#North London Cabs

[kittymaine]

Colours

Dead Boy Ween Day 1!

Summary: Crystal, Edwin, and Charles attend a party and then promptly shut the whole thing down.

It started like this: a middle aged woman stopped Crystal in the street as she exited an ice cream shop.

"Crystal?" she asked, looking surprised. She was well dressed with funky glasses, flowy green dress, and salt and pepper hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun that looked too coiffed to actually be careless. "Not Crystal Palace Surname Von Hoverkraft?" she asked, her face struggling toward pleasant but not quite getting there.

"Actually, I just go by Crystal Palace now," Crystal responded hesitantly, shooting a look at Edwin and Charles over the woman's shoulder. She wasn't used to being recognized on the street, but she supposed she was back in London and in a nicer neighborhood. It wasn't out of the question that people from her old life might recognize her.

"Oh, of course," the woman said with a crinkle to her brow. "I suppose your full name is a bit of a mouthful," she laughed.

Crystal didn't laugh with her. She glanced at Edwin and Charles again. Edwin was looking exasperated and impatient, while Charles looked curious but patient. She gave Edwin a small shrug. What was she supposed to do, just shrug the woman off and keep walking?

The woman glanced over her shoulder to where Crystal was looking and the crease between her brows grew deeper.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were talking to someone earlier?" the woman asked. Her smile was fixed on her face in a way that Crystal didn't like and her hand was still on her elbow.

"Uh, no?" Crystal said uncertainly. A second after her eyes darted to Charles and Edwin she realized her mistake. But, it was too late. The woman's eyebrows raised and she too glanced back to the boys, but obviously didn't see them.

Edwin rolled his eyes so hard his whole head rolled with them and started to walk away. Charles snickered and hopped after him, heading toward the subway.

"Sorry, I've really got to go," Crystal said, trying to delicately step around the woman, but her hand clenched down hard on Crystal's jacket.

"Do you recall your fifth birthday?" the woman asked frantically. Her eyes were wide, the whites showing all the way around her dishwater gray eyes. "Do you remember you told me you saw my husband?"

Her heart pounding in her chest, Crystal shook the woman off and took two quick steps back. "Sorry," she gasped, "Sorry I've got to go."

Crystal hustled away as the woman called after her "Nice seeing you, Crystal! Tell your mom I said hi!"

---

Or, maybe it started like this: a text from Crystal's mother saying she was invited to go to a party with her.

"Can you believe it?" Crystal smiled, looking down at her phone screen. "It's just so out of the blue!"

Charles' pointy chin hooked over Crystal's shoulder as he read the text message chain along with her. Crystal had read and reread the messages so many times, but she couldn't get enough. Her mom! Wanted to hang out! With her!

"She's not really inviting you here, though," Charles said uncertainly, frowning down at the phone screen. "She says here you have to go."

Crystal yanked the phone screen away from Charles with a thunderous frown. "She can be a little abrupt, but that's just my mom. It doesn't mean anything," Crystal said.

Charles frowned harder and opened his mouth to say something else, but Edwin cut him off.

"Of course," he said curtly. "You would know her best, Crystal. We trust your judgment," he said with a pointed look at Charles. "It's wonderful that you are reconnecting with your mother."

Charles frown lessened, but didn't disappear completely. "Yeah," he said slowly. "We're happy for you, Crystal."

---

No, how it really started was this: Crystal in the back of a cab sitting between Edwin and Charles on their way to an event at a haunted manor north of London.

"I still don't understand why we have to tag along," Edwin sniffed from Crystal's right. The cab that was driving the three of them trundled slowly down narrow country lanes, making all three of them sway side to side together. Crystal had airpods pressed into her ears and her phone out in her hand to at least attempt to make it look like she wasn't talking to herself in the back of the cab.

"Because, I'm nervous, okay?" Crystal snapped. That was the third time Edwin had complained about tagging along since they got into the car well over an hour ago. "My mom never asks me to come along to any of her stuff, but she asked me to come to this," Crystal continued miserably, her anger disappearing in a puff as soon as she let it out. "What if I mess up and she never asks me again?"

The phantom sensation of an arm settling over her shoulders gave her a little bit of comfort. "Hey, that's not going to happen, all right?"

Crystal could feel Charles giving Edwin a look over her head, but it still felt good to hear him agree with Charles. "Of course. You're a lovely young woman and your mother will be happy to spend time with you."

Unfortunately, Edwin was not a very good liar, especially for those who knew him well. She appreciated him trying, though. It wasn't like it was outside the realm of possibility that this could be the beginning of a renewed relationship with her mother. But, she suspected that she and Edwin shared a certain kind of pessimism that made even entertaining the thought feel frivolous.

Crystal looked up into Edwin's face, which was carefully folded into a kind and encouraging expression. The kindness was real, she could tell from the way his eyebrows tilted up and his eyes crinkled a little at the corners. But, the smile was fake. She could tell he wanted to frown in concern. Not that she could blame him. She did too.

The manor, when they reached it, was a huge stately building that was in need of some repair. But, it was still impressive, despite the cracks in the stone and the sagging of the doorways. The garden huge and lush, the drive curving around an old dry fountain with a praying angel in the center, wings spread wide, with huge red painted double doors set at the top of three curving marble steps. It was like something out of a regency romance novel.

Except that the circular drive was packed with posh high end cars parked every which way in the grass and on the gravel drive, so that the cab had to drop her off a ways off or risk getting trapped in the chaos. Crystal immediately regretted wearing sleek black stilettos as she struggled to toddle her way across the gravel on the balls of her feet. Holding onto Charles' and Edwin's hands helped, but once they got closer to the entrance and the slow moving knot of people moving inside she had to make her way on her own or risk embarrassing her mother in front of all her friends.

Inside, the manor was much more richly decorated. It was the height of summer, but it seemed like whoever designed the event had something Halloween adjacent in mind. There was glittering black velvet drapes everywhere along with sparkling purple spiders hanging from gossamer webs, waiters walking through the crowds were carrying trays with shots bubbling with dry ice and atmospheric music piped through the dark wooden halls. It sort of clashed with the warm air and orange summer sunlight cascading through the tall windows, but whoever had set it up obviously was making a big effort to stick to a theme.

Crystal looked around the foyer for her mother, scanning heads and faces with the help of the little bit of height her ridiculous shoes gave her. She could feel Charles and Edwin hovering at each of her shoulders, which certainly helped her to straighten her back and focus. She could do this.

Her mom had left directly from the gallery. She was busy, obviously. She was always busy. But, she would definitely be at the party and Crystal was at the party now too and that was all she needed.

She started to weave through the party goers, her eyes on the lookout for her mom's distinctive hairstyle, her tall willowy body shape, her intelligent (and judgmental) eyes that Crystal knew as well as her own face. It didn't take long to find her.

In what was probably a ballroom in the manor's heyday, her mom was trapped talking to a woman who looked vaguely familiar. The tense smile and crinkled brow were a combination Crystal remembered from a lot of stiff adult parties she was dragged to as a little kid. Obviously her mom needed a rescue and Crystal was ecstatic to provide it.

