with a choice. This time though SEX is excluded. Sherlock has to choose between LOVE or BRAIN. And just as he did after the ‘first’ Reichenbach, Sherlock tries again to back away. At that stage though Eurus doesn’t let him. Sherlock’s emotions force him to go back to the very beginning, to find the truth. What that truth is and what consequences will come from it .... is still untold in this story, as I read it. There’s a final distillation but not a final solution at the end of S4.

“This is your living, Sherlock ... not 243 different types of tobacco ash”

... says John, refering to his own Blog. But is this really the truth? The counter on John’s Blog stops at 1895 in ASIB and the text entry, read by Mary in TEH, is a quote from canon. Already in the first series, in TBB, Sherlock asks John - his blogger/biographer - to pass him the pen and near the end of S4, in TLD, John’s Blog has ‘gone a bit downhill’ and people actually think it's Sherlock’s Blog. This leaves the question: is Sherlock taking over the narrative of his own story now? What kind of story will it be? How will it end? Will Sherlock have to make a third choice in the future? A choice between Dr Watson, the ‘fixed point in a changing age’ and John Watson, who could be so much more than just an ‘eternal’ friend? After all, there are two Faiths in the story, two serial killers and Hamish (Jim, Mr Sex) hides right in the middle of John (H) Watson ... at the very centre of the web, one might say.

Two times John Pairs-Twins-DoubleOHs Double OH seven Bond Air is go The big question and an excellent explanation of the idea about ‘Two-John’s’ in the comments on this post by @lukessense

Will Sherlock BBC turn out to be one more adaptation that ends as a ‘missed oportunity’ ... one more chemistry burned to ashes .... another sample of tobacco ash for Sherlock to analyse and add to his list? Or will it be different this time? Something new ... something big? Will it be the story about the emotional and sexual awakening of the literary character Sherlock Holmes?

Only the future will tell ....

Thanks for reading and thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

February, 2021

#sherlock bbc #the science of deduction #sherlock's website #reading the document is seeing the author #nobody is reading your website #nobody is interested in who you really are #this is your living #this is your life #messages #inbox #analyses #tobacco #perfume

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mutedsilence · 3 years ago

Text

Had the idea of writing a short sequel of sorts for I Feel Like I Don't Even Know Him!

It's not finished, and I'm not sure how much I'll write for it, but under the cut is some of what I've got so far. Takes place around chapter 16. Please let me know what you think.

Lestrade was having a long day. He had spent all day dealing with petty criminals, now he had to go back to his boyfriends to take care of Sherlock. Because clearly, the man had never been played before. How had he gone so long without having a man mess with him? Surely he didn't think it was actually love? They did look good together. And Greg had never seen Sherlock so happy.

Mycroft had wanted to send in the cavalry just that morning. Greg was convinced he would have sent England's finest to knock on John Watson's door. He had talked him out of it of course. Although, it was tempting. Sherlock had been so happy before, and now? Well, it hurt to see the man. He would hardly venture from his bed. Acting like a heartbroken teenage girl in some American flick, not that Sherlock watched them. He didn't get the reference. Neither did Mycroft for that matter. Just some offhand comment that Sherlock's age and gender had nothing to do with it.

Now, Greg drove towards Mycroft's house. Honestly, he spent more time there than at his own flat. It was more like home. He just didn't want to move in without Mycroft saying so.

As he put the spare key into the door, it swung open to reveal Mycroft. He had his phone pressed to his ear. "Oh good, you're home," Greg's mind stuttered to a halt, but he didn't have time to ruminate on the use of 'home' before Mycroft had continued. "All my research says that Sherlock should be over it by now. So we have to go to the Watson home to-"

"No!" Greg had found his voice and managed to move towards his impossible boyfriend. "I told you this morning, you're not getting involved."

Mycroft looked at him, his mouth opening and his hand dropping slightly. He shook his head a little and hung up the phone, letting it drop on a nearby table. "You were half asleep. How could I take you seriously when your words are muffled by my chest? Hmm?" Greg just shot him a look. Mycroft rolled his eyes, paired with a perfectly put upon sigh. As if Greg had been acting unreasonably. Him? Of all the people acting unreasonable, it certainly wasn't Greg.

He passed by and dumped his bag on a kitchen chair, making his way to the kettle. Mycroft liked his tea made on the hob, but Greg just wanted tea. "Why not just buy him some ice cream? Like a proper big brother. Not like the British government with a personal vendetta."

The kettle clicked off and was punctuated by another exasperated sigh from Mycroft. He turned and disappeared behind his office door, leaving Greg with two mugs. Perhaps Sherlock would actually drink it if offered.

It was a long shot.

Greg picked up the mugs and went to move down the hall. Towards Mycroft's office and Sherlock's depression filled hovel. He stopped short when Mycroft came to stand in front of him, blocking his path. Mycroft had a jacket on and was slipping his slim wallet into the inside pocket. "Well? Come on then."

This was all too much. So much had happened in the short time he'd been back. All he wanted was a decent cuppa, and maybe a hug from his boyfriend. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so. He sighed, looking down at the mugs he still held, "What are you going on about?" Mycroft looked put out again. It was times like this, Greg could really see the family resemblance.

"To buy ice cream. Come on. It was your idea." The emphasis seemed to do it. He left no room for argument.

Mycroft swept past him, picking up Greg's bag and rooting through it. Greg just shook his head and dumped the undrunk tea on the counter. He took his car keys from inside his pocket and shook them before he walked towards the front door. They needed to get some things anyway. He hated asking Anthea for shopping. He prefered to buy his own food. Plus, he could scout out all the good bargains.

Without looking behind, he climbed back into his car. He'd let Mycroft drive back, he loved to drive, and Greg liked to be driven by him… but he would never take them to Tesco. Mycroft's nose was buried within his phone.

They drove in silence. Only the slight vibration of Mycroft's phone and the quietened chatter of the radio hosts filled the space around them. It was peaceful. Until Greg parked in front of Tesco that is. "Why are we here?"

Greg unbuckled his seatbelt and turned the key. "Ice cream. It was your idea to come now," He made a move to get out of the car, but stopped at the lack of movement from the passenger seat. He sat back and gave Mycroft an expectant glance. "Look, I've got to get stuff too. I can't afford whatever posh place you go to, Tesco is closer than Asda. Not only that, I need petrol and it's cheaper here. Now… shift your shit let's go."

Mycroft's eyes flickered over Greg - then over the shoppers around them. "I'll pay petrol, but we have to go to Sainsbury's."

Greg's mind stopped. He mentally went over what Mycroft had said. Surely he didn't say Sainsbury's? The thought of Mycroft in his three-piece standing in the store - was something he just couldn't picture. He couldn't even picture Mycroft surrounded by orange… or holding a basket for that matter. It wasn't where Anthea went. He knew that. There was some exclusive place that you had to have a membership for. Mycroft sighed, pulling Greg from his mind and back into the car. "He will only eat mint-choc-chip and raspberry ripple. He can taste the difference. Mummy used to shop at Sainsbury's, when he was sad, mummy would give him a bowl of raspberry and mint."

This… was new information.

He could just picture it. A young Sherlock and Mycroft bonding over a bowl of ice cream. He could imagine a young Sherlock throwing a wobbly over what ice cream he was given. The fact it apparently carried on into adulthood made Greg smile. Who would have thought that the man could be so… human.

Greg pulled himself from his musings and started to drive towards the nearest Sainsbury's - unable to argue with Mycroft's reasoning.

#fanfic #johnlock #mystrade #IFLIDEKH!#new fic extract

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greekgeek21 · 3 years ago

Text

Percy Jackson & The Avengers: Convergence - there is a fight scene included

I am not dead, just extremely busy. My summer lacrosse season just ended, so hopefully I get some inspiration to write some new chapters. In the meantime, I hope this will tide you over for some time.

Keep in mind, this was written weeks ago, so I am not in the mood to answer any weirdly specific questions about my artistic choices. In other words, if you don't like it, you don't have to read it! I know, it's a truly monumental realization.

For my kind & loyal readers, don't forget to comment, like, and follow!

- your author

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Avengers or PJO!

Ω ♆ Ω

By the grace of the gods, the group managed to pass the sirens without an issue. It seemed like the mortals had finally accepted that it was in their best interest to listen to the Seven. So, as soon as Percy warned everyone to fill their ears with wax, they filled their ears with wax. Of course there were a few complaints, but that was expected. Nobody was perfect (no matter what Narcissus insists).

From there on out, the nerves were building. Percy had informed the team that their next stop would be Polyphemus' island, and everybody, mortal and demigod alike, knew what that place was. It was where the most infamous cyclops lived, but most importantly, it was where Annabeth was being held, if Percy's father was to be trusted.

Since it would still be another two hours or so, according to the sea expert, until they reached the island, the group decided to try resting. Some tried to nap, while others sharpened their weapons or hung out on the deck. It was futile, but they were trying to prepare themselves for a situation that they had never before encountered, not even Percy.

It was safe to say that everyone was scared shitless.

Ω ♆ Ω

Leo had decided to go downstairs and tinker with some stuff from his belt as a distraction from their impending doom. It was working too! He was in his own little world that only machines could enter. That is, until Tony Stark walked up to him.

"Whatcha doing, kid?" he asked, peering over Leo's shoulder to catch a glimpse at the boy's creation.

"I'm making a mini automaton to help us find Annabeth when we get to the island," was the answer.

Taking a closer look, Tony started to see it. It was a very small machine, but if you looked closely, it was clear that it was made of metal. The automaton was about the size of a quarter, and looked like a celestial bronze spider. Leo was currently adding the last two legs to it when Tony walked up.

When Leo looked up, he held up his creation with a proud smile. "This baby can be our spy. It's eyes are tiny cameras, and it's made almost completely of celestial bronze. We can send this in, and then know where Annabeth is before we storm the place."

Tony nodded, "Yeah... Pretty good idea, kid."

And ok, so Leo was freaking out a little bit on the inside because one of his idols had just complimented his work. But on the outside, he just smiled a little wider.

"You haven't even seen the best part. You've gotta see it after I turn it on. I added stealth-mode so nobody should even be able to know it's there," Leo said, grabbing the spider and flipping it over to press a button.

As soon as he had, the spider flipped itself over in his hand and started crawling up his arm. Tony was a little creeped out, but it was blocked by the fascination for this new kind of science the demigods had. The spider should have to be controlled by a human, but it was moving like it was almost...thinking on its own. There was no way it had an AI, but that was the only solution his mortal brain could come up with.

"Is it an AI?" he asked.

"Nope. It's a greek automaton. They don't need AIs. I programmed it to listen to a few simple commands when needed, but if we don't order it around, it'll just stick around me waiting for orders. Pretty cool, right?"

"Awesome," Tony whispered, in awe of how smart this seventeen year old kid was.

"Thanks. I think I finished it just in time because I heard Percy calling us back upstairs," Leo said. Before he had even finished he was walking towards the deck, not a care in the world for the metal spider crawling around on him.

"Oh, I'm definitely becoming friends with this kid," Tony muttered to himself before following Leo.

Ω ♆ Ω

"Did you get it done, Leo?" Percy asked as soon as he had seen him.

"Yep. Here it is." Leo held up the automaton-spider.

Percy smirked. "Oh, Annabeth's gonna love that."

Leo shrugged, acting clueless. "I have no idea what you're talking about. The spider was just the first thing I could come up with."

"Sure it was," Piper snorted.

Leo fake-gasped. "Beauty Queen! How could you ever think I would lie?! I would never!"

Clint whispered to Natasha, "The kids clearly have a strong bond that only comes from fighting for their lives with each other."

Frank turned to them, surprising the spies that he had heard them, "No shit, Sherlock."

Before anything else could be said, Percy reclaimed the entire group's attention. "If you look to the right, you can see Polyphemus' island. We're going to dock on the south side of the island because that is the only way to get on without climbing a cliff and facing carnivorous sheep. Hazel should be able to disguise the ship until we invade the base, so don't worry about being seen. Leo will send in his spider to check things out and then we'll follow after we know where Annabeth is. Everybody got that?"

At the noises of affirmation, Percy nodded. "Good. Suit up if you're not already."

Of course, Tony had to break the calm solemnity by saying, "Cap, I thought that was your line?"

Everybody collectively rolled their eyes.

Ω ♆ Ω

After they docked, Leo released his spider with specific orders to find Annabeth Chase while staying hidden. That was working until Polyphemus' stupid super-senses could smell the celestial bronze. Leo hadn't known that a blind cyclops would be able to smell metal, but you learn something new everyday, right?

The spider lasted all of five minutes in the cave before Polyphemus smelled it and crushed it under his giant smelly foot. Percy had thought that the cyclops would take longer to reform, but when had he ever been that lucky? Something that completely baffled him was how the mortals got him to not eat them. The dude had been pretty desperate for food the last time Percy had run into him, so how had the weird boss guy gotten him to hold off?

The only thing he could think of for them to feed him would be...nope! He's not going there right now.

The last thing the spider had transmitted to the group was a picture of a mortal holding a gun to Annabeth's head while she was gagged and chained. It made his blood boil.

"I'm going to kill them," He growled, starting to get off the boat and storm the place.

Jason stepped in front of him before he could, "Easy, Perce. You don't know what you're walking into. They want you to go in half-cocked, so we can't give them that. You know Annabeth can handle herself, so just take a breath and we'll figure out a plan."

Percy took a shaky breath, but it did nothing to cool his anger.

"Jace, if you don't step out of my way in the next two seconds, I will be forced to move you, and trust me, you don't want me to do that."

The son of Jupiter stood his ground, "I'm not moving. I know you Percy. Hurting me would go against your fatal flaw. I'm your best friend; your family. I know you would never intentionally hurt me."

Jason glanced over at the rest of the group, who hadn't dared to move if it upset Percy even more. The guy was a ticking time bomb, and they needed to defuse it before it went off and destroyed any chance of getting Annabeth back safely.

Percy almost looked in pain as he spoke his next words, "Jason, I love you. You're my cousin, but Annabeth is my everything. I will hurt you to get to her."

Jason sighed, expecting that answer. "Then at least let us come with you on your suicide mission. I'm not letting you die without me."

"Fine, but hurry up. I'm leaving now," and Percy shoved past Jason and started the trek up to Polyphemus' cave.

Jason turned to the others, who were all staring after Percy with shocked expressions. "Well you heard him! Move your asses!"

That seemed to startle them awake. Everyone but Bruce started moving.

Ω ♆ Ω

By the time the team had been able to catch up to Percy's fast pace, he had already reached the nearest entrance to the cave. It was a dark, narrow path that had walls of rock on either side reaching up for hundreds of feet.

"This is the part in the horror movies where I start screaming at the tv to not go in there and they still go in there," Piper whispered.

They were all just staring at the darkness, and it was getting awkward. For someone who was so hasty to get to Annabeth, Percy was sure taking a long time to get there.

"Are we gonna go in or..." Tony said.

Percy sighed. "Yeah. We're going in. Just don't separate from the group."

He led the way into the cave with Steve right behind him. Percy appreciated having someone else who could take some of the responsibility off his shoulders. Almost his entire time in the godly world, he had been expected to be the leader because of his father, and he had stepped up, but that doesn't mean it didn't weigh on him. Annabeth was the only one who had been able to help him with the stress, and without her, he was losing it. He had already been barely hanging onto his control over his powers, but now without her, what he was doing could barely be called control. It was more like holding back a rampaging bull with a string.

Ten minutes later, they found themselves hiding behind the wall that led to the room where the gang was waiting. Just as the spider had shown them, Annabeth was kneeling under the gang leader's feet while he held a gun to her head.

She looked murderous, so at least something was still normal in the world.

Steve poked his head around and gave a quick scan of the room before turning back to them, "Ok so we've got at least ten humans, with five monsters. One of the monsters is as tall as a building so I think he's the largest threat. Tony, Clint, Nat, and I will deal with the humans if you guys handle the monsters. The main priority is getting Annabeth to safety. Percy, that's your job."

Saying that last bit was just to clarify for everyone else, though they looked like they didn't need to hear it. Percy had a determined look on his face, one that said he wasn't going to allow anyone else to have his assignment.

"You got it, boss," Tony remarked. "Do you just want to storm in there?"

Before he could get an answer, Percy charged into the room, leaving his friends entirely unshocked, but the Avengers were looking a little mad.

"Don't worry, plans aren't really his thing. Even if we do make them, they never go our way. It's better to go with the flow when fighting with Percy," Hazel reassured, and then turned to follow her godly cousin. The rest of the Seven followed, leaving the Avengers to just stare at each other in confusion.

"I like their style," Tony said before flying into the room.

Natasha sighed. "I'm really starting to regret meeting these kids."

Clint smirked at her before leaving, closely followed by Steve and the Black Widow herself. For all three of them, everything about this mission was against their nature, but there wasn't much they could do about it. They were in unknown territory with a group of newly-allied teens and no backup. It was a shitshow before they had even left.

Ω ♆ Ω

Frank was fighting a dracaena, and it was making it super annoying. The thing would not stop talking about grocery stores. It was quite distracting when trying to kill it.

"Seriously! Can you believe how nobody can see how bad those chains are?!" it exclaimed.

Frank sighed, ready for it to be over. Whenever he would try to stab it, it would just slither away right at the last second, all the while continuing to complain.

He decided to use his shapeshifting abilities to catch the thing off-guard. In reality, he could probably deal with it in seconds, but when he really used his inner son of Mars, it drained him. He needed to save his strength if he was going to fight Polyphemus.

Speaking of, so far, the cyclops had stayed out of the fighting. He was just sitting on his throne made of rock, picking at his teeth with what Frank really hoped wasn't a human bone.

Frank changed into a squirrel for a second, climbing up onto the back of the dracaena with the animal's speed and before the monster could react, he changed back into a human and stabbed it through the back with his spear.

"Huh. I guess you can shut up," he remarked as the monster turned into dust.

After, Frank turned to help Hazel take down an empousa. She had already defeated four before that, so it was a pretty easy fight. He had been keeping an eye on her throughout his fight. Sure, he trusted she could take care of herself, but it was also his job to watch her back.

"Thanks," Hazel told him with a quick peck on the cheek after they finished.

Believe it or not, that kiss on the cheek was a major improvement. It had been a real adjustment for Hazel to learn how couples expressed affection nowadays, and it had taken even longer to start showing it herself. It helped that Frank preferred words over touch, too.

"No problem."

Ω ♆ Ω

"Get some, térata!" Leo screamed, running up to the manticore and sending giant, continuous blasts of fire at it.

He had heard of Dr. Thorn from Nico, Percy, and Annabeth before, and had somehow retained the knowledge that it was extremely durable on the outside. That meant that he had to think smart in order to beat it.

So far, Leo was distracting it and holding it off with his fire while he thought of a plan. However, he could only hold it off for so long. He would eventually tire out.

Come on, Leo, THINK!

Then it hit him.

It was so simple! He had been told the story of how the Nemean lion was defeated at Camp. Now usually, he would totally ignore any schooling he was given, but the stuff they were taught at Camp was much more interesting than algebra. So yeah, he remembered some stuff.

So, he decided that his best shot at beating Dr. Thorn was landing a large enough hit inside of him. That meant he had to figure out a way to get him to open his mouth. That wasn't really the hard part, though. The hard part was figuring out how to not die when he had to get closer to the monster.

"Estoy jodido..." he muttered before taking a step forward, never once stopping his assault on the beast.

The Manticore didn't seem to be moving back from the intensity, but rather reveling in the fact that he hadn't gained one burn from the fight. He was just waiting out Leo.

That was not a fun revelation for the son of Hephaestus to have.

And that was when the thorns started attacking him. He should've been expecting it, really. The guy had a tail of poisonous thorns and he hadn't used it yet? Something should've registered in his mind. But that was past-Leo's mistake. Present-Leo had to deal with the super tall, scary, poisonous, and royally pissed-off greek monster in front of him.

Dr. Thorn let out a war cry and swung his tail around, releasing a line of spikes at Leo, who managed to just barely duck out of the way. He was not keen on becoming swiss cheese!

"Ok. It's time to end this." Leo sighed in annoyance, jumping back up and charging.

He swung his battle hammer up and lit it on fire, deciding that he might as well stick with the common theme of stupid ideas. He managed to keep dodging attacks all the way up until he was within ten feet of the manticore. Then, he threw his weapon at the monster, praying to Apollo for good aim. He had fixed the sun chariot plenty of times, so the god had to owe him at least one favor.

Once again, Leo's stupid demigod luck kicked in and the hammer somehow embedded itself in the monster's mouth, which had been opened in a prideful roar. Honestly, the son of Hephaestus didn't know HOW he did it, just that it worked.

With the distraction of having a flaming hammer in his mouth, Dr. Thorn didn't see Leo running up with his arms raised and prepared to fire. By the time he did, it was too late because long blasts of fire were flying straight towards his open mouth.

The monster was able to mutter a silent curse before he disintegrated into dust, once again sent to Tartarus.

"Take that, bitch."

Ω ♆ Ω

Piper was absolutely sure the Fates were laughing at her. They had to be. There was no way that she just happened to be stuck with the two empousa. It didn't help that Jason was struggling to not drool over the girls. She just had to keep chanting in her head that the monsters were using their charm powers on him, and he was not actually attracted to the disgusting things.

After the two monsters tried to both swipe at her at the same time, she growled and shouted, "Jason! Get your head in the game and come help me!"

He had been blinking and shaking his head for the past two minutes and it was getting quite frustrating to have these donkey-cyborg-vampires ganging up on her with no back-up. Once this was over, she was going to make Jason work to get back in her good graces.

With just a little bit of her charmspeak added into her order, Jason was finally able to break free from the empousai's spell. He quickly willed his gladius to be a javelin and launched it through one of the monsters, which made it explode into a shower of golden dust. A traitorous part of Piper's brain insisted on calling that move hot, but she was able to school her expression back into a scowl before her boyfriend could notice.

The other empousa let out a shriek and said, "You MONSTERS! That was my sister! I'll make you pay for that!"

They only had a second to appreciate the irony before she launched herself at them with even more fervor than before, fueled by the rage of losing her "sister."

Jason couldn't help but notice how she was wearing a cheerleading costume. It was very ripped and destroyed, but it was clearly a cheerleading uniform. And as he was deflecting her claws, the ADHD part of his brain realized that the logo on the uniform was for Goode High School, Percy's old school. He almost wanted to laugh when he remembered the story of Kelli, an empousa acting as a cheerleader during Percy's freshman orientation. Percy had always said the monster had a nasty habit of coming back quickly, but Jason had just thought it was an exaggeration. But no, he and Piper were really fighting Kelli, one of Percy's recurring monsters.

It would be hilarious later, truly. But for now, he had to actually kill the thing.

Kelli had backed off when she realized that attacking out of rage wasn't going to work against two experienced demigods, and that also gave Jason and Piper a chance to make a plan themselves.

"Got any ideas?" he asked Piper.

She grinned with a terrifying amount of murderous glee. "I thought you'd never ask."

And then she told him her plan, which was essentially just using him as bait while she got to do all the killing. The prideful Roman part of him wanted to insist on him killing it, but he managed to reign that in when he saw the look on Piper's face. She was not asking, she was telling. Who was he to say no, especially after he hadn't been able to fully resist the empousai's charm?

A scary thought told him he was turning into Percy. He brushed that off for later nightmares.

"Come get me, bloodsucker!" He shouted, raising his arms up in a taunting manner. If he was acting like Percy, might as well go all the way right?

With yet another shriek, Kelli stormed at Jason, completely disregarding the daughter of Aphrodite that was stepping back and preparing to literally stab the monster in the back with her dagger.

Sometimes Jason wonders how a creature could be so stupid. Their plan was so obvious!

It went off without a hitch, technically. Piper let the empousa get a little too close for comfort before she killed it, but he trusted her to get the job done and she came through. Kelli had been prepped and ready to bite into his neck right before she exploded into dust.

It was one Hades of a trust exercise, that's for sure.

"Please don't let it get that close next time, Pipes," he breathed out while he put away Juno's Gladius.

Piper gave him a quick peck on the lips, "Not a chance, Superman."

Ω ♆ Ω

Considering the circumstances, the Avengers weren't doing half-bad. They were actually fairing pretty well. They knew how to deal with humans, so their job wasn't that hard. The only difficulty was that there were four of them and ten of the bad guys. They were sorely outnumbered.

Currently, Steve was fighting two at once, with a third opponent already knocked out a few feet away. He was blocking one with his shield while punching the other in the face. He then switched roles, instead kicking the first attacker and driving his shield into the gut of the second. The one he gutted gasped and fell to the ground, and was knocked unconscious was a simple hit to the temple. While he was distracted with taking down his partner, the still-conscious bad guy recovered from the kick and was able to land a hit to the back of Steve's head. Clearly, the fighter had been prepared to have achieved some form of disorientation from the Captain, but all he got was a pissed-off Avenger.

"That tickled."

It took less than five seconds for Steve to take him down after that.

Natasha also started with three adversaries. Key word being 'started.' It had taken barely any time to take down the first two. And all she had to do for the third was a scissor kick and hold until he passed out. She had just finished doing that when a call from Clint got her attention.

"Nat!" he shouted.

She turned on instinct and threw a throwing knife at the person running up behind her straight into their chest. They stopped with shocked features before falling to the ground in a heap, dead weight pushing the knife even further in and no doubt killing them faster.

"Getting rusty, Clint?" she teased, throwing a look over at her friend.

"No," he defended. "I'm just making sure you're not getting rusty!"

The archer hadn't realised one of his two attackers had sneaked off to go after the "bigger threat." He would never let Nat know he thought she was the bigger threat, though. That would be fueling an ego he knew was somewhere deep down in her.

Tony had been given two people to fight as well, and he was doing pretty well. He had the obvious advantage of being in the air, so all the gang members he was fighting could do was try to shoot at him with their guns, and his armor was designed to withstand a nuclear bomb. Bullets weren't gonna do much damage.

"Guys, seriously, we should just talk this out. We both KNOW I'm going to be knocking you both out in five seconds, so why don't you surrender instead? It'll be so much easier for the both of us!" he said, raising his hands and readying his repulsors.

As expected, the bad guys didn't show any sign of slowing down their useless attack on him. With a roll of his eyes and an obnoxious sigh, Iron Man shot them both in the chest, knocking them out cold.

"That felt too easy. Did that feel too easy to you?" He asked the other Avengers as they gathered back together.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with Tony," Natasha said, "That fight was too good to be true."

Now that the truth had been revealed to them, the Avengers could blame what happened next on the Fates.

Ω ♆ Ω

There it is! I hope you liked it

other chapters :)

#pjo #Percy Jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #avengers #marvel #mcu #heroes #superheroes #fanfic #ff #ao3 #wattpad #inkitt #webnovel

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aridara · 4 years ago

Text

So Siryouarebeingmocked, being the patethic and toxic imbecile he is, decided to complain about how people are treating the Capitol coupers differently than BLM protesters. Like, no shit, Sherlock, that’s because they ARE different. SYABM just pretends that BLM is somehow worse, because he has literally never denounced a white supremacist in his entire existence on Tumblr.

For example, he claims that, during this summer, cops were ordered to look the other way when it came to BLM protests. This is a complete and utter lie.

He also claims that Trump was accused of “being a fascist sending out government troops” just because he sent federal cops to protect federal buildings. Again, this is false. Trump sent troop to kidnap people off the streets and take them elsewhere for interrogation, on unlabeled vehicles, without showing or telling the arrested where they were going, and most importantly without any charge. Basically, they went in Portland, arrested any black person that happened to be there for no fucking reason, then dragged them away into some federal building to detain them. Of course, SYABM doesnt’t tell you any of that, because SYABM is a fascist sympathizer.

Someone called @lercymoth decided to dispel his bullshit. Here’s the post; I can’t reblog it, because SYABM blocked me after I pointed out that he was making cops look really incompetent.

SYABM responded. And his response was, obviously, shit. So here I am, trying to deal with his bullshit.

Before we start, a few rules. First: if SYABM misinterpreted or missed Lercymoth’s point, I will instantly dismiss SYABM’s argument without even reading the rest of it. The reason why is simple: countering your opponent’s argument requires you to counter what your opponent ACTUALLY said. If you don’t do that, then you aren’t actually countering your opponent’s argument, which means that you don’t have any actual objection to your opponent’s argument. Now, we could give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they just made a honest mistake... but SYABM doesn’t deserve any mercy whatsoever. So, if he fails to address one of Lercymoth’s arguments, Lercymoth automaticaly wins.

Second rule: if SYABM completely dismisses Lercymoth’s arguments as “irrelevant”, SYABM automatically loses. Again, SYABM deserves no mercy whatsoever. If he doesn’t bother to make a counter-argument, then he doesn’t have one.

>Yes, people some people got shot, but:

There’s an old saying; what comes after the ‘but’ is the real argument. It’s generally reliable. Especially when you’re being vague about identifying folks in this sentence when you’re ostensibly acknowledging victimhood of the recent DC protesters, but very precise in the following ones when you want to assign blame, or claim BLM are victims

This is a “tone argument”. SYABM isn't addressing Lercymoth's argument; he's whining about the way Lercymoth is presenting it.

Since SYABM isn't actually addressing Lercymoth's argument, this paragraph is worthless. Lercymoth wins.

>let crowd in

Yes, because they were outnumbered, IIRC. They physically couldn’t keep the crowd out without killing people.

Surprisingly, SYABM might actually have a point here.

Unfortunately, I have no intention of giving him mercy. SYABM conveniently forgets that the police has no problem whatsoever with killing black people for being potentially threatening. So why the disparity here? SYABM doesn't explain it, therefore Lercymoth automatically wins.

>took selfies

So you’re implying a few pictures obviates being shot?

SYABM is deliberately missing the point. The point is that the cops decided to be friendly with the insurgents despite the fact that they aren't supposed to be buddy-buddy with insurgents who are attempting a coup.

SYABM automatically loses, since he deliberately avoided addressing Lercymoth’s argument. Lercymoth wins.

>Had to to get attention

There are several things wrong with this statement.

So let me get this straight. you think government officials don’t care about the lives and livelihoods of black people. and so, you decided the best way to fix this problem is by destroying the lives and livelihoods of black people...

Nope. Black people didn't choose to protest. The violent reaction of the police, coupled with decades of racism, caused the riots.

Martin Luther King Jr. said that “a riot is the language of the unheard”; and this is precisely what is currently happening. We're at the point where riots WILL happen, regardless of what black or white people want; and the only way to fix this is by addressing the cause of the riot. Continuing to blame black people without fixing the racist police system addresses the symptom, not the cause; and on top of that, it's precisely the mindset that caused the riots in the first place.

Also, 93% of all BLM since May have been peaceful (https://time.com/5886348/report-peaceful-protests/) - and that's if we count “spraying graffiti” and “responding to an unjustified attack from cops/white supremacists” as violence. The vast majority of the violence came from white supremacists and cops. Therefore, any discussion about the violence that happened during the protests that DOESN'T acknowledge this is intrinsically dishonest, and therefore must be dismissed.

Ah, also this bit:

in fact some of them are still claiming it. like aridara. he implied the riots themselves by blm were all peaceful, but any actual violence? clearly that was done by undercover cops and 88ers.

Yeah, SYABM just made that up. As fucking usual. Rest of the section dismissed due to SYABM's dishonesty. Lercymoth wins.

>rubber bullets

yeah it’s literally impossible to aim those with precision outside of point Blank range. you cannot reliably shoot somebody in the eye from more than a foot or two away.

SYABM is missing the point. Lercymoth was talking about cases where people were shot directly with rubber bullets. Keep in mind that EVERY training says that rubber bullets must be aimed towards the ground, so that they bounce off and lose power before hitting the protesters. The sheer amount of times cops violated this basic training, and the fact that they violated such a basic rule, shows us that these aren't accidental cases; these are deliberate actions.

SYABM, instead, claims that the cops couldn't reliably aim at people's eyes, therefore cops didn't deliberately shoot rubber bullets directly at people. Which is bullshit logic. Rest of the paragraph dismissed. Lercymoth wins.

>fascist

Nope. People literally called the cops ‘troops’, including news sources, and called him fascist for sending them in.

SYABM is once again missing the point. Trump sent in federal cops to arrest people without any charge, kidnap them off the streets, and transport them to federal buildings without telling anyone.

Rest of the paragraph dismissed. Lercymoth wins. Again: if SYABM wants to disprove Lercymoth's arguments, then SYABM must actually talk about Lercymoth's arguments. If SYABM talks about other stuff without actually addressing Lercymoth's arguments, then SYABM didn't disprove Lercymoth's arguments - which means that the latter wins by default.

All that other stuff? Irrelevant. My point was “the cops used much less force than they did in DC to protect Federal property in Portland,...

SYABM is once again missing Lercymoth's point, which is that cops use IMMEDIATE violence against BLM for stuff like peaceful protesting; while they treated the Capitol coupers with kid gloves. SYABM failed to disprove this (no, his bullshit cherry-picked example doesn’t count jack shit), therefore Lercymoth wins by default. The end.

It’s funny you should mention Ted Wheeler, when he’s one of the people the rioters harassed. And the tear gas incident in July was when he was an anonymous face in the crowd, wearing a mask,...

This is false. As usual, SYABM just lies, lies, lies without bringing any source to back up his own claims. In fact, whenever he makes a claim without bothering to bring up any source, the chances that he's lying increase considerably.

Anyway, rest of the section dismissed because it's based on a lie. Lercymoth wins.

>- Putting fucking children in concentration camps. (They’re not detainment centers. Those don’t have fences cages with tin foil blankets.)

How exactly do you detain people without fences and walls?

SYABM is once again missing the point. Lercymoth specifically said “fence cages”; SYABM, instead, talks about fences and walls. SYABM refuses to address Lercyomth’s argument, therefore he abandons the competition; Lercymoth wins.

>No one wants the idea that the White House raiders being treated better than BLM to be true.

Really? No one wants to claim BLM are treated worse because of racism? Not a single person?