"Mom!" she exclaimed, stepping up to the two older women with a wide smile. She didn't even have to fake the smile, she was so happy to have found her mother in the press of strangers. She felt more than saw Edwin and Charles hang back a little, but they didn't go far. When she glanced over, both Edwin and Charles were bent over Charles' hands, looking at them like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. The urge to hiss at them to knock it off was strong, but Crystal swallowed it down at the last moment.

"Crystal! So glad you made it!" her mom enthused, a little stiff but sounding sincere enough. She pulled Crystal in and kissed the air by each of her cheeks while Crystal did the same. If she noticed Crystal glance at the empty space behind and to her right she didn't mention it.

As she pulled away, her mom turned to the other woman she had been talking to. "You remember Kat Runnover? She's been so excited to see you," her mom enthused.

As Crystal turned to her, she suddenly remembered where she had seen her before. The woman who had accosted her outside the ice cream shop stood before her, now dressed in a tasteful black cocktail dress, martini glass in hand, her eyes wide and wet and shining as she pressed the pads of her fingers to her mouth.

"Oh, Crystal! It's so good to see you again! I'm so glad you could make it," Kat warbled before pulling a frozen Crystal into a hug. Her perfume was strong, but didn't quite mask the scent of her hairspray. Crystal hesitantly patted the other woman on the back.

"Now that you're here, we can finally start the party! Just a moment I have something I have to set up. Be right back," she sang, waving with the fingers still clutching the stem of her glass before dodging through the crowd toward the back of the room.

The second the woman was gone, Crystal turned back to her mother. Gone was the warm socialite smile. Instead her mother looked tired and cranky, her eyes roving over Crystal's dress and heels and hair, her mouth twisting into a moue of distaste.

"It certainly took you long enough to get here. Did you walk all the way from London?" he mother snarked, snatching a cocktail from a wandering waiter and almost downing the whole thing in one swallow.

"There was a lot of traffic," Crystal said awkwardly. She tried to pull down the hem of her skirt, but there wasn't a lot of give to the fabric. She felt incredibly self-conscious under her mother's gaze and already resented that she had made her feel that way. "Kat, huh?"

Her mother scoffed. "Poor Kat. She's never been the same since Stephen died. This is another one of her awful death day celebrations. They just get more unhinged every year." Crystal's mother stopped and gave her another assessing look. "She asked for you specifically, but wouldn't say why. Did you do something?"

"Just stumbled into her outside an ice cream shop. I didn't recognize her, but she recognized me," Crystal said with a shrug.

Her mother sighed heavily and knocked back the last swallow of her cocktail. "I guess it would be hard for her to forget you. After that whole fiasco back then."

Crystal frowned and forced herself not to fidget. She saw the flash of Charles' red polo in the corner of her eye moving closer, but forced herself not to react. Even if it wasn't warm and fuzzy, this was more words than she'd heard from her mother in the last month combined.

"What fiasco?" Crystal asked.

Her mother raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You really don't remember? At your fifth birthday party, you insisted that you could see her husband right behind her. Sent the poor woman into hysterics," she said with a curl of her lip.

Crystal winced. She did vaguely remember that, now that her mother brought it up. It had often been cited as the reason why her parents didn't celebrate her birthday, even if it had long ago become clear to her that holding the actions of a five year old against her was more than a little unfair. She hadn't realized the woman from the memories was Kat, though.

"I haven't seen any other ghosts here. At least the poor man has moved on," Edwin's voice came from just behind Crystal's left shoulder.

"Wow, even as a toddler Crystal was psychic," Charles chuckled from her right side.

Crystal wasn't sure what her face was doing, but was extremely thankful when someone tapped on a microphone, effectively distracting her mother from frowning at her face.

Kat had stood up on a low table and addressed the crowd, thanking them all for coming. Crystal tried to push her emotions down and watch dutifully, but it was hard when the boys were still talking in her ear.

"We do have a bit of a situation, Crystal," Edwin said stiffly, stepping up to her side so that she could see him clearly out of the corner of her eye. He was rubbing his hands together in an unusual gesture for him.

"Not sure who set it up, but this room must be enchanted," Charles contributed. "Seems like we're corporeal, while we're here," he explained, snapping his fingers and startling a few people who unfairly shot Crystal a dirty look. She shrugged apologetically and then shot Charles a dirty look once they had turned back around.

Kat had moved on to talking about death and her love for her husband, but Crystal was barely listening by that point.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she whispered, "What do you mean you're corporeal? Can people see you?"

"Not as such," Edwin sniffed. "But, they can feel us, we take up space, and we have weight, so long as we are under the effects of the spell."

"Why would someone put an enchantment like that on this room?" Crystal hissed.

"Crystal, hush!" her mother said from the corner of her mouth.

"Maybe someone set it up and then forgot about it?" Charles suggested.

"Or perhaps our host is about to do something ill advised..." Edwin said slowly, frowning at the front of the room where Kat was still talking, but much more emotionally now.

"I believe that the dead walk among us right now!" Kat was shouting into the microphone, mascara running down her cheeks with her tears. "I believe that with the right tools, with the right help from the right people," she smiled wetly right at Crystal, "we can finally see what's been right beside us all along."

"Oh, god," Crystal's mother groaned.

A second later, there was a mechanical thunk, and then hundreds of little fabric balls were hurtling down from the ceiling onto the crowd of people below. As they landed softly on hair and shoulders and backs, they exploded into clouds of bright primary colors, puffs of vibrant shades covering all the tastefully neutral colors of the crowd.

People started shouting right away, complaining about their designer clothing and their hundred dollar hair styles, literally shouting their fists at Kat who still stood on the table, her eyes desperately scanning the crowd.

And then people were screaming in a very different way.

"Oh, bugger," Charles grumbled, looking down at himself.

People started falling over themselves to get away from Charles and Edwin. Both of them were absolutely covered in paint, the colors clinging to them in a way that looked normal to Crystal but probably looked like something out of the Invisible Man to everyone else in the room.

Crystal was nearly bowled over at least three times as people rushed to get away from Charles and Edwin who stood placidly in the center of the room. Crystal fought against the pull of the crowd until she was able to break through and back into the empty space around them. When she turned back toward the doors, it was to see only the backs of dozens of people as they shoved at each other to escape. She couldn't see her mother anywhere.

"Really, this is quite childish," Edwin sighed, trying to brush a splash of bright red paint off of his sleeve and only succeeding in smearing the color around more.

Kat was screaming from somewhere in the house. Crystal thought she might have seen some muscular guys in off the rack suits tackle her out of the room once everyone started stampeding, but she wasn't sure. Everything had happened so fast once the screaming started.

Looking out the tall windows, she could see scores of people sprinting for the mess of cars in the circular driveway. The people who were already in their cars were laying on their horns and bumping into each other in their haste to escape.

"I don't know, mate. I think you look good in red," Charles said. Crystal turned just in time to see him wink at Edwin. Edwin scoffed in return, but looked pleased nonetheless.

"Well," Crystal said. She threw her arms out in an exaggerated shrug and then lets them slap back to her sides. "So much for mother daughter bonding."

"There will be other chances," Charles said, his expressive eyebrows folding in sympathy.

"I'm quite sorry, Crystal. Perhaps we should not have come along, after all," Edwin said quietly, his eyes looking old and tired in a way that was familiar, but that Crystal hated to see.

Crystal huffed a breath out her nose. She tried to imagine coming to the party by herself, riding in the cab by herself, talking to her mother without backup, inevitably going home to an empty flat all by herself. Maybe if Charles and Edwin hadn't come along she could have spent an interminable evening being stiff and unhappy beside her mother at the party, but somehow the prospect didn't seem more appealing than being covered in paint in an empty Manor with her two favorite dead boys.

"Nah," Crystal said with a lopsided smile. She leaned over and picked up one of the little fabric balls off the floor. It felt like a hacky sack in her hand, but was powdery with pale blue paint. "And miss you covered in paint? No way."

With a hard throw, Crystal nailed Edwin right in the chest with the ball and it exploded all over him in a pale blue cloud.

"Crystal!" he shouted, scandalized.

Charles was cackling, already loading his arms with a dozen discarded paint balls. "Yes, Crystal! That's my girl!" he laughed, whipping a bright yellow ball at her head and covering her in paint while she squealed.

And, maybe this is how this story ends: with three teenagers in various stages of life and death laughing in an empty house. With their laugher and playing spilling out of the house and onto the lawn until the paint balls finally run out of paint and they lay panting in the grass, covered in all the colors of the rainbow. And maybe the boys can drop their corporeal aspect and let the paint fall off them like a slowly dissolving paint palette while the girl has to find a shallow stream to wash the worst of it off. And maybe later they go back to the boys' office and sit in a circle on the floor and play board games until the sun comes up and the girl is snoring on their small worn love seat.

And, maybe it's a happy ending after all is said and done.

[sempersirens]

a bird in your teeth, I

masterlist

summary: since moving into the neighborhood a couple of years ago, you've become close with the miller family. as a young woman living alone joel is protective of you, and he intends to show you how much so

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: 18+, mdni, neighbour!joel, age gap: reader is early-mid 20s, joel early 30s. no break-out. no smut (yet)

word count: ~1k

"Okay, missy. Bedtime!" Slapping your knees, you rise from your armchair to eject the copy of Notting Hill from the Millers' VCR.

You check your watch and curse softly under your breath. 10:06 pm. Joel should be pulling into the driveway any minute.

"Are there really guys like Hugh Grant back in England?" Sarah asks, tossing her quilt over her shoulder and bundling the pillows under her arm.

"If there are, I could never find them."

"That why you moved all the way across the ocean?"

You turned to Sarah, clutching your chest in mock outrage.

"Maybe. I liked the idea of finding a cowboy. Like Clint Eastwood!" You giggled and clapped your hands together. "Anyway, get upstairs before your old man gets home and initiates a Mexican standoff because I let you stay up past nine on a school night."

Smoothing down Sarah's hair, you place a quick kiss on the top of her head before scurrying her up the stairs.

"Goodnight!" She shouted over her shoulder before her bedroom door closed behind her.

Sarah was definitely old enough to look after herself on evenings like these, but since you moved into the neighborhood a few years ago it became routine to watch the teenager whenever her dad was going to be home late. Neither of you minded, you had bonded like sisters over your time spent together, despite your ten year age gap. You got the impression that Joel liked knowing you were both under one roof while he was away.

Ain't no need f'a young woman to be alone too long he would say, always eliciting an eye roll from both you and Sarah.

Living alone wasn't something that bored or intimidated you. On the contrary; independence excited you. The thrill hadn't subsided in the slightest. Texas had been more than welcoming to you since you decided to leave North London for a new life. As soon as you received the scholarship letter to undertake a Ph.D. at UT Austin, your bags were packed and you hailed a cab to Heathrow Airport.

You had, however, been immediately put at ease when you pulled up to your new home and caught a glimpse of Joel and Sarah walking to the truck in their driveway, lost in conversation, wide-eyed and giddy on an inside joke. You watched over time as the two spent their days in a blissful world of their own making, soaking up each other's company as naturally as the sun burns into the tops of your shoulders on a hot afternoon.

It had been an exceptionally warm Friday evening when Joel first knocked on your front door.

"Evening, ma'am." He had spoken, tipping his head slightly with his hands tucked loosely in his jeans pockets. Your palms had instantly turned clammy, internally praying that he didn't reach a hand forward to introduce himself.

"Hey. What can I do for you?" You had just about managed a reply between mediating your quickened breathing and trying to actually speak words rather than babble.

The rest of the encounter felt like it had flown by. Joel had invited you to a barbecue, too many burgers for jus' two people, he had reasoned. No such thing, you'd replied. Like you had needed any incentive to accept his invitation. You spent the evening with your ankles dipped in their paddling pool, belly laughing and wiping ketchup from the corners of your mouth. You'd be lying if you said your stomach didn't flutter every time Joel directed a question or comment solely toward you, or that your breath didn't hitch when you accidentally brushed fingers passing him the bottle opener. But that had been then, and you promised yourself you wouldn't get so Pride and Prejudice about a man you had just met. A single father, no less. As time passed, you spent most weekends together along with Joel's brother Tommy. Barbecues, family get-togethers, birthday parties; you were invited to them all. Weekends bled into weeknights, and you became an extension of their little family, let into their secret language of exchanged glances and inside jokes.

Lines were never crossed between you and Joel, but that knot in your stomach never seemed to fade either. You knew it was just an unreciprocated crush; misplaced gratitude for all the kindness he had shown you. Southern hospitality and charm had that effect.

Pulling you from your thoughts, Joel's truck headlights illuminated the living room. You quickly cleared the bowls of popcorn and bags of M&Ms from the coffee table before heading into the kitchen to refill your glass of water.

Joel's keys turned in the door and you heard his shoes wiping on the doormat. He called your name softly.

"In here." You responded in just above a whisper.

He walked in wearing a smart button-up, the top two undone, rubbing a hand over his stubble.

"Pint?"

"If you'd be so kind, darlin'." Joel sighed, pulling out a stool before tapping the one next to him for you to perch on.

"Date not go so well?"

"Do they ever?" He laughed as you handed him a cold bottle of beer. "Not having one f'yourself?"

"They won't if you keep expecting them to be a disaster. None for me, I need to head out soon. Meeting some friends for a few at a bar in the city."

"They're all fine women. Just got nothin' in common. S'probably me."

It made you feel dirty when Joel came back tipsy. With his guard down and inhibitions numbed, he was so open. It felt like you were taking advantage of him. You had to fight everything inside of you to argue with his self-deprecation. Of course it wasn't him. He was the perfect man. You tried to not show too much pleasure at his string of failed first dates.

"Should've told me y'had plans, sugar. I would've come back earlier so you could get goin'."