SYABM is once again missing the point. Lercymoth is pointing out that nobody wants X to be true; but X is true so people claim that X is true. Because it IS.

SYABM cherry-picks Lercymoth's argument into “nobody […] claim that X is true”. Which is a massive strawman. Which means that SYABM isn't attacking Lercymoth's actual argument – which means that Lercymoth, once again, wins by default.

And that's it. Literally ALL of Lercymoth's arguments win by default, because Siryouarebeingmocked is too coward, dishonest and spineless to actually try to disprove them.

#syabm is at it again

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opheliacassiopea · 4 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 6.

TW: Mature language, mentions of alcohol consumption.

Flopping down on your sofa the next morning, you find yourself grinning at the thought of last night as you look through the many pictures that had been taken to document the events of the evening. You insisted on using your Polaroid camera to capture most of the evening, the walls of your apartment were littered with small snapshots of your life; the team, your friends outside of work, nature, anything that made you feel at peace. Your apartment, much like your appearance was how you expressed yourself and it was your sanctuary.

Looking through the photos, Hotch plays on your mind. He looked good last night, so much so that you had to fight with yourself to stop stealing glances at him. You knew it was wrong to think about him like that, but it was nearly impossible when the man looked that good. Especially his hands, the prominent veins and the polished silver Rolex that sat on his wrist making him look even more attractive. Pulling out a photo of the both of you laughing at Spence’s attempts to beat Derek at a game of snooker, you think back to the conversation at the table.

“You did good, you did good, Pais”. ‘Pais’. Not Selwyn, not Paisley, Pais. As you repeated it, it sounded strange at first, or at least it did until you imagined Hotch being the one saying it and then it felt right. Did he realise the significance of giving you a nickname? The very word is defined as ‘a substitute for the proper name of a familiar person and often used to express affection, it is a form of endearment and amusement’. Surely he must have done, he wasn’t the type of person to do that sort of thing, something that..intimate. Plus, he knew you weren’t one for your name being shortened by just anybody. Was he trying to say something, to tell you something? Of course he isn’t you tell yourself, he’s your superior for God’s sake. Pushing thoughts of your boss to one side, you carried on about your weekend. Despite your plans not being thrilling, you were looking forward to them nonetheless. You had dedicated the time to catch up on much needed sleep and general self care and you were incredibly glad of the opportunity. Always valuing time to yourself, you couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed that the weekend vanished at a frightening pace.

Flipping through the information brochure, you don't bother looking up at JJ who speaks to you “Spence tells me you’ve picked lecturing for the last module of your doctorate?”. The team, well you JJ, Prentiss, Morgan and Reid were currently sitting at the round table on your lunch hour, which was a rare occurrence with your schedules, you were nearly always working a case, or too swamped with paperwork. Garcia was hidden away in her lair doing who knows what, Rossi out for some fancy lunch and Hotch locked away in his office.

“Yeah, figured it couldn’t be too difficult and the genius himself has offered to help me prepare in the library so it seems like a win win if you ask me” you reply to her as you finally stop reading and look up at the faces around the table “what? It’s not like he’s writing my thesis, I’m just being resourceful and making the most of what's available, y’know?” you defend yourself, shrugging your shoulders.

“Oh so you’ll accept Reid's help, but not mine? You wound me pretty girl” Morgan teases, throwing an empty bottle at you, which you catch effortlessly and throw it into the bin, but not before you roll your eyes at him, sending him a cheeky smile as you do.

Disconnecting herself from JJ’s embrace, Emily stands and crosses to you, picking up the brochure you were reading and scans over the information, before discarding it and spinning the chair you were sitting in toward her, clearly she could sense your apprehension. “You’ll do great Paisley, you’ll hit every inch of this criteria, I doubt you even need Reid’s help and besides, it’s not like you need another qualification to prove yourself, you’ve earned your place here” she tells you and you find that you have to force yourself to hold her gaze so you give nothing away.

One of the reasons you had multiple degrees was because on some level, you did feel the need to prove yourself, to prove you were doing something with your intellect and to prove that you did have a place on this team. Never did you want to be looked at as the baby FBI agent, who simply followed the others on the team like a shadow. On the other hand however, you genuinely loved learning and felt it was only natural to continue your studies to the highest level

and you were proud of yourself for doing so, you’d come a long way since your childhood, but you didn’t want to dwell on that for long. A few weeks pass and you soon find yourself sat in one of your favourite places; the older, dustier and lesser well known section of the bureau library, scanning over various notepads and books whilst feverishly typing at your laptop planning your first lecture. Looking across the table at Spencer, who kept true to his word and accompanied you to the library for assistance, you voice your initial plan for your first lecture in a few weeks.

“I’m thinking of starting with nineteenth-century literature with the themes of crime and detection as a general focus and then work my way into psycho-linguistics with instances in literature, before moving on to case specific examples”. Whilst you held a close bond with Derek, you were good friends with Spencer too. The two of you would often hold mini academic debates between yourselves on the way home from a case, or on the phone in the early hours of the morning. From an outsider’s perspective it may look like something more, but that wasn’t the case, you genuinely just had a lot in common and it was nice to be able to watch Harry Potter over and over with somebody who gave no complaints.

“What texts are you thinking of using? I personally think that Arthur Conan Doyle’s, Sherlock Holmes stories would be a fine choice. It’s more of an obvious one as the element of crime is incredibly apparent and the style of writing is fascinating on it’s own, so it would break the students in nicely I think.” Spencer reveals and you nod in agreement, returning to your typing.

The weekly sessions in the library seem nothing more than distant memories as you find yourself standing at the front of the lecture hall listening to Professor Moore’s introductions. You begin to wish you’d chosen a different final module. Why were you so nervous? You chased serial killers down on a day to day basis, surely you could give a lecture to a bunch of hopeful students for an hour?

“Much to your enjoyment, I will not be lecturing you for these next three months” Professor Moore informs her students in a lighthearted tone. You knew firsthand she was a good teacher and hoped her students didn’t expect too much from you. “This fine young woman will be taking over as part of the last module for her doctorate in criminology and psychology, so please be kind to her and don’t even think about any kind of tomfoolery in my absence, I will be dropping in and keeping in direct contact with Paisley so don’t think it will go unnoticed.” she looks at you and winks as she tells them “plus, she’s one hell of an FBI agent so she won’t tolerate it anyway”.

“Right well, thanks for that Professor. Uh, I’m Paisley and as you know I’ll be taking over for these next three months, hopefully you’ll find it as quick and painless as possible” you tell them, hoping it will break some of the tension and it does, you find the students take to you well as you dive in to the job you’re there to do. “We’re going to start with looking at nineteenth-century literature through the themes of crime and detection. I know this isn’t the big stuff right away and I apologise for that, but I find it’s better to develop a general understanding of the topic first, before delving deeper.” you tell them as you begin to pace the lecture hall out of nervousness.

“This is the century which saw the creation of the Metropolitan Police Force in London, the birth of private and police detectives, and the rise of investigations into the psychology and social causes of crime. The genres of detective fiction and the dramatic monologue which both emerged during this period will be largely focused on, but we’ll also take a look into less frequently studied genres like journalism to give you a full flavour of the period’s insatiable taste for crime”. Switching to the next powerpoint slide, you take a breath and steady yourself, maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

“Fictional texts are studied in the context of contemporary debates about crime, policing, criminal responsibility and madness, including legal texts and those related to the emerging science of psychology. We will be studying the texts through genre theory and cultural and historical perspectives”. As you look out to the back of the lecture hall, you’re able to make out the familiar figure of Dr Spencer Reid. He’d taken one look at you that morning in the bullpen and knew how nervous you were; you’d paced back and forth to the break room countless times, drinking far more tea than usual and barely uttering a word to anybody as you fiddled with the two necklaces that always hung round your neck.

You bite back a smile and continue speaking to the students “indicative primary texts for the semester will consist of a selection of popular crime ballads and the dramatic monologues about murder and madness by Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, along with a selection of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. It’s absolutely essential that you all keep up with the reading. And with that, I’ll leave it there for now. Don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions and I’ll see you all next time”.

Watching the students disperse from the room, you breath out a long sigh of relief and throw yourself into a nearby chair and by the time you get back to the bullpen, Spencer is practically screaming at the top of his voice as he tells anybody that would listen about how well you’d done in the lecture, speaking in just the right tone to be authoritative, but relatable and approachable. In short, he was incredibly proud of you and pride radiated off every inch of him.

Two months had now passed and much to your surprise, it had now become part of your daily routine that Hotch would sit on the chair beside your desk during your twenty minute break at eleven o’clock each morning. At the start of your break you’d always find a cup of tea, perfectly made on your desk and each day you’d find yourself smiling as you knew who it was from. If Hotch was in a particularly good mood, he’d surprise you with a vanilla milkshake and raspberry muffin like he had done that very first time. If the team hadn’t picked up on it at first, they definitely had now, but they chose not to say anything.

Some days you’d talk in depth about all manner of things, whereas other days you would find yourselves both working away in a comforting silence. Today was one of his chattier days and he greeted you with a smile as he placed a mug of tea down for you, and a mug of coffee for himself. “You’ve never told me the story behind all these little cartoon frogs pinned to your noticeboard” he begins, tracing his fingers over them as he looks to you for an explanation.

“You never asked, I’m surprised you didn’t use those profiling skills of yours to figure it out” you reply in a joking manner as you set your mug down. “To answer your question though, Spence asked me what my favourite animal was when I first started and when I told him it was a frog, he started to draw me one for each month of the year to help me settle in. I’ve got one of them tattooed on my ankle, I’m surprised you’ve not noticed it” you finish telling him.

“Can I see it? The tattoo?” he asks and you notice the nervousness in his voice and it makes you smile, seeing him almost shy is so unnatural you’re not quite sure how to act. You comply, kicking off your doc martens and pulling your left trouser leg up to reveal the image of a frog wearing a hat, sat on the edge of a teacup. It’s not the most conventional tattoo in the world, but you love it nonetheless. “It’s very you, I’ll give you that” he tells you as he helps you back into your shoe.

You share a small laugh and you begin to pick up a file, ready to get back to work as the break comes to an end and the team filter back into the room and head to their desks. It’s Prentiss who asks you first “how’re feeling about your final lecture next week, Miss almost Dr Selwyn?” as she maneuvers a huge stack of case files from one side of her desk to the other.

“Pretty good I think, just want to find out who the assessor is and get it over and done with to be honest” you tell her as you begin looking for a case consult you’d lost in a stack of folders.

“Doesn’t Hotch normally assess some of the final modules? He used to guest lecture with Rossi and Gideon quite a lot” JJ asks as she collects a pile of completed files from the table.

“Actually no, he stopped guest lecturing once Gideon..uh...left” Reid fills you in “he thought it took up too much of his time and it was more productive to focus on leading the unit”.

“Huh, well at least you know it won’t be Hotch” Emily tells you and you smile in response as you dial the internal number for a copy of the police report for the consult you were working on. The rest of the day passes easily as you work through your files, thankfully not being interrupted by a new case and the rest of the week sailed by smoothly.

This was it, the final week of your doctorate. You’d been allocated reduced duties to allow time for the final hand in of your thesis, along with the multitude of exams you had to complete and you now you just had your final assessed lecture to complete. Arriving slightly earlier than anticipated due to your nerves, you decide to busy yourself replying to emails at your desk in the relatively empty bullpen, mulling over the happenings over the past week in the process.

Hotch had been keeping his distance and you didn't have it in you to figure out why, you’d just presumed it was just work and left it at that. Realistically you had far too much to worry about; the past week had left you feeling the most stressed you’d felt in years.

Shifting your gaze to Hotch’s office, you’re able to see him talking on the phone, eyebrows furrowed together and jaw clenched. Clearly he’s not in a good mood and you’re thankful you’ll be out of the office all day. Checking through your notes one last time before you make your way to the lecture hall to set up, Hotch’s voice alerts you to his presence, you’d been so caught up in going over your notes that you didn't notice him leave his office. “Don’t you have a lecture to teach, Selwyn?”.

Before you can even look at him, he’s turned his back and retreated to his office. Pushing through the glass doors, you furrow your brows in confusion; what was his problem? It was only on your arrival to the lecture hall that your nerves began to kick in, this was it, once you’d finished teaching this class, your doctorate would be complete. Beginning to set up the powerpoint slides and distributing the resources for the lecture you find yourself slipping into a state of calmness as you worked, you could do this and you could do it well. Treat it like a case briefing you told yourself. Ten minutes later students begin to file into their seats and you’re pleased to greet Professor Moore who’s acting as the assessment supervisor. Toward the end of the lecture, you noticed an extra body had slipped into one of the seats on the back row and you knew who it was instantly. Aaron Hotchner. You’ve got to be fucking joking. He’d spent the better part of a week avoiding you and when he did speak to you, it was mostly dismissive and now he had the gall to show up to your final assignment. Swallowing the urge to throw one of the bulky textbooks at him for his sheer nerve, you continue explaining your current point to the students.

“We’ve already been over the idea that psycholinguistics is the study of how the psyche responds to words and languages and this is how it’s distinguished from sociolinguistics. One focuses on the social dimension of language, and it’s stylistic patterns, whereas the other focuses on the expressive functions of language”.

You begin to bring the lecture to a close, but not before thanking the students for their patience and hard work throughout the semester and you’re quick to express your gratitude to the professor for all her help and support. And just like that it was over, you were done. Hastily, you start to pack away the resources from the lecture in order to avoid a conversation with Hotch, his dismissive attitude had annoyed you all week and you weren’t thrilled at the sight of him in your lecture after the way he’d spoken to you this morning.

“Can I help you with something?” you ask him in a cold tone, your eyes focused on shoving your laptop in your bag as you wait for his response, but you don’t receive one. Scanning the room one last time for any of your belongings, you promptly turn on your heel and exit the room, ignoring his calls as you melt away into the sea of scurrying students.

Things between the two of you eventually returned to normal, you weren’t even sure what ‘it’ was at this point and you didn’t care to ask, you weren’t even sure that it was normal. Hotch didn’t do these kinds of things or so you thought, but you knew better than to question it. Recently the team had been pushed in all directions, working case after case with little to no breaks, so it came as no surprise to you that the month of your graduation arrived in no time at all, acting as the perfect distraction for you all.

Pulling the garment onto your body, you admired the satin fabric of the deep purple dress you’d chosen to wear that day, it’s strappy sleeves allowing the many tattoos that graced the upper

half of your left arm to be shown off, along with the low neckline displaying the delicate tattoos on your collarbones. Before slipping on your graduation cap and gown, you add the finishing touches to your makeup, deciding to go for more of a dramatic look, if there was a day to go all out, it was definitely today. Giving yourself the once over, you feel a bubble of nerves form in the pit of your stomach, today was the day you were graduating and whilst you were excited, you felt apprehensive. Now that you were about to graduate, the pressure to live up to your new title was immeasurable and you were keen not to disappoint.

“Miss Paisley Anora Selwyn”.

You stand as your name is called, focusing on not falling over in your heels as you walk across the stage to receive your doctorate. There were no words to sum up how you felt, the moment was indescribable and as you walked back to your seat, you could hear a chorus of cheers and shouts from the team who insisted on buying tickets to watch the ceremony and later celebrate at one of the slightly fancier bars in the area. Luckily you’d managed to talk Penelope down from doing anything over the top and she very reluctantly agreed, making you settle instead for a compromise that allowed her to buy you a extravagant gift instead.

“Tonight we’re here to celebrate Dr Paisley Anora Selwyn, many many congratulations” Dave begins the toast and you inwardly cringe at the use of your middle name.

Midway through the pleasantries, you feel Hotch’s hand resting on your lower back and you resist the urge to turn and smile up at him, instead opting for shuffling closer, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks as you do so.

“Dr Paisley Anora Selwyn” the team echo as they raise their glasses to you, all grinning from ear to ear.

As the night progresses, you lean back against the bar, taking stock of the day. It was hard to believe that only three months ago that you were sat up till the early hours of the morning studying, the end seeming to be miles away, and now you’d finally done it. That wasn’t the only thing on your mind though, much like usual, Hotch occupied your thoughts. All throughout the night there had been subtle touches, stolen glances, and silent conversations between the two of you, and you loved it. Appearing next to you at the bar, Hotch’s arm slips round your waist, pulling you closer into his side as he congratulates you.

“I’m proud of you, well done, Pais”.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #fbi #behavioural analysis unit #aaron hotchner #aaron #aaron hotch hotchner #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #ssa hotchner #hotch x you #hotch x reader #hotch x oc

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myheartrevealedocs · 4 years ago

Text

Untouchable Ch 6- The Fisher King: Part 1 (S1E22)

Summary: A Spencer Reid x OC fanfic that retells select episodes, starting in season 1, from the point of view of Lydia Ambers, a forensic scientist.

Warnings: swearing, murder, threats

Ch 5 | Ch 7

~ ~ ~

“Have you read any of the Sherlock Holmes stories?” Reid inquired, as he walked past Lydia’s temporary desk.

They’d just gotten back from a case and Lydia was hard at work to finish up any reports she had to give that night. She had recently set herself to a standard that she wouldn’t bring any work things to her apartment so that she could focus on her studies there.