You waved his statement away. "It's no problem, the less time I'm there the better. I should probably head off, though." Before you could move to grab your keys, Joel's hand hovered over yours resting on the table.

"Thank you, by the way. I doubt I say it enough." Eye contact with Joel always stirred something inside of you. Those damn brown eyes. You smiled at him, softly.

"You don't need to thank me, Joel. I like spending time with Sarah. You know that."

He shook his head slightly. "S'not just that. I mean for everythin'. If you ever need me, you call. You know that, right? Hate thinkin' 'bout you in that house all alone."

It's not the first time he had said something of the sort. You always assumed it was the over-protective father inside of him, bursting out at the seams. Or maybe his Southern chivalry finding its feet after a couple of beers.

"Thank you, Joel. I appreciate it." You turned your hand in his and squeezed once before making your way to the door. You felt his eyes on you as you walked. You always felt his eyes on you. Sometimes you would be changing in front of your window and be sure you could feel Joel's gaze from across the street burning into you. But whenever you turned around, he was never there.

"I'm sorry your date didn't go well." You said, lingering in the doorway.

Joel scrunched his nose slightly and shook his head.

"I'm not."

a/n: hi guys! this is my first fic uploaded to tumblr lol kind of nervy but hope you guys enjoy. i plan on writing a couple more parts to this! message me for taglist for part two!

dee x

[lasiocampa--quercus]

For all those stuck in 2019...

I have been very reluctant to share any art / writing for — oof, five years. First because it was plain awful, then because it was not good enough. It still isn't, but as the years passed I got increasingly lonely on other social media, so this is my last resort. After I've failed smashingly here, well, I guess I'll just have to stop trying altogether.

Anyway, a first time for everything. So here's one for you.

[Detail. Scroll down (I mean to say, read the whole post) to see the full artwork]

We don't choose what we love, now, do we?

For five years I've been desperately in love with the idea of putting two brilliant characters — Eggsy from Kingsman (2015, 2017) and David from Bodyguard (2018) — into the context where they could meaningfully interact and explore one another's worlds. Such a context has been established (it is not the subject of the current post but I'd be willing to tell all about it later), resulting in their taking a shine to each other almost immediately. For Eggsy this acquaintance was something excitingly in between the two class extremes he was most accustomed to, sabotaging his life-long distaste for having anything to do with coppers. For David it was a breath of fresh air. He'd been two years well into therapy after the events covered in the series, and he was still struggling to get back on track when he met Eggsy, arch and lively, and at the same time so dashingly insightful as he was. Somehow it felt like they'd known each other for years as they talked throughout afternoons and after-work hours over a pint of lager somewhere in North London. David, usually rather inhibited, smiled and laughed at Eggsy's jokes, charmed by his candour and straightforwardness, taken aback by his astute remarks often delivered in a childlike unassuming manner. To be sure, he'd never met anyone quite like him. The prospect of friendship was an enticing one despite all their differences and despite the pressures of their jobs. While at first one was suspicious of the other's occupation (David, of course, more suspicious than Eggsy, being inherently averse to secrecy of any kind), they soon grew to respect the boundaries imposed by respective lines of duty (David was inclined to believe Eggsy's agency couldn't be that bad seeing as it employed such a brilliant lad). In effect, Eggsy trusted him more than he could ever trust any of his old mates and occasionally slipped into the conversation uncanny details of his field experiences. But best of all he liked exchanging ideas, relaying to David something that Harry had told — or taught — him, expounding on his reflections that were philosophical or even biblical in essence, although he couldn't ever say whom he unwittingly quoted. David would recognise a concept or two, but he never abashed him by mentioning the fellow's name. Over time the content of their communion had got more intimate, insomuch that Eggsy took to dedicating a huge chunk of time to moaning about his relationship with Harry which had gone on for quite a while after he split up with Tilde.

One such time, fuelled by a considerable amount of drinks, Eggsy set to illustrate the supposed reasons for Harry's recent aloofness. He clamorously hurled his jeerings and complaints at David, impinging on much-cherished privacy of the pub tables. Before it started to wear on virtually everybody in their proximity, David took his noisy, fairly plastered companion outside for a breather. The cool evening air didn't seem to have the desired effect of sobering him up a bit as Eggsy nearly blacked out after a brief (but crucial) exchange between himself and David. That occurrence prompted David to call a cab and take him to his place to recuperate. He reasoned it would not be wise to let him dart off home to Harry in such a flustered state, for it appeared as if the conflict between them was merely an ember, or rather, a heap of embers waiting to be stirred. From then on David's conduct was laced with strange acts of gracious benevolence, such as taking Eggsy's trainers off before laying him down, sleepy and a tad confused, on his sofa and leaving the keys to his flat for when he woke up and presumably wished to go home, with little trim notes strewn around telling about it, as well as where to look for aspirin if his head was giving him a hard time after the other night's drunken debauchery. At the time David didn't question his actions, although they clearly ran counter to his long-conditioned circumspection and, to a lesser extent, his vague views on male intimacy. If anything, the day when he, trying not to disturb Eggsy's healing sleep, snuck away for work he couldn't shake off a quaint feeling of invigoration which seemed to permeate his otherwise dull routine of desk duty. Later that day, confident that Eggsy had left, he got back to a startle in the form of his coyly looking, supper-serving friend with unkempt hair and a crumpled white T-shirt. Eggsy stayed not only to defer having to face Harry, but to show gratitude for David's kindness the best way he knew — by doing a kindness in return. He furnished their dinner table with a bottle of wine, promising to go easy on it and proposing a toast to David's general gemness. There they were, having another quiet night of good conversation, the homely setting and their tipsiness conducing to even more warmth and unrestraint, when Eggsy accidentally tipped over his half-emptied glass and stained his T-shirt. If one could ever be sure of such things, one would say that exact moment was the point of no return, the moment of truth. A simple, ordinary incident that tore down a facade with the light tinkle of glass as it touched the floor. From lighthearted jocularity Eggsy went on to unbosom his brooding insecurity. The change in his disposition was so thunderboltingly sudden it made David somewhat uncomfortable. It made Eggsy uncomfortable too. The only suitable course of action suggested they should comfort each other, so Eggsy placed his hand in David's. A bashful kiss ensued. Once it was reciprocated, little smiles creased their flushed faces. Both hardly had an opportunity to process what was happening, but it somehow felt ridiculously, madly right. And peaceful, too.

Well, now that all the heavy lifting is done by that snippet above we can sit back and (hopefully) enjoy this little picture depicting David and Eggsy decently progressed in their ‘comforting each other’. I must point out, however, that what you've just (hopefully) read is really only a summary, a squeeze if you will, of what transpired, produced specifically for purpose of acquainting you with the context. In actual fact the story is teeming with dialogue and detail which, with your kind permission, I would like to show you some other time.

[carcrashbaby]

graham coxon after being hit by a cab in north london (1995)

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 30 A-The Lady

Day 30 A-End 

Other Stories

Other Days

A Western Summer

Duck knew he was dreaming as soon as he opened his eyes. The forest around him was tall, taller than the tallest building in Tidmouth…or London for that matter. Where he could see the sky above him through the forest canopy shimmered strangely despite it being night, reminding him of the air surrounding Screech. Fireflies flew through the air, lighting the forest in a golden ethereal glow. None of this was what told him that he was dreaming. It was the woman polishing his buffers.

She strangely reminded him of Cassandra at first glance, large round eyes and elegant features, but her’s were sharp were Cassnadra’s were rounded. He felt her presence on him like a physical weight, pressing down on his frames so that they creaked from the strain of her mere proximity. It felt pleasant, almost fond, but he understood that if he angered her, she would not have to kill him, he would be crushed in an instant by the weight of the emotion itself. Even before she glanced up to reveal burning gold eyes, he knew who was before him.

“My Lady.” He said, bowing his head as far as it would go, his mind racing as he tried to figure out why the Lady herself had called his spirit forth.

She smiled, “So polite Montague.”

 She reached out a hand to cup his cheek, the sensation of withheld power almost burning him as she sat there for a moment staring at him.

“Forgive me,” she said as she removed her hand, leaving a red handprint behind, “it is not often I get to interact with my living children.”

Duck nodded slowly, even within a dream he could feel the effort it took for her to keep her presence from overwhelming his existence.

“I am honored, My Lady.”

“Hmmm…” She flicked a speck of dirt from his running board, the speck incinerating in the air from her power. “I had debated sending you to Sodor.”

Duck's eyebrows shot up, the Lady was the one who sent him? It had always been strange that he was chosen for transfer to the North Western rather than one of his Welsh siblings, who were far closer, but to think it was her…

She glanced down at her palm, “I saw that you would remain faithful to your ways, to the Great Western. That it would be born again on your line.” a golden flame flickered into being on her palm.

“I did not see my champion falling for you.”

She closed her hand, the flame disappearing into her fist.

Oh.

She looked up to stare into Duck’s eyes, her lips tight in a thin line.

“I know I have unfairly burdened them.” She said tightly, the air thrumming with her power and frustration, “that she needs companionship of her own kind. That she is dangerously close to falling.”

It was tensely quiet between the engine and his creator for a long moment.

“She would not have asked to be spared.” Duck said quietly, “I would be surprised if the thought had ever occurred to her.”

“I am aware.” She said, her voice pained. She laid her other hand on his running board, tracing her fingertips along his running board as she walked around him.

She paused by his cab, “I am a jealous being.” She admitted carelessly, as if the weight of her words wasn't causing his springs to creak. “I am possessive of all my children, perhaps beyond what is healthy.”

She walked forward again, and Duck wondered if this is what sheep felt like when stalked by wolves.

 “above all others, she is mine. The only one of my children I can see while they still live, the only one I can pour my care into while they still draw breath.” She turned to face him, repressed anger, frustration, and helplessness clear  on her face, “and I can only hurt her.”

She stepped close, Duck barely daring to breathe, “I can only reach her because I ask her to risk herself for me. To bear the weight of divinity on her mortal frames.”

She opened her fist, revealing the flame still flickering in her hand, “even now I can only speak to you without shattering your being because of how much time you've spent in her presence.”

She locked her eyes on the flames, “you need to understand, my dear child, that she is mine first. Now, and forever. She was only supposed to be a champion, but I have poured too much into her, asked too much of her, to ever let her go. She is a part of me now, and I could no more let her go than you can withstand my power in life.”

Duck eyes the flames in her hand warily, “I knew as much when I asked her. To deny your claim on her would be to deny her.”

The Lady sighed, and let the flames die away, “which is why I did not protest when she asked my permission to court you.”

Duck should have expected her to have asked permission before agreeing to court him, but then why…

“Because you have to understand she's mine.” she answered his thought before he could even finish it. “She's grown attached to you, and you need to understand that you will never be first in her life before I allow this to go any further. Not just as a fact, but as your reality.”

Duck actually thought about it, considering how he felt. “It's an adjustment, being with her.” He admitted, “I'm not used to allowing others to go into danger, much less without me…but asking for Cassandra or Thomas without Caomhnóir would be like asking for me without the Great Western.”

“A fair enough comparison.” She allowed. She cupped his cheek again, “I do not say this out of malice or anger, but protectiveness. I would not see you hurt if she were to ever choose her duty over you…either of you.”

Duck swallowed, “I would not ask that of her. Only that she allows others to help her where possible.”

The Lady was quiet for a moment, before she sighed and stepped away.

“She needs you.” She admitted, “as loath as I am to admit it, she needs another engine to trust, to help her bear the weight.” she looked up to meet the panniers eyes, “but you will be affected by this.” She warned. “Just as her crews have been, you cannot spend so much time with my own without being affected yourself.”

“I understand.”

“Hmmmm…perhaps you do.” She glanced to the sky, “I must release you now, but know this.”

She glanced back to Duck.

“She chose well.”

The fire in her hand flared and Duck woke, gasping for air in the Arlesburg sheds, startling several of the engines awake.

As they asked him what was wrong, he glanced into a mirror that had been left leaning against the shed walls, revealing a red handprint on his cheek.

A/N: Hello Loves! The Lady appears Human here as a measure to keep her presence from destroying Duck. I hope you all enjoyed Day 30! Love Y'all!

[morrigan-sims]

On Repeat Tag

I was tagged by @salemssimblr! Thank you!

shuffle your On Repeat playlist and post the first 10 tracks.

Maybe Man - AJR

Favorite Liar - The Wrecks

Fresh - Artist Vs Poet

Call My Name - The Unlikely Candidates

Steve's Going To London - AJR

Second Thought - Raynes

Moon - The Cab

Final Destination - The Unlikely Candidates

I Won't - AJR

29 - Run River North

For once this is actually accurate to my recent listening. I've been listening to The Maybe Man on repeat for the past 5 days, and I've probably listened to it at least 20 times by now. And the rest of these songs are on the playlist I was listening to frequently pre-The Maybe Man.

I tag @hibiscustease @void-critters @voidcreek @goldenwaves

[aryburn-trains]

Only a few months old at the time, shiny GO Transit F40PH 511 heads up a westbound 9-car train of new bilevels and an APCU on the tail end, passing by Spadina Avenue just west of Toronto's Union Station. GO 511 was part of a six-unit order of F40PH units built by GMD at their London ON plant in April-May 1978, a change from GO's previous orders of freight GP40-2W units. New F59PH deliveries a decade later would result in GO flipping the six orphan units to Amtrak in 1990. 511 would see another decade of service on Amtrak as their 411, and would go on to work AMT's commuter operations out of Montreal. It last saw service on the the Saratoga & North Creek Railway (via LTEX) with another ex-Amtrak F40. The bilevel cars trailing are also new, part of the first order built by Hawker Siddeley and in service for a little over a year since introduction in March 1977. Since the first bilevel order included no cab cars, another locomotive, APCU, or old Hawker Siddeley single-level cab car had to be used on the other end in the early years. This scene off Spadina Avenue is notable in that it's under transition: the old CN steam-era freight platforms, team tracks and yard trackage east of Bathurst Street yard are still present, but truncated for the new CN Tower's parking lot (note the yellow bridge crossing the rail corridor near TTR's John St. interlocking tower). In later years the RBC's new data center (325 Front St. W), the Metro Toronto Convention Centre and CN's L'Hotel would fill much of the vacant land along Front Street in the 80's. The usual downtown office towers of the day including the TD Centre, Royal Bank Plaza, CP Hotel's Royal York, and the CNCP Telecommunications Building (151 Front Street) are quite unobscured compared to today. July 30, 1978 Bill Mischler photo

[ryan-rts]

Hi all! I'm here to show off another model!