“When I was in middle school,” she answered, not looking up from her file. “Why do you ask?”

“Your job on our team is very Sherlock Holmes-esque.” He continued standing to the side of her desk, patiently hoping she’d engage more with him.

And she did after he said that. “Out of the two of us, you think I’m Sherlock Holmes?” she laughed.

“Well, I’m not exactly comparing us to Holmes and Watson, I just…” He paused as he reached into his book bag and Lydia swiveled her chair to face him directly. “I found this collection of some of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories in my apartment and I thought you might like them, if you hadn’t read them before.” He waved the brick-sized book up for her to see. “Do you want them?”

Lydia was surprised, to say the least. She stared at him for a moment, with widened eyes. “You saw a Sherlock Holmes collection and… you thought of- thought of me?” It felt so stupid, but she wasn’t sure what else there was to say. It felt like a joke, but Lydia could see no reason for Reid to be playing her.

“Of course,” he chuckled. “You’re brilliant. You’re younger than me and we’re on the same team. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

She shook her head wildly, the ends of her hair smacking her across the face. “I’m some lowly intern, Spencer. You were a supervisory special agent at the age of 23.”

“You could be, too,” he suggested. “You’ve got two more years to accomplish that.”

She stopped herself from shaking her head again and smiled down at her lap. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be an agent. I’ll stick to blood splatters and fingerprints.”

When she looked back up at him, she realized that he was still holding the book.

“Oh! I’d love to read some stories though,” she informed him. “If you’re sure you want to part with the book for a few weeks.”

“It’s not a problem,” he responded cheekily, setting it down on her desk. “You’ll have to call me and tell me what you think of the ones you read.”

She agreed and was watching him wander away when something struck her. “Oh, Spencer!”

He flipped on his heel, looking at her curiously. “Yeah?”

“You’re headed back to Vegas over your break, yeah? So I won’t be able to meet up with you at the cafe that week?”

He nodded.

She couldn’t help but glance at the gift he’d just given her. To borrow, of course, but it made her heart swell. “I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll be fine. You barely ask me for help on your courses anymore anyway. I think you’ve got it all figured out.”

A panic hit her as he left. Did he think she didn’t need him anymore? Was he going to leave her to get her PhD by herself now?

It wasn’t his job, but she’d figured he would be there to help her for every step of the way, as he had the past six months. But he was a genius, so if he said she could do it, shouldn’t she trust him?

Ehh… he was intellectual, but college relied on emotional and mental factors, too. If something unexpected happened, she might need him again. Why did it feel relieving to know that something might cause her to be incapable of doing this alone??

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

It wasn’t about the PhD at all.

No, no, no.

She had feelings for Spencer Reid.

~ ~ ~

“I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.”

Lydia allowed herself a few extra minutes to scan the pages of “The Red-Headed League” that evening after dinner. In the past few days, she’d read a few of the shorter of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, but had yet to talk to Spencer about them. He’d left for Las Vegas the previous day and she’d gotten the feeling that going home to his family was stressful for him, so she decided to give him some time to settle before speaking with him again.

Or at least, she thought she would.

Before she could truly invest herself in the book’s pages, she heard a brief knock at her door.

This job had really made her paranoid. She went totally silent, listening closely, but didn’t hear any voices or shuffling outside. Which was better than someone screaming at her to open the door or else they’ll kill her, but didn’t assuage her fears. No one she knew was in town. They’d all gone elsewhere for their vacation time with the exception of Hotch. Nor did they know where she lived to her knowledge. And if someone had accidently tapped against her door on their way down the hall, she would have heard them walking away… right?

She creeped towards the door, trying not to make any noise. If there was someone creepy out there, hopefully she could convince them no one was home and they’d leave. But there was no one outside that she could see from the peephole.

She was still afraid that someone might be hiding outside of the door’s line of sight, so she waited for a minute longer, looking out occasionally for any movement and listening closely. It wasn’t until she heard one of her neighbors leaving, a girl around her age who lived with her boyfriend down the hall, that she thought it was safe to open her door. If there was someone creepy waiting outside her door, her neighbor wouldn’t have acted so normal on her way past.

So, Lydia cracked the door open and looked down the hallway for anything out of place and found a small square package on the floor. There was no return address on it. On the top, written in Sharpie, was her name, apartment building, and room number.

That didn’t look good. But at that point, her fear of getting murdered was overtaken by immense curiosity. This had to have been hand delivered, but by who? The only people who would consider sending her a package were all in California.

She grabbed a nearby pair of scissors and slit the tape on the box to open it. And the inside was far stranger than the outside.

Inside was a singular orange prescription bottle. The label was made out to a Lady Blanchefleur for bupropion. She had no clue what the name meant, but the drug? That was targeted.

She was infuriated just by the sight of it and was ready to throw it out, but she saw a small slip of paper inside. She flipped the cap off and unrolled the small sheet.

SAVE HER.

What the hell was going on? Was someone trying to torment her about her past?

But who knew?

As much as she wanted to forget about the whole thing, Lydia knew something was messed up about this whole picture. Clearly whoever had sent this knew a lot about her history. More than she thought a single person did know about her life. It was terrifying and sickening to think about.

Gideon told her not to call while he was on his vacation time. He needed the time away from anything work related and she could understand that. And she didn’t want to bother Hotch when he finally had family time. The only other person on the team who she trusted with this information was…

Spencer.

It was still mid-afternoon where he was, so she figured a call at this time would be reasonable. And even if he told her it was nothing, she could really use a voice she could trust right now.

It took him a few rings to pick up. “Hey, sorry. What’s up?”

“Hey, Spencer? I just got a really weird package delivered to my door. It doesn’t have a return address, just my name and apartment room. And inside-”

“Lydia, don’t open that,” he said, quickly, but she huffed.

“I already opened it. It’s just an orange pill bottle. But inside, there’s a note that says ‘save her’. And I have no clue why someone would send me something like this.”

She could feel his exasperation across the country. “Next time, don’t open weird packages, yeah? But I’m not sure why you’d get something like that. Garcia and JJ are at the office right now. You should call one of them and have the package processed. Let me know what you find, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you. Sorry for bothering you.”

“You aren’t bothering me at all. I’m glad you called…” He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Talk to you later, okay?”

“Talk to you later.”

~ ~ ~

“Lydia!” JJ cried upon seeing her enter the BAU the next day. “Thank god. Something really weird is going on.”

“Did they find anything on the package I got?” Lydia inquired and she was quick to shake her head.

“No. But Hotch had to go to Jamaica, because Elle was arrested for murder and Gideon got a package with a head inside it.”

“A head?!?” Oh god, she was lucky. “A human head?”

JJ nodded. “Hotch is clearing Elle’s name and then he’ll be back with her and Morgan. Oh, and don’t bug Garcia,” she warned. “Her computer system’s down. She thinks she got hacked. When I went in there she was freaking out.” Lydia opened her mouth to say more, but JJ was off again. “Gideon! I’ve been trying to call you.”

Lydia flipped around to see Gideon marching towards the two of them. “Why?”

“Someone sent you a head?” JJ demanded.

“From Jamaica.”

“Morgan and Elle are in Jamaica right now,” she explained. “There was a murder. The body was headless. Elle’s been arrested for it.”

“What?”

“Hotch headed down there last night with some bureau lawyers and a crime scene unit. He should be there by now.”

Gideon rubbed his forehead, looking beyond exhausted. Lydia wondered what he’d been doing when that head arrived at his cabin. He’d made it very clear to them his cabin was where he had time to himself and she felt so bad he’d been so grossly interrupted. “If you talk to him, have him call me right away.”

“Yes, sir,” JJ replied, and they both took off in different directions. Lydia considered sitting at her desk and finding a way to pass the time while this mess was figured out, but an agent stopped her and Gideon on their way into the bullpen.

“The baseball card, medication bottle, and notes from your packages,” the man said, handing her the evidence bags. “We processed them. There’s nothing. And we’re still working on identifying the head.”

“Try contacting the Montego Bay Police. Apparently they have a headless homicide victim.”

“Got it.” He took off and Gideon waved Lydia towards the round table room.

“Lydia, start setting up an evidence board. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Sure.”

She dashed away and began pinning the small items onto a corkboard. Gideon had received an envelope with the exact same ‘SAVE HER’ message on the outside and inside was a Nellie Fox baseball card. And her evidence bags included a small slip of paper and a medication bottle.

She hesitated putting the last item up. This bottle… it was personal to her. And as soon as it became evidence in a case, she’d have to come clean about its significance.

She huffed and stuck the pin in more forcefully than she meant to. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have any secrets. Whatever, right?

They didn’t have to know everything, did they? And maybe, this unsub just picked random information to put on the bottle. Completely coincidental.

Except JJ had said Garcia’s computer might have gotten hacked. Shit. The FBI’s databases probably had that information on file. As well as where she was currently living. So then, maybe the coincidence was actually the bottle? This person had no clue how she felt about those stupid, plastic cylinders. That made more sense logically.

In fact, the only thing that didn’t make any sense was the name. Lady Blanchefleur. White flower.

Lydia jumped out of the room and towards her desk, typing the name into a search engine.

Blanchefleur was a common French name in the Middle Ages. She was the heroine in a famous story titled “Floris and Blancheflour” although the spelling of the name and details of the story changed depending on when and where it was transcribed. The name was also given to two separate characters in tales of the Knights of the Round Table: the first being the mother of Sir Tristan and the second, the love of Sir Percival.

She scanned page after page for anything that might indicate why the unsub had chosen that name, but there was very little on the name in fiction or history. The tale of Floris and Blancheflour was a short and sweet romance, but she could find no connections to herself or the case in it. And in the case of the round table knights, the name had been mentioned, but the characters never appeared in the stories, so she didn’t have any leads on that detail.

She glanced up just in time to watch JJ rush from her office to Gideon’s, a wooden picture frame in her hand.

She growled and shut down her computer, knowing full well that she was about to get more evidence for the board. But so far, other than a body in Jamaica and a head in a box, none of these pieces fit together.

~ ~ ~

“Come on,” JJ told Lydia, making her way out of the round table room. “Hotch, Elle, and Morgan should be coming up now.”

Now, to add to their collection, they had a butterfly in a frame with the message ‘SHE HAS BEEN SEARCHED FOR BUT NEVER FOUND’ and the name of a man who’d disappeared from Jamaica following the mysterious murder, Frank Giles. Lydia had been staring at the board for an hour at least, completely zoned out, but she listened to JJ and followed her through the bullpen.

Their timing was perfect, finding the three colleagues in a circle just outside the BAU office.

“Hotch, I spent half the night in an interrogation room,” Elle was berating him. “I am not sleeping until I find this Frank Giles.”

“Frank Giles left Jamaica last night on the Red Eye,” JJ informed the group as she and Lydia joined the circle. “He flew to Florida and then got onto another flight to Virginia.”

“Virginia?” Elle snarled. “You mean that son of a bitch is from here?”

“I don’t know if he’s from here, but this is where he flew to. Arlington.” She looked over the page a different tech analyst had given her. “He’s got a long criminal record. Manslaughter, robbery, rape.”

“What about the victim?” Morgan asked. “Marty Harris.”

“Uh, he’s a two-time convicted fetish burglar, registered child sex offender-”

“And we have his head,” Gideon interrupted, joining them. “CSU just positively identified the one delivered to my cabin.”

“‘Don’t waste time on the first victims. They were unrepentant bad men. They only got what they deserved,’” Hotch recited from a notepad in his hand.

“What is that?” Morgan asked.

“I got a phone call last night before you called from Jamaica,” he informed the group, waving the notepad with the conversation he’d written on it.

“Any mention of a ‘her’?” Elle questioned.

“‘You must help him save her,’” he responded.

“Now there’s a ‘him’, too?” Lydia rubbed her forehead as if it would clear her mind from this nauseating puzzle in front of her.

“I think he means Reid,” Gideon explained.

“Reid?” JJ asked.

“We need to regroup,” Hotch determined and the entire group turned and entered the bullpen.

~ ~ ~

Lydia lay dramatically with her head over the back of the chair she was seated in. They’d all migrated back to the conference room and she hated the idea of going back to staring blankly at the evidence boards. So her eyes traced the tiles of the ceiling as she listened to the rest of the group speak.

“So, clearly we have a psychopath who’s intent on drawing us into his game,” Hotch was saying.

“Playing with us,” Gideon added.

“Then let's return the favor,” Elle fired.

“He kept telling us repeatedly to save ‘her’. What ‘her’?” Morgan asked.

“The items he sent must be some kind of clues.”

Hotch agreed with Gideon and told JJ to start listing them off on the whiteboard.

“I got a Nellie Fox baseball card from 1963,” Gideon began, “and I got a head in a box.”

“I got a rare butterfly in a shadow box,” JJ added, before beginning the list.

“And repeated messages to save ‘her’,” Hotch offered.

Elle was pacing, obviously furious. “I got the decapitated body and a nice visit to the Jamaican police headquarters.”

“Reid called from Nevada,” Gideon explained for him. “He’s on his way back here with a skeleton key and a note he got, too… Lydia?”

She jumped up in her seat suddenly. “Sorry. I got a medication bottle with the name Lady Blanchefleur on it.”

“Lady Blanchefleur?” Elle asked.

She shrugged. “It’s French. It means ‘white flower’. I looked it up and there are a few notable uses of it throughout history, but nothing stood out to me.”

“Wait,” Hotch mumbled. He began flipping rapidly through his notepad again to find his scribbles. “You said Reid got a key?”

Gideon nodded.

“The guy who called me said something along the lines of…” he scanned the page he was on. “‘Sir Percival holds the key’.”

“Percival!” Lydia cried. “Yes! That was one of the… the Knights! At the Round Table!”

She grabbed Hotch’s notes before he could protest and looked over the line again.

“Sir Percival was known as Arthur’s most innocent and loyal knights. He went on the quest for the Grail and he was in love with… Lady Blanchefleur.”

She froze up at the implications of that. Did the unsub know that she was crushing on the doctor? But how? That was on no file and she definitely hadn’t told anyone.

“Ok, but wait a minute,” Morgan continued, no one seeming to notice her embarrassment. “They don’t contact us this way. I mean, they might taunt us, dare us to catch ‘em. But they don’t drag us into their fantasies.”

“Why not?” JJ asked, turning away from the board she was writing on.

“Because they’re sexual fantasies,” he argued. “I mean, taunting us is a show of power, but making us the object is… I don’t know what the hell that is.”

“Something else about the baseball card,” Gideon murmured. “Nellie Fox was one of the stars of the 1959 White Sox. I went to almost every game with my father that year. Fox was my hero. So, is it a coincidence that he sends this to me? Or does he know how I feel about him?”

JJ’s eyes went wide. “I collected butterflies when I was a little girl. That’s how I knew what butterfly was in the box.”

“So then he knows us,” Morgan determined.

“I got an anonymous message,” Hotch argued.

“I got a police raid,” Elle continued.

“But he knew exactly where we were,” Morgan shot back. “Hotel in Jamaica. Gideon at the cabin. Reid in Vegas. You and Lydia at your homes.”

“He got that from the Bureau computers.” Garcia appeared in the doorway, a manilla folder in hand. “Your locations are always in there so they can find you if they need you. I checked the log. The hacker was definitely in the personal folders. There were room numbers to the hotels in Jamaica, the address of Gideon’s cabin… There’s a lot of information in those databases,” she admitted.

“Have you figured out how he was able to get into the Bureau’s computers?” Hotch asked and she swallowed, harshly.

“I’m- I’m still working on that,” she said, but she looked like she was nodding.

“Garcia, if you know something-”

“No, it- um…” Lydia felt so bad for her. She looked terrified. “It’s just- I… I was playing a game yesterday. An online game.”

Gideon blinked. “A game?”

“Not on the Bureau computer, sir,” she defended, quickly. “On my own personal laptop.”

“Garcia, no, no, no, no.” Morgan put his head into his hands and Garcia’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t understand,” Hotch said, softly, seeing how fragile the tech genius was.

“Wireless internet,” was all Morgan said.

“By wirelessly hooking into the net here to get online, the hacker could have gotten into my computer first, and I have far less protection on my own laptop.”

Hotch crossed his arms. “And he could have gotten into the entire Bureau computer system this way?”

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper at this point. “Yeah, it’s possible.”

Gideon got up slowly, turning away from the group. “Playing a game?” he asked. “How could you be that stupid?”

“Gideon!” Lydia shouted.

“Information, files,” he continued, ignoring her. “You have a responsibility.”

“I know, sir,” Garcia apologized, the tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

Everyone stayed silent at the spectacle, wondering who would speak first. Lydia watched everyone’s eyes drop to the floor as Penelope looked for some support and it infuriated her. She threw down Hotch’s notepad and walked over to comfort the girl, but she pushed her away.

“But I found him,” she told them through her tears.

“You what?” Elle started to move towards her.

“I know who he is,” she said. “The hacker. His name is Giles. Frank Giles. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, four miles from here. I have his address.”

She handed the folder to Hotch before swiftly leaving the room.

“Did she say Giles?” Morgan repeated.