This one was a little passion project that didn't really start until I realised I needed to complete a group of locomotives.

The London & North Eastern Railway's class A4s were the East Coasts most premier express locomotives. There are many models of this locomotive available across many gauges. In N gauge there is the old Minitrix model and the newer Dapol ones. In O gauge there are kits or the new ready to run Hattons model, in partnership with Heljan. And in OO gauge there is the older Bachmann model, the constant re-releasing Hornby Super Detail models and the Hornby Railroad model.

For what it is, the Hornby Railroad model is very good in quality. While the plastic moulding and the finish of the model makes it look very matt and bland, with the cheaper printed details not helping its case, the model is very well detailed, even with its moulded handrails and lack of features like lamp irons. Surprisingly, the model has brass fittings. Both the chime whistle in front the chimney and the safety valves embedded in the cab roof are turned brass, and stand out against the matt finish.

The reasoning behind wanted an A4 is because, within being on an Eastern Region kick, I have a Peppercorn A1 and A2, an A3 and to complete the group I wanted an A4. Luckily a mate of mine was selling a job lot to Rails of Sheffield with a Railroad Mallard and spare A4 body included. I offered a better price for it all, and that same day I got the models. My mate had previously modified the locomotive to have the Super Detail A4 valve gear, which did make the model look better. However, the A4 wasn't going to stay in "as purchased" condition for much longer.

Not long after I got home, after buying the models, I grabbed the spare body and attempted my plan of action. I cut the valances off of the spare body, using the inside of the bodyshell as a guide of where to cut, I scored a couple times down the valances before bending them out, making it easier to remove as the plastic on the Railroad models is softer than most models.

Because the cutting of the spare body worked out so well, I decided that I'd swap the bodies over and use the spare one on the final model. However one issue I faced with the spare body was the lack of chimney. Now that the original body was now spare, I removed the chimney off that body to put onto the spare one.

Other things that were changed to the body was the removal of the moulded handrails, addition of new ones using short handrail knobs and 0.45mm brass wire, and fixing any small mistakes on the valances with a file.

While I was detailing up the body the thought of "which A4 do I model" was crossing my mind. A lot of my Eastern Fleet worked all over the LNER. My A2, No.60538 'Velocity' has many pictures and videos of it working around York and Newcastle. The A3 I own is of No.60103 'Flying Scotsman' which worked all over the network in its lifetime. A lot of the smaller Eastern engines I own worked around Scotland or the South East. So when picking an A4 to model, it would be a preference to a name and which one was in similar condition to Mallard. In the end this was thrown out of the window.

Time for a little bit of Fake History!

The London and North Eastern Railway A4 locomotives are one of the most famous British Pacifics built. Its distinctive Streamlined casing of the 1930s giving a look of style and speed.

The original four A4s were nicknamed the silver batch because the names contained the word silver. Later batches would be named after birds but would later be renamed after famous and distinctive people. Originally the A4s were only going to have 35 members, however upon request from Kings Cross, a 36th member of the class was built on the 5th August 1938 and went around nameless until a name was decided.

4904 (the J39 doesn't exist) was sent to King's Cross as the last member of the A4s, fitted with a double chimney, as standard of the later batches, painted in LNER Garter Blue. The men at Kings Cross were allowed to choose the name, and after a number of months at Top Shed, it was requested for its name to be Thunder, a striking name for the last member of the class.

However the nameplates would never be fitted. In 1939, a year after the locomotive's construction, the Second World War broke out, and like other members of the class, 4904 was painted in a plain matt black, but didn't receive the NE lettering showing its home routes and allocations. Because of this, the locomotive was nicknamed "the Black Shadow" or "Eastern Ghost". 4904 roamed the network and managed to go to places such as Crewe, Birmingham and even Exeter during the war, making the engine become some sort of urban legend. The legend was enhanced when LNER 4469 'Sir Ralph Wedgewood', previously known as 'Gadwall', was blown up at York Sheds on the 28th April 1942. What started out as a nickname, 'Eastern Ghost' became a myth. Many workers mistook 4904 as 4469's ghost, while it went about its work at night.

When the war ended on the 2nd September 1945, 4904 was in a sorry condition. Two months previous the locomotive's axle boxes ran hot and were in desperate need of replacement, alongside this, the conjugated valve gear, which was built to be regularly maintained, was becoming worn due to a lack of maintenance. 4904 was the first A4 to be overhauled post war because of these factors. The axle boxes were striped and scrapped, new ones were casted and refitted. Parts of the valve gear that were salvageable from 4469 were used, but most of the rods were recast from new.

Finally on the 24th December 1945, 4904 emerged from Doncaster works. It was renumbered to No.35 and Finally received its nameplates, painted in a striking red. There were debates for the engine to take 4469's name of 'Sir Ralph Wedgewood' but another A4 was given the name (No.4466, later No.6, and later again to No.60006).

The locomotive throughout the rest of its life was Numbered 60035 and bounced about the East Coast performing duties on many of the named trains around the areas he was based at.

Having a majority of the locomitive's fake history written up, and out of boredom at the time, Thunder was painted I'm Wartime Black with the numbers painted on by hand with a toothpick in white. After this I realised I kinda copied the Sir Nigel Gresley 60007 trusts idea due to SNG currently wearing Wartime Black.

Thunder stayed in this condition for some time, I didn't have the nameplates or paint, so he sat in Black until they were ordered and arrived. Not long after arrival of the paints and plates, the locomotive was painted, lined, numbered and crested and was finally bestowed its name. Very fitting as it loosely followed his fake history.

Thunder, like Ryan, is a jewel in my fleet, sleek, shiny and unique. This project took me just over a month to do, and proves that, with minor modifications, that the Railroad Models can be bought cheap and made to look as good as the Super Detail Models available for double to price.

[sharpened--edges]

Couldn’t face the Underground, being under ground. Couldn’t face a cab either, those black theatres playing cockney monologues. Spat out by the hospital into the middle of nowhere, Alex finds instead an Overground station and a line that will take him tolerably close to Mountjoy. The platform is all cigarettes and schoolgirls. This feels like travelling. The train does not simply appear as it does under ground. Under ground you get impatient with lateness, because essentially you don’t believe the tube has any real distance to travel. It should just be here, and then be there. But with the Overground, you will wait, and quite happily wait, and smile when you can see it coming, the train, rounding the corner under the vast azure sky, chuffing past trees and houses.

The doors open. Everybody in the North of London knows this line affectionately as the Free Train. There are no machines and no one ever pays. Kids smoke on it, tramps live on it, and the mad like to sit in the lotus position and strike up conversations. It takes you to the big parks at the top of the city and the ghettos at the bottom. Teachers ride it because admin and essays can be laid out on the many empty seats and calmly dealt with. Nurses sleep on it. Buskers play concerts uninterrupted. Dogs are welcome. Sometimes you walk into a carriage and the clouds of marijuana smoke make your eyes sore. To look out of the windows at the passing world is to think that the city consists only of forests and schools and sporting arenas and swimming pools. The dark satanic mills must be somewhere else. The whole place looks like the Promised Land.

Zadie Smith, The Autograph Man (Penguin, 2003), p. 372.

[northlondonlocalcar]

North London Taxis and Cabs Provide a reliable Minicabs Service in London,

[bertytravelsfar]

Only Yesterday Part Two (WIP)

And of course, now I have realised that I wrote the whole thing longhand, so I have to edit and type it up at the same time. Hey ho!

A little more angst for your Sunday night, my lovelies?

Only Yesterday - My WIP being posted on Tumblr only until it’s actually finished when I will post it to AO3 (she said boldly!) No warnings other that John Watson being an angry man and a few non graphic injuries.

Part Two - A New World Order

“...and friction burns all down the left side of your torso and hip, concussion, severe bruising to your coccyx, ribs and left hip, two fractured ribs, abrasions to your brow, left cheek and jaw, you bit through your bottom lip but your teeth are okay, dislocated knee, hairline fracture to your right… wrist…”

Mike’s voice falters and he must catch something a bit desperate in John’s expression. Either that or he suddenly remembers that John is the human recipient of the lengthy list of injuries he is reciting. He winces a little and forces a smile and a more upbeat tone.

“So… how are you feeling?” He ruins the solicitousness by stealing some more of the grapes that he’d brought for John.

“Like I got hit by a bloody taxi,” John deadpans.

It’s bright in the hospital room and much too warm. John’s painkillers from breakfast are wearing off and lunch, and his next dose, are still an hour away. Mike Stamford has been in both days since he woke up here, jovial and chatty. Being a doctor has its perks - John has a private side room off the main ward, so he’s been able to get some sleep but between the pain from his injuries and the noise and hustle of a busy London hospital, he’s tired and aching, and people keep wincing when they see the tarmac burns across his face.He sighs and very gently shakes his head which turns out to be a bad idea.

“Tell me again what happened.”

“Again? Fine… fine. The lights went out. Everywhere. All over the world. Just for eleven seconds. Everything. Everywhere. Anything electrical just stopped. The media went absolutely mad for it. You missed all of that because…”

“...I was in here, unconscious,” John finishes for him. He frowns. It hurts, so he stops.

“And why did…?”

“No one knows,” Mike interrupts. To be fair they have been over this several times, but John feels like he’s missing something.

“Some people say solar flares, some say it’s magnetic north shifting or radiation or an EM pulse or just a coincidence. But it affected everything. You remember when the Y2K thing happened and they predicted pandemonium, that all the planes would fall from the sky as midnight struck? And then nothing happened? Well it was like that, but this time it really did happen.”

“Coincidence?” John asks, latching on to one word in the flood. Mike’s a good guy, and a good friend, but he could talk the hind legs off a donkey. “You know what he always said about coincidences.”

John waits for a moment of connection, of recognition and loss to flow between them. He doesn’t often talk about Sherlock but Mike was the one who introduced them; he was Mike’s friend before he was John’s.

“Who says what?” Mike asks, frowning. He looks around for a bin to throw the grape stalk away into, but there isn’t one so he carefully wraps it back in the paper bag and leaves it on John’s sheets.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” John says in the best approximation of a deep baritone that he can muster when laying in a hospital bed with his bashed up lip threatening to split again and his ribs singing merry hell at him.

Mike smiles and again looks a little confused.

“Who’s that supposed to b… oh crap!” He catches sight of the clock and picks up his coat. “I’m late again… crap! I’ll try and pop in tomorrow. Take care of yourself - no picking fights with any Hackney Cabs!”

And with a quick pat on the shoulder (which hurts) he bustles off out of the room, a small whirlwind of geniality and grape juice stickiness.

“What do you mean, “who?”’ John calls after him, thinking he’d done a pretty good job of it,  but Mike’s already out the door and off to whatever it is he’s late for.

&&&

As a concept, the idea of a celebratory drink with his colleagues from work is a good one. In practice, it’s less so but John acknowledges that he’s not the world’s most sociable man and leaves it there.

The pub is a great choice (Molly’s), and one they know quite well from weekend catchups. It’s close to the river but doesn’t feel as surrounded by city as it is; a little patch of quiet while the rest of the world goes on around it.

John is glad to have been discharged from the hospital; he’s feeling stronger by the day, the evening is warm and still sunny and the company is pleasant -  there’s a small but choice group of colleagues from work but still John feels this sense of disconnection which he puts down to the painkillers and ignores.

He’s been working at Barts since he gave up his locum work. Mike had dropped John’s name into a few conversations when a part time position on the teaching staff had come up. Trauma medicine is something that John knows a thing or eighty about, and he was grateful for the opportunity. He’s surprised to have found that he genuinely enjoys interacting with his students - bright eyed, bushy tailed young things that they are, all convinced that they can make a difference. Being around them keeps his instinctive scorn and skepticism at bay, John finds. After all, this is where he is now and it could be a lot worse. It’s not where he belongs, of course, because that place was snatched from him on a cold day in April a couple of years back.

A handful of his friends and colleagues have turned up to celebrate his survival and liberation from a rival hospital, and although John isn’t exactly healed yet, the sight of his (slightly inebriated) co-workers gives him a genuine flush of warmth. In addition to Mike and Molly, there are Molly’s boyfriend Rob, Karen, who is a fellow lecturer, Diarmuid who works in admin and Marius, who is head of the teaching staff. They all cheer as he hobbles to the table they have bagged in the beer garden, Mike walking slowly and solicitously at his side.

There are backslaps and a couple of kisses and enquiries after his recovery. A round of drinks magically appears, which will later be followed by several more, no doubt. John will be sticking to soft drinks - his head stil aches slightly from the knock it took but he is touched by the enthusiasm with which he is greeted.

“Oh John! Your poor face,” Molly coos. “It’s not as bad as Mike said, but… How are you feeling?”

“A bit bashed up, but improving,” John nods to a chorus of encouraging noises.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Rob laughs and John tells him to piss off. Rob’s nice enough but he can be a bit much sometimes, something that John thinks Molly knows only too well as she often has to step in and distract from the latest boorish thing her boyfriend has spouted.

“We were just talking about the blackout. What do you think it was?” Diarmuid asks once everyone is seated and in possession of a full glass. He’s a nice guy with a soothing accent and a peaceful vibe. John has a lot of time for Diarmuid.