~ ~ ~

Hotch: Rm 1210. Now.

Lydia hadn’t even read the text before she was throwing on her vest and leaving the SUV. Hotch had required her to start wearing the bulletproof attire after the fiasco in McAllister when Cory Bridges had a gun on her. It didn’t exactly make her feel safer, knowing that the vest wouldn’t have stopped a bullet to the face, but getting shot on the job didn’t help him or Gideon prove she was an asset to Strauss, so she agreed to it.

She silently passed all the exiting SWAT guys as she made her way upstairs and to Frank Giles’s apartment. She thought for sure that she’d watch them walk him away in handcuffs, but by the time she got to the room, she hadn’t seen him. Maybe he wasn’t home?

Oh, how wrong she was. She stepped into the apartment building and found the team standing around his body. He lay on a bare bed, a long sword straight through his chest. And, of course, in blood behind him:

HERE THY QUEST DOTH TRULY BEGIN

“God damnit,” she grumbled, already pulling her gloves out of her pocket.

“He’s definitely playing with us,” Hotch said.

“His identification checks out,” Elle admitted, handing Hotch the ID she’d found by the body. “That’s Frank Giles.”

“There’s a big old bag of money sitting right here on the dresser,” Morgan continued.

“Oh boy,” Lydia joked. “Where to start?”

“So, Giles took Harris to Jamaica to kill him and the unsub killed Giles,” Hotch figured.

Morgan was already pulling stacks of cash out of the bag. “Yeah, but he paid him first.”

“Left the cash?” Elle inquired.

He shrugged. “He’s apparently well-funded.”

Lydia knelt down next to the body to look at the blade in his chest.

“He said these were ‘unrepentant bad men’,” Hotch reminded them. “Are we looking for some kind of vigilante?”

“No,” Gideon murmured. “The bodies are nothing but a way to get us interested. They’re game pieces. The killings are secondary.”

“Well, this guy likes to write things in blood on walls,” Elle stated and Morgan nodded.

“All kinds of cult and demonic significance to that.”

“Thy? Doth? Quest?” She threw the words around before reading it in its entirety. “‘Thy quest doth truly begin’ Why start phrasing things like this now?”

“All the other messages were in modern English,” Hotch agreed.

“Maybe this is the first one the unsub actually wrote,” Morgan suggested.

Elle scoffed. “So we’re looking for Shakespeare?”

“Hey, guys?” Lydia interrupted. “There’s something etched on the blade.” She leaned in close, trying to read the scratches over the already intricate designs on the sword. “‘To learn of what should next be done, leave the blade til the hour be none’.”

“Hour be none?” Morgan asked and Hotch leaned down to see for himself.

“Leave the blade,” he mumbled. “Elle, move for a second.” She stepped away from the group, backing up towards the bloody wall. “Move to your left… The bed’s in the middle of the room.”

“Which isn’t by chance,” Morgan agreed.

“And maybe the light from here-” He pointed to a window behind him, where Elle formerly was. “-casts a shadow and points to something.”

“Come on,” Elle protested. “Are we in the middle of an Indiana Jones movie?”

“The hour be none?” Hotch repeated, ignoring her comment.

“Midnight is 00:00 hours in 24-hour time. Would that be none?” Morgan asked.

“Midnight wouldn’t cast a shadow,” the older man argued.

“Hour be none…” Morgan sounded it out like it might suddenly come to him.

“3 PM.”

Spencer had slid into the room, his book bag still around his shoulder. He looked a little tired, but Lydia attributed it to jet lag and possible stress over the new case.

“Hey, guys. Garcia told me where to find you.”

“3 PM?” Gideon asked.

“It’s medieval,” Spencer explained. “The days used to be broken into hourly intervals. The canonical intervals of the breviary. Prime: 6 AM. Terce: 9 AM. Sext: 12 noon. None: 3 PM. And vespers: 6 PM.”

“Reid, do not ever go away again,” Elle insisted.

He smiled, but Gideon refused to let them fall off track. “Medieval. That’s why the language changed.”

“Everything this guy does is a clue,” Hotch agreed.

“We can narrow it down some more,” Lydia offered. “He was talking about King Arthur’s Round Table earlier.”

“The Round Table?” Reid inquired.

“Okay, but guys, it’s 4:35,” Morgan interrupted. “What do we do? Leave the blade in until 3 PM tomorrow?”

It took Reid a minute to realize we’d switched topics. “Oh, not if we can block that window out.” He turned to one of the crime scene investigators in the seperate room. “Do you have any spotlights in your car?”

“Sure,” she replied and the team got to work on covering the window.

~ ~ ~

Lydia sat down in a corner of the room, watching as everyone set up for their experiment. Spencer knelt in front of the now dark window and rest stood off to the sides so they could see the uninterrupted shadow on the wall.

“So, the sun is right here at 5 PM,” he started, turning on the flashlight to face the sword. “Morgan, follow the shadow as I move the light higher.”

He was quick to oblige, moving a lamp and the table on which it sat out of the way as the shadow flattened out. “Okay. And do what?”

Hotch leaned forward. “Tap,” he instructed.

Morgan used the pads of his fingers to prod at the wall as the shadow moved under Spencer’s direction. After a moment, the hilt of the sword lined up with a hollow spot in the wall.

“Definitely an Indiana Jones movie,” Elle repeated her reference from earlier.

“Feels like the wallpaper’s been replaced.”

“Tear it open,” Hotch told him.

Morgan pulled out a pocket knife, which slid easily into the thin plaster and allowed him to pull a large section of the wall out.

“It’s a box.”

“Take it out.”

“Wait, are we sure it’s safe?” Reid interrupted.

“What, you think it’s a bomb?” Hotch fired back. “You think he’d be playing this game just to blow us up?”

“He’d have already done that as long as we’ve been standing here,” Morgan agreed and reached into the hole.

It was a strange, dark box, with a gold lock encrusting the front. Morgan tried for a second, but it wasn’t opening.

“It’s locked. You want me to break it?”

“No,” Hotch sighed. “We should process it first.”

Everyone was startled when Gideon finally spoke up. “‘Sir Percival holds the key’,” he muttered.

The entire group turned their heads to Reid. “Sir Percival?” he asked, bewildered.

“I’ll explain later,” Lydia told him and approached. “Do you have the key?”

He fumbled around his pants and shirt pocket until he found the skeleton key and handed it to her. Lydia joined the group around the box and opened it up carefully. The second the top cracked open, a slow, sweet tune filled the room.

Music box.

A thin lined piece of paper sat on the bottom of the box, which Reid took from her hand and read aloud. “‘Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man’s sight.’”

“Well, that was worth it,” Elle replied, sarcastically.

“The lid,” Gideon said from behind her. “Little tab right under the lock.”

Morgan saw what he was talking about and pulled the top down to reveal another compartment in the top of the box. And inside that was a lock of blonde hair, tied together with a pink ribbon, and a DVD that read: THY QUEST.

Elle took the hair to a crime scene investigator to put in an evidence bag and Morgan looked over the DVD.

Lydia stood up fully and started to leave, ripping her gloves off as she went. “Let’s go see what this stupid quest is about.”

~ ~ ~

“Sir Percival?” Spencer repeated as the two sat next to each other in the conference room.

“Right.” She rubbed her palm over her forehead. “Hotch got a call. The speaker said, ‘Sir Percival holds the key’. Then we found out you had received a skeleton key. And the medicine bottle I got? It’s prescribed to a ‘Lady Blanchefleur’. She’s the love of Sir Percival in some of the stories of the Round Table.”

His eyes widened. “So, we’re…”

“This unsub thinks we are,” Lydia replied quickly. She was too exhausted to have this awkward conversation right now. “He’s definitely got a medieval fantasy to play out.”

They put the DVD in and a video popped up. The setting was dark, with a large shadow cast over the top half of the room. There was a fireplace against the back wall, but no fire. The camera was set up on a desk, with many strange objects littered around, all gold in color. And finally, a grand leather chair faced the camera.

It took a moment for the man to walk in, most likely their unsub. He wore all black and hobbled onto screen slowly, taking a painful moment to sit in the chair. With the terrible lighting in the room, his face was obscured from their view.

“He moves funny,” Hotch noted.

“Looks like he’s injured or something,” Morgan agreed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and raspy. Lydia wondered if he was a smoker or had lost it somehow, but if the latter were the case, it would have been accompanied by coughs or moments where the sound disappeared completely. He didn’t have that, which would suggest he’d been living like that a long time.

“I assure you… you’ll all understand in the end why it must be this way. You might even thank me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, scumbag,” Elle snapped.

“You know now you’re on a quest. A young girl’s life depends on the successful completion of it.” The video cut to one of a blonde girl in all white, sitting on a bed. When she noticed the camera, she started throwing objects across the room at the person filming. “As you can see, she’s quite beautiful… and in distress.” There was another shot of her at the door of the room, There was a barred window in the door, which she pulled at and threw herself against.

Then, it cut back to their unsub. “Now, please listen closely for there is one rule. And this rule must be followed. The one rule is… only the members of your team may participate in the quest.” As he listed off each team member, pictures of them on the job appeared. “Jason Gideon, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Elle Greenaway, Spencer Reid, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and Lydia Ambers.” Lydia was terrified to see her face appear with the others. She could see someone easily getting these pictures from newspapers and press conferences. Some of them were perhaps more candid, but even so, the BAU was constantly working popular cases and people could easily join a crowd and catch pictures of them.

But Lydia? She recognized where she was standing. It was outside the hospital of the poisoning case she worked a few months back. No one was there. It was a hospital parking lot, the only way she could have missed someone taking photos of her was if they were sitting in their car waiting for her to come out.

God, that’s horrifying.

“A quest must be completed in the proper way or it isn’t a quest, is it? That’s it. One rule. Simple. Now, you will be receiving an item soon that will hold the final clue you’ll need to finish the quest. You will find you’ll also need a book which has inspired many an adventure like mine. Believe me when I tell you, I truly hope to see you all soon. It will mean a successful end to this adventure… for all of us.”

The screen went black.

“This guy’s got pictures of us?” Elle demanded, suddenly.

“What do we do now?” Spencer asked.

“Well, the lock of hair’s being analyzed for DNA. There might be something on file,” Hotch explained, avoiding the uncomfortable topic of the video they’d just watched.

“I’ll get the video team to enhance the shots of the girl,” JJ offered, grabbing the DVD from the player.

“Let’s get the clues up on the board,” Hotch ordered. “Maybe we can make some sense of something.”

“Wait. We’re going to play this guy's game?” Elle cried.

“Do we have a choice?” Spencer shot back.

The sound of the door opening caught everyone’s attention and Lydia turned around in time to watch Gideon storm out. She wasn’t sure what was up with him, but at the moment, she just couldn’t deal with it. Lucky for her, Hotch volunteered, standing up to leave.

“Be right back. You guys keep working.”

As soon as both her superiors were gone, Lydia lay her head down on the table and listened distantly to what the others had to say.

She really wasn’t in the mood for this puzzle solving today.

~ ~ ~

Not ten minutes later, Hotch was back… with his wife, son, and a piece of poster paper with a bunch of random numbers on it. Supposedly someone had appeared at their door and told Haley to give the paper to Hotch immediately.

“Dear lord, I’m going to throw myself out of a window,” Lydia grumbled, watching Spencer put the new delivery onto a corkboard.

“Ambers,” Hotch warned, before leaving with his wife.

“Sorry, I’m going to let someone push me out of a window,” she joked once they were out of earshot. “What are we looking at?”

“My eyes are so heavy I can barely see it,” Elle replied.

“I think it’s a coded message of some sort.” Reid rubbed his chin, contemplating.

“The unsub said we’d need a book, didn’t he?” Lydia asked. “It could be book code.”

He nodded excitedly. “Each one of these sets of numbers represents a particular word. For instance, page 118, line 30, word 3. We need to figure out what the words are and fill in the blanks.”

Morgan somehow looked even more fed up than Lydia felt. He ran his hands over his head and interlocked the fingers at the back of the neck, pulling on it like he planned to tear his own head off.

“Yeah, but from what book?” Elle asked Spencer and he shrugged.

“I don’t know. The trouble is it has to be the exact same edition of the exact same book that he used.”

JJ walked in, a folder in her hands. “Just got a DNA hit on the lock of hair. Rebecca Bryant. She’s been missing out of Boston for two years.” As she explained, they passed around the photo they had of her on file.

Lydia’s heart had skipped a beat when JJ said Rebecca, panicking for a moment about the safety of her own sister. Could the unsub possibly know where her sister and Sonia lived?

“Two years?” Elle was appalled.

“Guys, how are we supposed to figure out which book this code was copied out of?” Morgan demanded.

“I have no idea,” Reid admitted for the second time.

JJ took back the picture to stick to the whiteboard and started to write around it.

“He said we have everything needed to complete the quest,” Reid murmured and the whole team stared at the boards, looking for any clues, indications, hints… anything that stood out really.

“The answer’s gotta be up there somewhere,” Elle reasoned.

“JJ,” Gideon waltzed in out of nowhere, “get some reporters here as soon as possible.”

“For what?”

“Just say we need help on a new case.”

They all looked around blankly after he left.

“Press conference?” Morgan asked.

JJ shrugged before following suit and leaving them to stare at the boards for any bright ideas.

~ ~ ~

Over the next hour, they pulled down all of the evidence bags and Lydia began to do as much research on anything out of place that she could.

Elle had fallen asleep on one of the couches and they all opted to leave her there unless they came up with something.

Reid lifted up a nearby bag. “A pale clouded yellow butterfly indigenous to Great Britain?” he asked.

Lydia was already typing away at her laptop for any significance to that.

“How’s it going?” Hotch had finally returned from the press conference and Lydia felt bad for being so negative to him earlier. The obvious stress that came upon him when his wife and kid were involved was completely reasonable and she was glad he was able to get them into a hotel. She could only imagine the panic she’d be feeling if her sister lived with her. She wouldn’t let the girl leave her sight after getting that package.

“The answer to what book we need has to be in here,” Spencer pondered.

Morgan dropped whatever he’d been toying with at the time. “Yeah, but we sure as hell can’t see it.”

“Yet,” Spencer specified.

Hotch stepped away from them to shake Elle awake.

“I’m sending you home,” he insisted, denying her protests.

“Elle, seriously, we’re not any closer than we were,” Morgan told her. “Get out of here. Go home.”

“But-”

“That’s an order,” Hotch interrupted. “Let’s go.”

Lydia watched silently as Hotch escorted her out, then read off what she’d learned about the butterfly to the two guys left. “Its binomial name is the colias hyale. If I had to guess, this one is a female. It’s a large species of butterfly and lives in flowery places.”

“It’s a butterfly, Lydia,” Morgan said impatiently. “No shit.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s very much to learn about butterflies,” she shot back. “They’re pretty insects and that’s all. What do you want from me?” She huffed and scrolled some more. “Okay… this says that yellow butterflies represent new life and if you cross paths with one, it supposedly gives you happiness?” She searched some more, clicking on various links and scanning the pages. “Oh shit, nevermind. There’s a whole lot of symbolism of butterflies spiritually. They represent angels and rebirth and stuff. Hold on.”

She’d fallen into a rabbit hole of sorts. The religious relation to the butterfly was more popular than she thought, but there wasn’t much credibility to her sources. She tried to find references to this specific butterfly in books or other forms of media but came up empty.

“I can’t find any significance to it in a book. Should we try something else?”

“Ambers.” Hotch called her over from the door he’d just taken Elle out of. “I need a word.”

She set the computer back down and followed him out curiously. “What’s up, Hotch?”

“I want to respect your past and privacy, so I haven’t brought the pill bottle up yet, but if it has any significance to the case, I need you to tell me now.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. The fact that it’s for bupropion is personal. I know that. But the rest seems like random information.”

“Nothing is random for this unsub,” he argued and walked into the conference room. “Reid, hand me the prescription bottle.”

The boy’s head shot up, but he wasn’t looking at his boss. His eyes were glued to Lydia. “Oh… um…” He dropped his gaze awkwardly and reached for the bag in front of him. “Here you are.”

“Okay. Lady Blanchefleur. Bupropion. RX: 315121253201518. Doctor Sir Kneighf,” he recited. “What does that mean?”

“Well, Lady Blanchefleur we’re assuming is in relation to the medieval character,” she reasoned. “Let’s see about Sir Kneighf.” She put it into a google search but came up empty. “Hm… no.”

“Bupropion is an antidepressant, isn’t it?” Spencer offered.

Hotch stepped in quickly. “We don’t believe that bit is relevant.”

“Why not?” Morgan asked.

Hotch gave her a look that said, this is on you now.

“Gideon gets a baseball card of his baseball hero,” Lydia began. “JJ gets a butterfly that she was interested in when she was younger. I get the antidepressant my mom was taking when I was a kid.”

She tried not to speak sharply, but there was still a clear edge in her voice. She was frustrated that Hotch had read the medication out loud after she’d just told him that was the only personal part. But, he had to cover all his bases. This was important, she reminded herself. A girl’s life was at stake.

“Maybe it does have significance to the case,” she defended. “But so far, Nellie Fox and the butterfly were just ways to get the recipient interested. And this guy must know me well, because bupropion? Let’s just say, it caught my eye.”

Reid’s eyes were trained on the desk. He didn’t want to look up at her. He was beginning to feel guilty about his desire to learn about her past, seeing how closed off she became when forced to talk about it. It was clearly not full of a lot of happy memories for her.

Morgan next to him was simply confused. He knew not to push her, but he couldn’t quite piece together why anyone would care about their mother’s old medicine.

And Hotch was still focused on the label in front of him.

“I can’t keep staring at these,” she stressed to the group. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“Lydia-” Hotch started as she stood up and grabbed her jacket.

“I’m fine, Hotch,” she insisted. “I just… my brain is fried. I’m gonna take a minute and be back with fresh eyes.”

The rest of the room settled in guilt, despite the fact that, in the end, they would’ve had to talk about the prescription bottle with her. They needed to know, even if she hated it. Morgan had no idea it was a sore subject, Spencer, only an inkling, and Hotch was fully aware of what it represented in her mind.

But not a one of them could protect her from her past. And once Lydia had released some of her anger, she’d come to realize that, too.

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thelanternwielder · 4 years ago

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I don't know why, but since there is Chase's and Klipse's son, why not Hargrave's and Klipse's child be? I think if Klipse knew about Hargrave's monsuno sight, maybe he made one(and if they didn't use all attempts to make clones). And Tallis is name or surname? Cause if it's surname and all calling Professor by his surname, so there is character who calling by it's surname, and so maybe there is may be place for headcanon Hargrave as trans,cause we don't know his name(I saw your post about it, but if Tallis is surname, so it works)

And about why Hargrave is surname, in Sherlock Holmes was butler Barrymore, who was all the time called by his surname.

(I hope you don’t mind me combining asks again. They’re relevant to each other)

I’m going to address this in reverse order (and you’ll see why)

Anon, that headcanon about Hargrave just sent me on a rollercaster of emotions. That’s one of the wildest things that I��ve read in a while

And I can see it

He’s one of the shortest men in the show. And his voice falls in the androgynous range. And I do see where you’re coming from with his name. I have heard of some trans guys going by their surnames (and some surnames are boy’s names, as I’ve said before)

(And that point with Sherlock Holmes is interesting but we just don’t know if that’s the case in Monsuno)

You’re fine to headcanon anything, Anon, (and I feel that this is a perfectly valid headcanon) but please be mindful of the implications of thinking that the one character in the show who is trans is the creepy, effeminate old butler

Trans people are a diverse group. We come in all shapes and sizes. Yes, I’m trans (and funnily enough, one of the first pieces of clothing that gave me gender euphoria was a purple bowtie)

Anyway, about your point with Tallis. His full name is Professor Shandler Tallis, remember? He’s probably called by his surname because it’s easier to say with less syllables (and I feel like it’s the same with Klipse, even more so)

Now, onto your first point. A few days ago, I actually came up with an idea for a story in an au where Klipse creates a clone of himself using Hargrave’s DNA instead of Chase’s. In this story, this all occurs because they realise that the butler has the sight and Klipse believes that a Monsuno Sapien with the sight would be very powerful

I’m going to put what I wrote about it under a cut. Be warned, I ramble quite a bit. Also, I drew a picture for this au, which I’ll put at the end

It started when Dom suspects that the butler has the Monsuno Sight after he learnt that those robot arms were being powered by monsuno essence. He was like "hey, try meditating with your core. I wanna see what happens". Hargrave humours him but then says "this is stupid" and gives up. He tried again late at night, by himself and, surprise, he has a vision. He sees this child he doesn't recognise, pale with dark messy hair and eyes. The next day, he quietly tells Dom what happened. Dom is like "knew it" and Hargrave is like ??? He explains to him that he can talk to Monsunos (and that's probably how TCT keeps winning). They then tell Klipse this and he's like "hmmm interesting”

So, Hargrave starts learning how to use this sight, which mostly involve him trying to synchronise with Twinsting. And it sort of starts to work. He becomes a little more unpredictable as he gives less commands verbally Klipse gets the idea that a Monsuno Sapien with the sight would be extremely powerful. Then he learns from Dom that it could be inherited

He starts to work on how he could create a clone of himself using Hargrave's DNA. The butler was taken aback by the proposal but is ultimately giddy

The first three attempts didn't even make it to full development. Attempt four did, aggressively latching onto Hargrave when he first awoke. This child was extremely talkative, constantly making sounds but was very antisocial. Klipse's aloofness towards him didn't help

But Hargrave still loved him

Around about that time, when they established themselves in those underground mines full of fossils, Klipse sectioned off a room and kept it locked to everyone. The butler thought this was odd One night, it seemed that Four had disappeared. Hargrave apprached the Doctor and asked him where he was. The Doctor said "he's dead"

"Dead?! What do you mean he's dead?!"

The butler was distraught. He didn't even get to say goodbye. Klipse told him off for becoming so attached to these clones. Hargrave reminded him that that was their son

Attempt 5 at cloning and...he didn't even wake up

Attempt 6...looked familiar to the butler. Unlike the other clones, this one was really pale. He thought he was dead at first, but then he opened his eyes

Six was quiet but quite switched on and, yes, he had dark eyes and messy dark hair

And he had the Monsuno Sight

Klipse decides to test him by giving him a Monsuno (Demise) and sending him to fight TCT. Cue the events of "Six"

So, Six starts to be trained on how to use this sight (mostly by Dom). Hargrave really dotes Six. The child also tries to impress Klipse because damnit he want love from both of his dads (yeah, he finds out that the butler is his dad) Klipse is still being secretive of his plans

All seems well, but Six admits to Hargrave that he had this really intense vision. He saw Klipse and the butler, standing in front of a machine, watching him as he collapses

The butler tells him not to worry too much about it (but it was concerning)

Then one night, after looking almost everywhere for him, Hargrave finds Six. The child was crying

"What's happening to me?"

"What do you mean?" The butler replied

The child turns around. The whites of his eyes were pitch black

Oh no

Hargrave immediately took his hand and dragged him to Klipse. The Doctor was in this room in the mines, where there was this machine

The butler demanded to know what the hell he did to their child. Klipse calmly explained that he injected him with the Monsuno Sapien serum that he had been quietly working on

Suddenly, Six collapses to the ground, curled up in a ball, in pain

His skin turns greyish-black, pink crystal spikes erupt from his arms and shoulders, ripping through his clothes. His fingers become clawed. A tail of thick red blood vessels grows from his back

But surprisingly, he stays the same size (and still has some messy hair on top of his head)

The Monsuno essence hybridised with Six in a way Klipse wasn't completely expecting

Six could still talk, his eyes, although darkened, were still vibrant. And he began to like this new form (to Hargrave's shock). He could "hear" the Monsunos just a bit more clearly

Later on, TCT find the Eklipse base in the fossil mines and break in (because pentoculus). They see Six and are like "UHHHHH". Six is like "Surprise, I'm a monsuno now". Then Klipse trires to capture TCT to turn them all toxic because he thinks he has the serum perfected now. TCT, being show protagonists, somehow escape and destroy the place in the process. Klipse loses his serum but everyone is fine

I guess that's where the story ends lol

And here’s what this version of Six would look like in this story:

#monsuno

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missdaviswrites · 5 years ago

Text

13--Family

Sherlock was sitting quietly in the kitchen, drinking tea and minding his own business while he waited for John to come downstairs with Rosie, when he was rudely interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. She let herself into the flat, as usual, calling out to announce herself and then strolling right into the kitchen.

"Oh, Sherlock, good! I was hoping you'd be awake."

"Why?" He wrinkled his nose at her—she wasn't holding any baked goods, even though she'd made Christmas stollen yesterday.

She was, however, holding a folded-up newspaper, one of the gossip tabloids that she enjoyed so much; she was clutching it to her chest, as if hugging it. "Now, I know what you're probably going to say when you see this, but there's just the most precious photograph in today's paper."

"Hm. Precious. Is it a pile of diamonds and gold, or a kitten?" He picked up his cup of tea again, prepared to tune her out.

She giggled and then stuck the newspaper in front of him. "Go on, take it."

He put his tea back down and plucked the paper from her hands, deducing that the quickest way to get her to stop bothering him would be to humor her. "What am I looking for?"

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it." She giggled again.

Sherlock sighed and moved his tea cup so he could spread the paper on the table, then began turning pages, only half-looking at them. Until— "What...how?" The photo was in full color, apparently snapped last evening when he and John had taken Rosie out for a stroll after dinner. Sherlock was holding her on one hip, a smile on his face as he pointed to something out of the shot—Christmas lights, lit up in every color of the rainbow, he recalled. One of Rosie's arms was in the air, too, waving in delight at the sight, while her other hand clutched tightly at his coat sleeve. John was next to them, an arm around Sherlock's waist, looking not at the lights but at Sherlock and Rosie, his expression unguarded and warm.

"Read what it says!" Mrs. Hudson said.

"I am." The caption beneath the photo was ridiculous, clearly pandering to the paper's audience of women of Mrs. Hudson's age. Famously Furious Detective Sherlock Holmes lets his softer side show in the company of his partner, Dr. John Watson, and daughter, Rosie, 2. "Famously furious? What does that even mean? And softer side? This is libel."

"No, it's magnificent!"

Sherlock sneered in disgust. At least it was buried inside the paper, further than he hoped most people would bother to read. He slid it away from himself so he could return to his tea. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would go get her homemade stollen for him, now that he'd looked at that preposterous photo. Before he could ask, he felt his phone buzz in the pocket of his dressing gown. A text alert he recognized but rarely heard. He frowned and pulled the phone out—yes, it was a text from Mummy. He tapped it to open and was greeted with an image of the same newspaper photo, along with a message: Wanted to make sure you saw this, Sherlock.

"Oh, God," he said aloud, and then his phone buzzed again. Do you think if I call the paper, they would send me a copy of the photo? I'd like at least a 10x8, for the wall in the front living room. Sherlock put his phone face down on the table and sighed in frustration.

Fortunately, John chose that moment to come down the stairs; Sherlock could hear Rosie babbling to him, still excited about the "wights" she had seen last night. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at her as John carried her into the kitchen. "Good morning little rosebud. Are you ready for some breakfast? I think Mrs. Hudson has some Christmas stollen that you would enjoy."

Mrs. Hudson failed to take the hint. "John, you have to see what was in the paper this morning. It's the most beautiful photo of the three of you together." She put her hands out for Rosie, who happily let herself be passed off.

Once she was out of his arms, John rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, then leaned over to look at the photograph. He didn't say anything, but Sherlock saw his sleepy morning look clear up into a genuine smile.

Sherlock huffed. "The picture may be acceptable, but whoever wrote the caption couldn't even be bothered to accurately identify whose daughter she is."

"You're right." John stepped closer and settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It should read 'their daughter, Rosie'."

Sherlock inhaled before he could stop himself. John should know better than to be so sappy in front of...well, he supposed it was fine if Mrs. Hudson saw. He brushed his hand over John's and then reached to relieve Mrs. Hudson of Rosie, who had begun to squirm.

"Sh'wock!" Rosie announced, and threw herself into his arms. He tried to lower her to the floor—she could certainly walk when she wanted to—but she wrapped her small arms around his neck, her head butting against his chin. "Sh'wock," she said again, more softly this time, and he exhaled against her hair. Maybe having the photo appear in the newspaper wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Rosie might enjoy having a copy of it when she was older. As long as the general public didn't start to believe that nonsense that said he had a softer side.

__________________________________

Read all the ficlets here: So This Is Christmas

#2019 advent ficlet challenge #johnlock #parentlock #rosie watson #sherlock

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cutie1365 · 5 years ago

Text

The Family We Choose 1/3

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader Mini-Series

Word Count: 1.5k

Request: made by @agentmalfoy24601, I don't want to spoil the ending so I won’t post the actual request here but I’ve decided to turn it into a three part mini-series. It’s all written so I’ll get a solid update schedule for it, maybe one every other day or so.

A/N: Please let me know what you think and what you think will happen in the next parts!

Masterlist in bio. Taglist in the reblogs. MUST COMMENT/REBLOG TO STAY ON.

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“Alright miss?” Your seemingly intimidating interviewer asked with a raised brow.

“Carter.” You answered with a smile.

“Miss Carter, just some routine questions here to begin if you don’t mind.” You nodded and he continued.

“Your age?” He asked, pen in hand to jot down your responses.

“Twenty-six.” You answered.

“Education?”

“Oxford.” You answered, and you could tell he was impressed as he wrote that bit down.

“Parents?” He was really speeding through this wasn’t he. Must be in a rush, or he never really wanted to interview new assistants in the first place.

“Orphan.” You answered with a somber smile.

“My condolences.” He apologized, although in this job the less family, the better, he thought.

“Of course this isn’t a normal job so a normal job interview would be unfitting. I’m going to ask you some questions to understand your capabilities of thinking outside the box and how quickly you can devise and apply ideas.” He explained, adjusting his position in his plush, black, leather seat.

“So you want to see if I’m clever or not?” You smirked.

“More or less.” He nodded.

“Mr. Holmes, I have an IQ of 170, I hardly think your little brain teasers will be necessary.” You spoke with a cocky smile.

“They weren’t brain teasers...” Sherlock said slightly offended and flustered. He mentally cursing John for telling him that would be a good idea for the interview.

“Of course they weren’t.” You laughed slightly, seeing his reaction to your previous words. “You know your best bet to see if I really am clever or useful would be to take me on a case.”

“Well I don't have anything on right now.” He lied, steepling his hands and examining you.

“Oh come on Sherlock, we both know that’s not true.” You raised a brow to him with a smirk, clearly he was testing you.

“Do we?” He asked, wondering how you knew and wanting you to lay it all out for him.

“Despite the fact that you’re a terrible liar, there are clear signs that you are in the middle of a case. You’ve attempted to clear them away before our little interview but I can still tell. You had papers and pictures tacked above the couch, you removed them in a hurry, ripping one away leaving the tack and remnants of paper.” You pointed above the couch behind you without turning around, meaning you either noticed them when you walked in or saw them through the mirror opposite you. “The couch cushions still are deeply indented in the middle, the last thing that happened to it was you standing on it moments before I arrived. Two computers are opened on your desk, you were doing research, and a lot of it. You keep glancing at your watch, you can’t wait for this interview to be over so you can get back to your case. You actually never wanted to do these interviews in the first place, you’d much rather keep your usual companion. I can be like him if you’d like- pointing out the obvious and constantly being baffled by your conclusions and amazed when you lay it out quite plainly for him.”

“Did my brother send you?” He asked through squinted suspicious eyes.

“No...” You said, curious as to who this brother was. You made a note of that for later.

“How come I've never heard of you before?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, clearly ruling you out as any sort of threat.

“Because I'm nobody.” You shake your head.

“Hmm.” Sherlock looked you over, there was something about you that he couldn't quite put his finger on, “Fine, one case.”

And the rest was history...

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You’d worked with Sherlock on dozens of cases now, to the point where he suggested you move into 221C to make work easier. Purely out of convenience you thought, but truthfully Sherlock enjoyed having you around. You were different, like him. You understood things like he did. You saw the world like he did: one giant puzzle waiting to be solved.

You agreed to move in downstairs, but you didn’t want to step on any toes with Sherlock and John’s relationship. Just because John started a new job at the hospital and was the reason for your recent employment with Sherlock, you didn’t want him to think you were his replacement in every sense of the word.

You suggested to Sherlock that he take John out, a guys night, so that he didn’t feel left out of all the cases the two of you had recently solved. He agreed it was probably a good idea, and remembered there was a new play showing: Terror By Night. A classic murder mystery that for him would probably be quite dull, but might remind John of the good ‘ol days.

Unbeknownst to you, Sherlock purchased three tickets.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked you with a raised brow, as you were making a cup of tea in the kitchen, clearly not dressed to be going out.

��Go where?” You gave him a confused look.

“Terror By Night, remember.” He stated as if it was clear as day.

“I thought that was just going to be you and John, a guys night?” You furrowed your brows.

“If I have to suffer through this, then you do too.” He smirked.

“It doesn’t sound like I have a choice.” You laughed.

“Please come, I’d... I’d like you to be there.” Sherlock muttered nervously. Your jaw dropped open slightly before answering. Was this Sherlock’s way of... flirting?

“Oh, ok. Um, yeah I guess I can go throw something on.” You nodded, looking down at your sweatpants and Oxford tee.

You made your way downstairs to throw on a nicer outfit and slap on a little bit of makeup.

Sherlock was waiting patiently for you, he stood when you entered the room with a nervous smile. You returned it, grabbing your coat off the rack and letting him know you were ready to go.

“John’s going to meet us there, he got held up at work.” Sherlock informed you after giving the cabbie directions to the theatre on the Strand.

Once you arrived at the theatre you saw John standing outside and waved to him.

“So what’s all this about?” John laughed, motioning to the title poster and Sherlock picking up the tickets.

“I just work here.” You shrugged, earning a laugh from John.

“How’s that going by the way?” John asked.

“Oh, you know, never a dull moment.” You smiled, as Sherlock approached the two of you, tickets in hand.

Once you took your seats, each of you on opposite sides of Sherlock, you began to look around the small theatre, examining it.

“You know, if you had told me I was going to be third wheeling I could have brought Sarah.” You heard John whisper to Sherlock, your cheeks turning bright red. So your suspicion from earlier had been confirmed. You didn’t think Sherlock went in for that sort of thing, you never saw him as the relationship type. He’s the definition of the ‘married to his work’ type.

As the play went on, in a very Agatha Christie whodunit fashion, you found yourself enjoying it. You had predicted the ending not too far into the play, but what happened next, none of you could have expected.

In the play the Detective gathered everyone to reveal the murderer, as he explained how the son murdered Lady Margaret Chaplette, in a fit of rage he struck the Detective with his prop crutch. Only it wasn’t a prop. As he struck him across the head, the blow killed him instantly. Your eyes grew wide and you turned to Sherlock as you both immediately realized this was not part of the play, and everyone in the theatre had just witnessed a real murder.

You and Sherlock immediately jumped up, following John who checked the vitals of the actor and confirmed his death. Sherlock gently picked up the prop crutch that was supposed to be made of rubber as you’d observed during the first act, only to find it was aluminum.

“Someone must have switched it during the interval.” Sherlock turned to you and you nodded.

“We need to shut this place down, no one leaves. The murderer is most likely still here.” You explained, Sherlock rushed off to the front of the house.

“Never a dull moment.” John muttered as you both stepped away from the body.

After a night of interrogating all of the cast members you’d discovered that it was ‘the Detective’ himself who had switched the props, causing his own death. He was trying to set up the son to injure him or break his arm so he could sue the theatre or make sure he got fired, after numerous stories of his misconduct and relationship with the director.

The man who played the son, an avid drunk, had had a bit too much to drink that night and when he swung the crutch, struck the detective in the head, unintentionally killing him.

“So our victim is also our murderer.” You nodded to Sherlock.

“I know, exciting right.” Sherlock said, a little too giddy for a crime scene.

“Well this isn’t exactly how I planned my night to go.” You laughed.

“Me either, but this is much better.” He smirked, and you rolled your eyes with a smile.

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Thank you for reading! There’s two more parts- what do you think will happen next?? Comment and let me know!

Taglist in the reblog.

Feedback is so important to writers, just a simple comment can make someone’s day. Thank you!

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love-fireflysong · 4 years ago

Text

Day 18: Photo

Fandom: Until Dawn Character(s): Chris Hartley, Josh Washington, Ashley Brown Words: 1962 Rating: Teen (language bitches!) Author’s Notes: *Nickelback’s ‘Photograph’ plays in the background* Still alive over here! And it’s not angst this time! Amazing, I know. Big reason this one is so late is because after spending 3 days thinking about what to do for this, I still had nothing. And then I inspiration came to me in the shower so here we are: the follow-up to Deals and Arguments that probably no one wanted! Because lets be honest, if Ash is the one who writes ‘Ashley Hartley’ in her books, then Chris absolutely scribbled a heart with their initials by accident once. And that’s all it takes for Josh...

For almost as long as Chris had known him, Josh had always been obsessed with the idea. He wants to say that it started when they were in fifth grade, when their teacher, Ms. Franks, announced to the class that since she was pregnant, that she was going to be taking a leave of absence just before the end of the school year. Someone, he couldn’t recall who, had asked if they had a name for the baby picked out, but he could recall the response as though it had happened only yesterday.

“It’s still a little too early for names, but if they’re gonna be a girl, we’re thinking of naming her after a mutual best friend of ours.”

Ever since then, Josh had been all over the idea. Every dare, every piece of blackmail, every ‘dying’ wish was the same: “Name your kid Josh.” When he was younger, Chris would laugh and shove Josh away with a roll of his eyes. It was funny back when he was like ten or eleven, or hell, even when he was thirteen! He was gonna be a super cool app developer, he wasn’t gonna have time for marriage, much less kids. All of his time was gonna be spent developing super awesome games and apps that were gonna save the world! Or something.

While his mind didn’t exactly change the moment he met Ashley the summer after he turned thirteen, he is ashamed to admit it was pretty dang close. Josh introduced Ash to him in their favorite fast food diner, and declared the three of them to be best friends, til death do us part, yada yada yada. At the end of July, the three of them were inseparable, and by the beginning of school that September, he was gone. Donezo baby! Head-over-fucking-heels for the little braces wearing, red-head that read Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare for fun.

And unsurprisingly, Josh never let up on his demand. Nope, he did not! In fact, he got even worse about it.

He needed to borrow a pencil for math? Name your kid after me.

Can he spot him a couple of bucks for ice cream? Only if you name your kid Josh.

When did the Battle of the Alamo take place? 1846. But I’ll tell you the right answer if you swear to name your first-born after me.

While extremely exhausting to try and avoid, Chris was able to do so easily. He just started asking the kid who sat behind him in class for pencils, borrowed money from Ash instead, and he’d rather fail history then name his kid after Josh. Thankfully, after his first bombed history exam, Ash made all three of them do their homework together constantly, so the last one became a moot point. Barely.

Eventually, Josh tapered off on the demand, but not until after the start of the next school year. Most people probably would have stopped a few weeks in, but most people weren’t Josh Washington. When he wanted something, the guy stuck to his guns and didn’t give it up for nothing. Not that he stopped entirely of course, Josh still brings it up during dares and shit but it becomes immensely more manageable. He notices that he doesn’t ask it of Ash during these game, but when he considers the completely mortified look she gets on her face when ever he gets asked, Chris figures that its probably for the best.

(The fact that he not only stops that day Chris walked back into Ash’s bedroom and she’s as red as her hair while shoving something into her desk drawer, but that’s also when the mortification starts, he doesn’t clue into until years later.)

So when Josh walks up to him during their first period together with the absolute shittiest of shit-eating grins on his face, Chris is on red high alert.

“Oh no. What did you do?”

The laugh Josh gives is low and dark, and if Chris’s hackles weren’t raised earlier, they sure as fucking-hell are now. “Oh no, Cochise. It’s not what I’ve done, it’s what you’ve done.” With that, Josh proceeds to just slam a binder onto Chris’s desk, and he looks to see that he recognizes it easily.

“Okay...? I don’t see what my math notes have to do with anything.”

Another laugh, this one somehow darker and eviler then the first. Oh boy, those alarms going off in his head aren’t getting any quieter. “Oh, it has absolutely everything to do with you.” Before Chris can even respond, Josh is already flipping through the pages, past older pieces of loose-leaf that ripped from the binder coils that he hadn’t bothered to repair and and the newer notes with their edges still intact, and stops at the most recent. At first Chris doesn’t see anything, it’s all his notes about logarithms that he had taken the previous day, blue ink scratchy and messy all across the page, and then he does. And he absolutely blanches at the sight and hurriedly slams the binder shut, putting his face in his arms as he covers his head, actually whimpering as he refuses to look at Josh.

He doesn’t have to look to see the triumphant grin on Josh’s face, he can already imagine it pretty clearly.

“Oh fuck me.”

The worst part is that he didn’t even know it was there in the first place, he never would have lent his notes out otherwise. Josh had been missing more and more school recently, claiming that he was having killer headaches and they were making him sick, so Chris had done what friends do for each other and lent him his notes. What he didn’t realize was that at some point when he had been taking notes down, he had drawn a little heart in the margins with the initials CH+AB inside. Something he never would have done if Josh had been there with him, but he hadn’t been, so Chris had zoned out thinking about meeting up with Ash after school to bring Josh his homework.

He was so dead.

“What do you want?” Though muffled through his arms, he cringed at how small and weak his voice came out.

God, he could hear the stupid grin in Josh’s voice when he answered. “You know exactly what I want, Cochise. What I’ve always wanted.”

Chris didn’t remove his head from his arms on the desk, but he did turn it enough to narrow his eyes at Josh. “Are you fucking serious dude? Really? You’re still on about that shit?”

“I will never stop. You know this to be true.”

“I am not naming my stupid kid after you! I mean, maybe I won’t ever have kids. I’m certainly not gonna if I have to name them Josh!”

Josh rolled his eyes, but the wide grin never left his face. “You don’t have to name all of them after me. Just one.” Somehow, Chris watched the grin get even wider as a thought came to him. “Maybe two, if they’re twins. Can you imagine? The twins, Joshua and Joshlynn, it’ll be great!”

“Okay, now I’m definitely never having kids.”

Josh gave a short bark of laughter. "Please, like that’s ever gonna happen. You wanna know why, Cochise? Cause if Ash is gonna want kids, then you’re gonna want kids.”

He couldn’t help it. He really, truly couldn’t help it. The image of little kids with bright red hair and glasses flashed through his mind unbidden, and he groaned loudly and put his face back into his arms to hide how red his face had gotten.

“Anything else, dude. Make me do anything else. I will strip and run through the entire school naked if you want, just don’t make me promise you this stupid shit.” God, if only he hadn’t drawn that stupid heart on his stupid notes, then none of this would be happening right now! He sat up in his seat at the revelation. “Wait. I can just rewrite the page and burn this one.”

“Oh, Chris Chris Chris.” They way Josh shakes his head in disappointment sends around a million different alarm bells ringing. “Do you really think that little of me? I took like a million pictures my dude. This shit is saved forever. I can send this to Ash whenever the fuck I want. I can post this on whatever social media I feel like and it will live on the internet forever, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Oh. Right. Shit. “I can’t believe that you can literally blackmail me with anything right now, and this is the hill you’re dying on.”

“So are we in agreement then?”

“I cannot believe I’m saying this, but yes. Fine. I will name my stupid kid after your stupid ass.”

“Oh please. Your kid may be stupid, but there is no way that any kid of Ashley’s is gonna be.”

“...I hate you so much right now.”

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

Chris hadn’t meant to respond the way he did when he found the old notebook he had bought for Ash years ago. He really hadn’t. He had just been excited to find out that she had kept the stupid thing after all these years, he hadn’t even been joking when he told her that he had spent ages in the store looking for it. (”It has to be perfect, Mom! I can’t just buy her any stupid old journal, she loves these things! I mean, what if she hates it?”) So he had opened it and started flipping through the pages, laughing with her at all the stupid misspellings and bad grammar that her thirteen year-old self had written.

And then he reached the last page.

Things had really been out of his hands at that point. Something about seeing her writing her name down as ‘Ashley Hartley’ had just ignited something in him. The images of her walking down an aisle, of them with matching rings on their fingers, of kids running underfoot, was too much for him to handle. So Chris had kissed her. Kissed her like he was never gonna be able to do it again. Them falling onto her bed had been an accident, though a happy one, as they both didn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss.

Finally, he had pulled away and her giggle when she moved to fix his glasses had taken his breath away. It had quickly returned when his eyesight improved enough to really take in the image of Ash flushed pink with her red hair spread out under her on the bed, and he was suddenly reminded that she was going to be living with him soon! That this was a sight he was going to be waking up to every morning at the end of the month, and he had never wanted anything so bad in his life.

“So,” his voice is rougher than usual when he speaks and he can feel her shiver under him at it. He makes a note for future reference. “Ashley Hartley, huh?”

He watches her bite her lip, and it takes everything in him to not kiss her again. Two years in, and he’s still amazed that he’s allowed to kiss her whenever he wants, that she encourages it even! “Be honest with me,” she starts off and Chris has never been told to do something so easy in his life, “what do you think of the name Joshlynn?”

He stares at her for just a moment, just letting her words sink in, and then falls forward to smother himself in her hair, his shoulders shaking he’s laughing so hard. Of course. Of fucking course he did.

“So he got you too, I see.”

#pride month prompt challenge #my writing #until dawn #chris hartley #josh washington #ashley brown #chrashley #im laughing that this is only like 20 words shorter then d&a #how the hell did i manage to make these almost the same length?#and theres so many damn italics in this god #this is gonna take forever to format on ao3 #what was i thinking?#does this have anything to do with photos?#not really #but considering that rainbow had almost nothing to do with rainbows #thats okay #probably should have used this for dare instead #oops

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ladybugsfanfics · 5 years ago

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Shut Up And Kiss Me [10/?] | Tom Hiddleston x reader

pairing: Tom Hiddleston x reader

style: part 10 of ?

wc: 2.8k

warnings: pining, halloween, bad references,

summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with.

A/N: so I have a part this week, but I think I might stop the weekly updates. A lot of things are going on at once and I’m not sure I can get out a part a week. I think I might be able to get out a story or an update of a story each week but I don’t think much more than that and I have so much other shit Im working on that I want so share with you guys. I let you know of my decicion, and i hope you enjoy the part ^_^

If you want to be tagged, please send an ASK ^_^

Previous | Series Masterlist | Part Eleven

Since Friday, Tom’s mind has been set on the kiss. It has been set on the kiss in the bar. The one in the shadows where no one could see them and his heart pounded in his chest. The one where afterwards, so certain that Y/N just wanted to because she wanted to have some recollection of it, he had stood up and walked away as if it meant nothing.

Even though it meant everything.

He can recall every minute of it. Every second of what happened before and after is drilled into his brain after countless reenactments.

The slight fear in her eyes as Benedict smiled and told Tom what he needed to do to jog her memory. The way she downed two shots in a matter of seconds and then shook her head a little as if it would get the taste away. The burn of his hand as she took his in hers, the touch scorching hot. The nervousness that floated in her beautiful eyes as she told him what was going on. The way his gut hurt when his lips met hers. The way his skin heated under her touch. The fireworks that erupted in every part of him, rooted in his stomach but exploded outwards into his veins.

He remembers it all. And it felt just as hurtful as the kiss during the play.

Tom got to kiss her twice, both times with the knowledge that, for her, it wasn’t something with feelings. It was something she had to do, and something she wanted to because she didn’t remember the first time.

---

As Tom rings the doorbell, he vows to kill Benedict when the night is over. Not only does he have to wear a costume, he said yes to going trick or treating with the kids. Kit and Hal will make fun of him, so will Benedict and Sophie.

At least, when the door opens and Y/N stands there in a costume, he feels better about it. She’s wearing a wine red, short dress with gears placed neatly around. The corset accentuates her waist, and the fingerless gloves makes her her arms look longer. Tom’s gaze stops at her legs, where she’s wearing kneehigh boots and flashing a lot of skin.

Tom’s heart drums in his chest and he has to tell himself not to stare. His gaze travels up again, which is when he notices the tophat. Gear-goggles placed neatly atop it, giving the steampunk vibe Tom supposes she’s going for.

“Didn’t know you were coming?” she says and lets him in. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

“The same to you,” he replies, “Benedict didn’t mention it.”

Y/N smiles. “You won’t see much of me though. I’m going trick and treating with the boys.”

“I thought I was going trick or treating with the boys?”

Y/N’s brows crease. She doesn’t reply, only closes the door and walks into the living room. Moments later, Tom hears her annoyed tone as he follows after. She’s standing in front of Benedict, voice low but annoyed. “We agreed. We had an agreement.”

The older man shrugs with a smile. “I can’t recall that. When did we make this?”

Y/N gives Benedict a playful punch in the arm and glares at him. She moves from him, glare still set on Benedict, and sits down by Kit. With one last glance at the kid’s father, a glare Tom is very glad he’s not on the receiving end of, she smiles and turns to Kit.

“I honestly don’t understand how you can actually enjoy having her hate you,” says Benedict when Tom stops next to him.

Tom shrugs. “It’s not too bad.”

His best friend sends him a look.

He sighs. “It wasn’t that bad. Currently I wish things were slightly different.” Tom shakes his head. “When did you ask her to go trick or treating?”

“Saturday?”

“So, same time as you asked me?”

Benedict nods. “One adult per kid.”

Tom pats Benedicts back. “I think we’ll handle it.”

---

They walk down the street listening to Kit chatter. Tom holds Hal’s hand, the boy keeping himself a little ways from his brother’s constant talking. Y/N holds Kit’s hand, listening intently to the words the four year old says and smiling fondly at him. Something about the way she seems to beam whenever he does and replies to his talking as if the boy was her age, it makes a smile creep into Tom’s features.

He tries to push down the extra sense of fluttering in his gut, but it’s hard. He can feel the nerves shoot around, telling him that he needs to be alert and that every minute they spend together is a step further. Yet his mind contradicts this, showing every scenario where she doesn’t like him. There are many.

Yet, seeing her with Kit, he can’t keep his mind from going that way. It shows him pictures of what she would be like with her own kid. It shows him pictures of her smiling and laughing as she holds a baby. It shows him scenarios of dates they go on, or just sitting on the couch cuddling with a movie.

Tom takes a deep breath and diverts his attention back to the two kids running to ring the doorbell of a house. He stands next to Y/N as they watch the kids, racking his brain for some way to start a conversation.

“Did you remember to say thank you?” she asks as the two boys return. He lost his chance.

Kit nods and Hal shakes his head. Y/N smiles and shakes hers, too. “Remember to next house, okay?”

The boys nod, and Kit goes back to his chatter.

Most of the night continues like that. Whenever the kids go away and get some more candy, Tom racks his brain for a conversation starter, but whenever he’s close to one or about to ask her something, the boys return and Kit takes up her attention.

To be honest, Tom doesn’t really know what to do. There’s something he would like to say that he won’t ever say, and there’s something he would like to ignore or have go away as soon as possible. Those are the same things.

Even worse, during classes both on Tuesday and earlier Today, their students kept diverting the subject. They got to teach something, and then as it bordered territory, the students shot out with the questions they wanted to.

It is clear that the kiss during the play did nothing to stop the students from ‘shipping’ them. Rather it made the whole thing even worse. And it hasn’t made Tom’s life any easier.

The clock ticks away, and finally the words come from Y/N. “Okay, last house and then we make our way back, okay?”

Kit looks a little sad at that, but still nods. Hal nod furiously and decides not to join his brother to get some more candy. Instead he turns to Y/N and holds up his arms, clearly asking for her to carry him. With a sad smile, she does. The two year old lies his head down on her shoulder and, if Tom isn’t mistaken, closes his eyes.

“I bet Kit’s just as tired, he just doesn’t want to show it.” Y/N turns to Tom, the smile on her face turned to something less sad and more soft.

Tom nods. “Probably.”

God, he spends so much time trying to come up with a conversation starter and when she does first he can’t even make sure the conversation lasts? He’s an idiot.

Kit comes back with a smile on his face and hops right back into his chatter. Now he seems to include Tom in it. Though Tom only half listens, nodding at the right places and catching Y/N’s soft laughter whenever it slips. He smiles himself whenever her smile brightens. Her eyes sparkling, her lips parting showing off a set of white teeth, her cheeks a tint of red.

And as his eyes travels a little further he remembers that she’s barely wearing clothes. He takes in more of the little things. Like the slight red of her nose, the press of her lips together as if to keep her teeth from clattering, the way she shifts a little as she walks.

He steps around Kit, whos walks between you, and over to your other side. Shifting off his jacket he doesn’t say anything as he moves a sleeping Hal from your shoulder and places him in his own arm, handing you the jacket in the movement. Tom feels the wind on his arms as he’s taken off the warmth, but he also feels it in him that Y/N needs it more.

She gives him a smile and mouths thanks.

“I thought you don’t like each other?”

Kit’s voice startles both of them, and Y/N gives him an amused smile.

“Well, kiddo, sometimes, even if you don’t really like someone, you try to be a decent human being. And either way, we’re making it to friends now. I’d say we’ve gotten there, right?”

The smile and look she sends Tom when she turns her head to see him has his heart beat faster. He wants them to be friends, so of course he nods. But he would like them to, maybe at least try, be more. He makes a silent prayer of that happening in the future.

For now, he takes the friends. “Yes. It’s called making progress.”

---

They arrive back at Benedict’s around nine. Neither Sophie nor Benedict comments on the fact that Y/N has Tom’s jacket on, but if they believe he doesn’t see the look they give each other, then they are very wrong.

During the hours Y/N and Tom went trick or treating with the kids, the two parents have managed to change into costumes themselves. Benedict is dressed as Sherlock Holmes and Sophie as a female version of Watson (at least, that’s what Tom presumes based on the costume contents).

“Babysitters here?” asks Y/N as the two takes their coats.

“Came half an hour ago,” replies Benedict and hands her a coat as well. Something twists in her face for a second and she shrugs out of Tom’s jacket and hands it back to him, taking the coat Benedict hands her without hesitation. Tom supposes the one she puts on is hers.

“Then we’re ready to go, right?”

They nod and walk out into the cold evening air. A taxi waits on the curb and they all get in. Tom in the passenger seat in the front and the three others in the backseats. He finds himself happy with the choice seeing them crammed together. Yet something churns in his gut at the thought of being confined to a crammed space next to Y/N.

He needs to get out of his head.

The trip to the bar takes little time. It’s being rented by one of their mutual friends (work) that decided it was time for a coworker Halloween party.

Music floats in the air when they open the door inside. A bartender stands at the bar, or rather leans against the back. Only one person sits by the counter, but he isn’t ordering anything. There are some people on the dance floor, rocking out to Bohemian Rhapsody.

Tom looks to his friends, notes that Y/N mimes the words to the song and also makes a silent conversation with Benedict about where to go. They find Eddie in the bar, though Tom can’t guess as to who he is.

“Are you dressed as Newt Scamander?” asks Y/N, and when Eddie proudly nods and beams at her and continues the conversation by talking about Harry Potter and everything that has to do with it, Tom slides into a seat with a deep sigh.

He wishes he’d dressed easier. Even with the costume being easily recognizable in what era of time, that doesn’t mean anyone will notice he’s dressed as Hamlet. Apparently, Y/N doesn’t.

“Hey, guys,” says a voice. Tom takes his gaze of the chattering coworkers across from him to look up at the owner of the voice. He meets Emma’s gaze with a smile. Out of their many coworkers, Emma is one of his favorites. They don’t have that much time to talk, but she’s definitely has many ideas and interesting topics to talk about.

Y/N, seeing the younger girl, gets out of her seat and gives Emma a big hug. “It’s been too long since I saw you. How’s the project going?”

The sociology professor smiles and nods. “It’s really good. The students are engaged, I’m engaged and we’re making progress. A lot of progress. Wrote an article not long ago about equality that they posted actually.”

“I’m so happy for you.” Y/N gives her another hug and looks like she just met her number one celebrity. Tom can see why.

“Thank you.” Emma turns to everyone else. “So, I noticed you come in and I have some information about this ‘party’.” She uses air quotations around party. “The bathroom is up the stairs, the dance floor is where you see some dancing and the bar you’ve probably noticed. Fire escape routes are posted on the walls, but just for safety, it’s the door you came in and you can break through the windows. Also a fire escape on the second floor, so if you’re in the bathroom you can still get out. Other than that, there’s one free drink on me. Nothing over ten pounds. I hope you have fun and I love your costumes.”

Emma smiles at them all. Tom takes a minute to check her costume. A cloak of some sorts which hides a black sweater where small peeks of a white shirt pops out, with a red and yellow tie. She wears a skirt and her hair is curly and huge. Tom can’t pinpoint exactly who she’s being.

Y/N can, though. “I love yours, too. Hermione, right?”

“Knew you would get it.” She smiles. “Anyways, I hope you have fun and don’t hesitate to come talk to me through the evening. I brought some other friends and they don’t really know anyone so I’ll probably mostly be with them.”

“Your age, right?” asks Y/N.

Emma nods. “You wanna meet them? Pretty sure you’d get along.”

“If that’s what it takes to catch up with you, of course.” And then the two women walk away, making a detour by the bar before sitting down at a table with three other people.

Neither of the four left at the table say anything, until Sophie breaks the silence by asking anyone if they want to get something to drink. Tom volunteers to join her in getting the drinks.

“So,” says Sophie as they walk, her voice a little lower than for normal conversation. “What’s the deal with you and Y/N?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “There is none.”

“Are you sure? Because Benedict told me about the kiss and that she doesn’t remember it, but he said she wants to.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and ignores the feeling that floods his veins. “They both mentioned it, yes. But I don’t think that has anything to do with it.”

Sophie shrugs. “Seems like there’s more than one reason she wants to if you ask me, but what do I know?”

Tom nods. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sophie, but I can tell you that we are making progress into friends.”

She smiles at that. “Appreciate it. Especially thinking of Hal and Kit, they love both of you and after that day you babysat Kit asked questions I would rather avoid.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She waves it away, but Tom still feels a little guilty. He casts a glance Y/N’s way. Her head is thrown back in laughter, a big smile on her face and when she recovers she speaks with glee and enthusiasm. He only notices that when she teaches, mostly other than those times she seems grumpy.

He tries to ignore the stab to his gut, but it’s not easy. Either way, they’re becoming friends. He wants to be her friend. He’s always wanted to be her friend. Finally, he’s making progress.

It only took five years, some hate, and a push from their superiors.

It only took five years to glue the million pieces of his heart together. It’s still not whole, but it’s getting there.

Finally.

permanent tags:@devilbat @adefectivedetective @gamillian

tom tags: @inlovewith3 @bookgirlunicorn @mindlesschicca @justawriterinprogress @wolfsmom1 @loser-alert @satanskatze @timetravelingsociopathicwalker

tags: @plooffairy @just-the-hiddles @jennytwoshoes @lokissidehoe @fruitfly123 @princetale @scorpionchild81 @noplacelikehome77 @winterisakiller @lostsoldieronahill @nonsensicalobsessions @cherrygeek86 @louhpstuff @olyamoriarty @sunshinein17 @kthemarsian @kumikowi @secretcupcakekitty @buckygrantbarnes @josis-teacup @runawaygiirl @januarycalendargirl @funny-fangirl @kinghiddlestonanddixon @scorpiomindfuck @dr-kayleigh-dh @inmyworstlies @twhgirl @maah-chan @florencia93c @i-am-a-mes @o-deya @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @cantaloupewatch @carpediem-spero @createdbyanintensenerd @beananacake @lysawayne @nightrose64 @bradfordbantams @feyre-thehighlady @thundermaximoff @lys-syl @beenthroughalot

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fanfiction #imagine #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #marvel #loki #slowburn #professor hiddleston #college au #enemies to lovers

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drjackandmissjo · 5 years ago

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Roses are Red, Tattoos are Forever

Chapter 3 --- previous chapter

Feysand masterlist

The Sherlock Conundrum

Florist and tattoo artist Au, Modern Day

“Can you please stop with this madness? Hugh Laurie is clearly the best Sherlock ever!”

They were both sitting on the couch of his living room. Really close to each other. She had her left knee under her body and was fully facing him. He had been throwing glances at her way the whole time she’s been there, and now was admiring her everything as they bantered lovingly.

After a particularly rough client, that had taken her nearly seven hours to finish, she came into his shop claiming: “We’re both closing earlier, I need to rest and so do you.”

At his attempt to tell her off, cause “I don’t need to rest I am in pristine fit every second of every minute”, she simply replied with an elongated ‘Please’ and a pair of puppy dog eyes that would’ve put a Labrador to shame.

Useless to say, they ended up on his couch half an hour later, a marathon of the fourth season of House M.D. on the television and chips and popcorn all around.

Feyre is harder than she looks, tougher. She likes to drink whiskey and burning liquor and beer.

Rhys, on the other hand, is a refined rosé man. He drinks fruity drinks and cocktails and vodka. He tried the same stuff that she drinks, once, when they went out with the rest of the inner circle after Az had received a promotion. It didn’t end well.

Feyre and Cassian will forever tease him about it.

Since their taste in alcohol was on such a wide spectrum, they decided to settle for some sparkly Coca-Cola for that fine night.

About halfway through episode six, the debate had begun. The show was soon forgotten and left as a white noise machine that lulled them into their silliness.

“Feyre Darling. You are being delusional. Dr House’s got nothing on RDJ’s Sherlock. Just cause the character was inspired by Conan Doyle’s work it doesn’t mean it can be considered a Sherlock.”

She laughed. A delicious sound that was filling his days more and more each morning. “Do you know that Conan Doyle based Shelly on a doctor, right? Also, yeah Jude Law’s better than Wilson, that is true.”

“Can we just agree that Cumberbatch and Freeman are equally amazing.”

“Yeah, duh! But, controversial opinion: I don’t actually ship Jonhlock romantically.”

“More like platonic soul-mates? Makes complete sense. They are not interested in each other at all. You are right, Fey-ruh Acheron.”

‘HOW DARE SHE...’, he thought severely displeased.

“Oh please don’t be pissed at me. I like them together and everything, but in my mind, Sherlock is pretty much ace-aro. I mean, Cumberbatch was also Smaug. Which in the books is described as a dragon while the movies decided to portray him like a vixen...” He solemnly nodded.

That is, indeed, a severe problem in mainstream media.

“That is, indeed, a severe problem in today mainstream media. We live in a world where people don’t know the difference between one another! Daenerys Mother of Dragons? More like Dany The Soccer Mom of three cool lizards. That would be more appropriate!”

“Don’t talk to me about Dany, I’m still pissed about Jonerys. I mean, fan-service much? Okay, I can deal with that. But don’t freaking kill Viserion and try to make us all believe that HIS MOTHER WOULD FUCK HER NEPHEW THIRTY MINUTES LATER!”

She laughed again.

‘Gods above and below,’ he thought, ‘how much can a person love another?’

“Agree 100% on Viserion, though Jon after Ygrit should’ve just zipped up his pants and close business. You experience that kind of love once in your screentime. And when you do, Martin kills the counterpart off immediately after the big scene. You know that sadist is gonna kill you off, so just spare him the dirty deeds to write.”

“The dirty deeds are the reasons he is taking so much to finish that freaking book. Also, salty much?"

"You dare calling me salty? It’s been years and you still weep over Robb’s body.”

“Excuse you, it is a very fine body. Have you seen Richard Madden lately? With that kilt at Kit and Rose’s wedding? Fine AF.”

She was now scooting over, moving closer to his face to find a reaction.

“Fine, you’re right. But Darling, you know damn well I am attracted to that man, you can’t just casually throw his name around! That would be like me, saying that Misha has aged like a fine whisky.”

“And where would a lie hide in that sentence?”

“ANYWAY. We were talking of something terrifically important.”

He decided to add a Meaningful Pause to give himself some dramatic effect...

“How can you say you don’t ship Jonhlock romantically?”

‘Honesly I love that woman. She is my other half, I would die for her and with her. My life without her has no meaning.

But if her answer doesn’t please me then so help me God I will suffer through a meaningless life with the strength of my ships.’ His mind said.

“I told you before the 'The Hobbit/Game of Thrones' parenthesis. When I read the books I thought of Sherlock as a madman who cared about Watson profoundly, but mostly cares about himself and his work. Someone who doesn’t dwell into feelings, doesn’t really enjoy sexual times and, truly, a modern-day asexual and aromantic asshole with a kink for unofficial police work. Yes, He and Watson are amazing together, and especially with RDJ and Jude Law I saw the sexual tension, which then I also saw in the BBC’s version. But for me, since I read the books first, Jonhlock will always be the exact relationship shown by House and Wilson. Sorry to disappoint.”

She was so close to him, he could smell her shampoo and count the freckles across her nose. She was staring directly into his soul. Rhys was fully clothed in an old tee and some pants and yet he’d never felt more naked.

“You never disappoint me. As a matter of fact, you never cess to amaze me, Feyre Acheron. You are perfect and beautiful both on the inside as well as on the outside. Here I was, looking for a polite way to kick you out of my apartment after you say you don’t ship one of my OTPs and now, here still I am trying not to be drowned into you and trying not to get lost into your eyes and I love you so fucking much that it physically hurts.”

His inner monologue at the time? ‘Fuck. FUCK. What the fuck did I just say???’

She had managed to fry his whole brain with her smart reasoning and perfect voice and now he had ruined a perfect moment by saying cheesy stuff to a girl that didn’t particularly care for cheese.

That was the end of Rhysand Sphera as we all know and love him.

Cause of death: killed by Feyre Acheron as result of saying something completely idiotic.

Only...

“Do you really mean that?”

She sounded hopeful and scared at the same time. The horrors she had to face in the past came running back to her and were written all over her face. Rhys took her hands in his. They were both trembling.

His mouth had probably never been that dry and yet aching to speak at the same time. He could only nod and pray she reciprocated.

That was the moment of truth.

“Of course I mean it. All of it. Each unsaid sentence and each shared glances. Every time I bring you coffee or a send you a picture of a dog that walks into my shop with its owner even though I’m terrified of them. The dog, not the owner. Even though some owners of dogs are terrifying. I have been in love with you for so long, I forgot how it feels not loving you. I look back at those times when you were not in my life and even back then I knew I was missing something. And when he-who-must-not-be-named showed up and swept you off your feet away from me, I was broken beyond repair. But you came back and made me hope that maybe, maybe all my dreams could become true. But you were hurt and also broken, and you needed time to heal. You still do. I shouldn’t have said anything, but you’re just so fucking amazing that I struggle to not scream ‘I Love You’ every time you breathe. I am utterly in love with you and hopelessly devoted to you. I understand if you still need time to heal or would rather be with someone else. But I said it, and I do not intend on taking it back.”

She was kneeling on the couch, her hands still clutching his, tears streaming down her face.

“Don’t take it back.”

Rhys thought he had heard what he wanted, so he had to ask, “What?”, a dumbstruck disbelieving-his-luck expression plastered on his face.

“I said don’t take it back. I feel the same way. I am utterly in love with you and hopelessly devoted to you too. I thought you hated me after, well, Tamlin. It is pleasant knowing we reciprocate each other’s feelings.”

Feyre laughed again, breaking the spell between them. Only, now the deed was done. Neither of them could hold their emotions in any longer. Feyre leaned in and so did Rhys, and their lips met halfway in a once in a lifetime, epic romance, Full on Princess Bride type of kiss.

After they both ran out of breath, they simply remained connected in every way possible given their awkward position. Foreheads never leaving each other, hands clasped together, lips barely touching. That spell, though, didn’t last for long. Soon they yearned to touch each other’s skin and feel each other’s bodies.

They were never going to have enough of each other.

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