“I read online that it was a weapons test that had gone wrong,” Karen begins. “Some sort of foreign power’s satellite system that uses pulses of EM…”

“That sounds like bollocks,” Rob hoots. “They would know if it had come from a satellite and besides, an EM pulse wouldn’t have taken out electronics on the opposite side of the world. It was everywhere - the whole world - all at once.”

He gets a few nods of agreement but no matter how much sense he is making, his manner is dismissive and several people at the table take a sip of drink to cover their discomfort.

“What about sun spots or solar flares?” Molly says quickly. “Several scientists have suggested they might have had something to do with it.”

There are general shrugs around the table and Rob looks like he’s about to squash that idea too, but John is saved from acting by Mike who quickly puts in his own suggestion.

“Nobody’s clocked the obvious reason,” he says with a grin. “Aliens!”

Molly rolls her eyes good naturedly and sits back from the table. “Well it’s been over a week and they are no closer to having an explanation. Why not aliens? It’s aliens or it remains a mystery forever.”

“There’s only one person who could have worked out this one,” John says with a quiet smile that he’s still not used to even after all this time. He’s surprised when everyone turns to look at him expectantly.He doesn’t speak about him, but John knows they all know what happened - the twitch of an eyebrow when he’s introduced to new people as they recognise his name. He wouldn’t mention him now either but he’s been on John’s mind a lot (even more than usual) during his recovery.

 “Oh come on!” he says to the ring of watching faces. “He’d have loved this one.”

“Who would?” Mike asks, ready to laugh, a smile already quirking one side of his mouth.

“What do you mean, ‘who would’? Sherlock, of course.”

There’s a beat where everyone just waits to see who is going to speak

Is that someone’s name?” Rob asks inevitably. “Odd bloody name if you ask me.”

John gives Rob a withering glance and takes a deep sip of his lemonade. His gaze flicks from one colleague to the next and every one of them is watching him, like they are waiting for a punchline. He puts down his glass, frowning.

“Sherlock Holmes? You remember him, tall, thin chap, bit of a dick but also the world’s only consulting detective?” John waits to be let in on the joke, whatever it is.

He watches as those who don’t look confused, smile politely and sip their drinks. They are all very careful not to make eye contact with each other or with him. It’s like they think he’s raving, they’re embarrassed by his words. They must think they’re doing him a favour by avoiding the topic of Sherlock - they’re trying to be kind but John’s a grown man. He’s a bloody doctor and a soldier! Yes, admittedly he was a mess at the time, but he’s had the therapy and he’s moved on physically and mentally to all but the keenest observer. John knows how to hold it together when he has to.

“Listen, I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to. He was a big part of my life for a while.” The understatement of the decade right there, rolling off his tongue.

More shrugs and headshakes greet his words.

“Sorry mate, not a clue who you mean,” Marius offers cautiously.

“Seriously? Sherlock!” John can hear his voice becoming strained and too loud. He blinks and waits again - this is a really shit joke and he is beginning to get suddenly very tired of it. He turns to Molly who had had a crush on Sherlock that had been visible from space, but she’s tapping away at her phone and doesn’t look up.

“Mike, you introduced us!” John insists, appealing to his friend.

Good natured and as gentle a man as you might ever meet, Mike frowns. “I don’t remember that… it’s a pretty distinctive name, I think I’d remember if I’d known anyone called…” He trails off looking disappointed that he’s let John down.

Shaking his head so sharply it aches, John sits back from the table.

“This isn’t funny you know. Stop taking the piss. I’m not concussed anymore, so you can just… give it a rest.”

The tense silence that falls is broken only a few seconds later by the arrival of Chaz, another colleague come to wish him well, who has her new girlfriend in tow.

“Sorry we’re late. This is Ash, Ash this is everyone. Can I get anyone a drink?”

The chorus of greetings and alcohol orders overcompensates for the awkwardness of before. Several of them head off to the bar and Karen leans over and asks him how he’s been sleeping, if the pain is keeping him awake and John realises that they are glossing over his outburst, that for some reason, they don’t want to talk about Sherlock or about John’s past, and for the life of him, John cannot think of why they are so clearly rattled by his behaviour.

He clears his throat and pushes on, not wanting to ruin a gathering thrown in his honour. He fills in the gaps as Ash is told the story of his misadventures with the cab. He accepts another drink - they’re beginning to pile up a bit now and there’s only so much lemonade a man can drink - and he puts the strange moment out of his mind for now. The sun on his head and the chatter of the beer garden is soothing after being in hospital and he decides to lets it all wash over him.

He doesn’t think about the weird moment again until he is back in Mike’s car and on the way home.

“You’re not being serious about not knowing who Sherlock is?” John asks, watching as the sunlight turns redder and the evening settles over them.

“Seriously, mate,” Mike says. “No idea.”

“You knew him, you introduced us a Barts. Posh guy, curly hair. Smart. Was in the papers a lot…”

“Sherwood what was it?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John offers, but Mike just pulls a bit of a clueless face and shakes his head. “He was my friend, my best friend.”

Mike  glances across at him and looks as if he wants to agree, but clearly has no clue what John is talking about.

“When was this?” he asks carefully.

“When I came back from Afghanistan. I was in a bit of a bad place and he was looking for a flatmate. I ran into you one day in Postman’s Park and you introduced us.”

John stops to breathe for a minute when he catches Mike’s sad, worried expression. Why is he doing this - they’ve had their little joke. John’s certain it’s not him - he’s had all the scans and the tests they could throw at him in the hospital because of the concussion. He’s fine. He’s clear. Sherlock’s only been gone a couple of years - they could not possibly have forgotten him, even had it been twenty years. God knows, he wasn’t the kind of person that people forget. So it must be some sort of joke that the others are playing on him… but why? None of this makes any sense.

Mike signals and waits for traffic on the road they are joining.

“John, when you came back from Afghanistan Harry helped you find your place as far as I know. The first thing I heard about you being back was when you took the job at Barts. That was in the May of 2010.”

“What? No, I… we lived in Baker Street… and I did some locum GP work when we weren’t…” John trails off. This isn’t like Mike at all. He’s a kind man who wouldn’t know how to be cruel even if he wanted to.

“Listen,” Mike says, “you’ve had a hell of a week. They’ve signed you off for the rest of the term, so you should take it easy for a bit. A few days back at your place, a few good night’s sleep…”

And John can’t listen to this. It’s madness. It makes no sense. He feels fine. He is fine. But something like anger, like fury, is rising inside him and Mike doesn’t deserve that. He needs to get out of the car now. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be sick or fly into a rage or sob uncontrollably.

“Just let me out here, Mike,” he says, holding onto his temper by the thinnest thread.

“What are you talking about, man? We’re still miles from yours. What are you going to do? You can’t walk on crutches all the way back to your…”

“Stop the car,” John insists. “I… I need to walk…”

“I can’t do that! It’s getting dark and… John it’s miles!”

“Now, Mike!” John snaps,  one hand on his cane and the other already fumbling for the door handle.

“John… for god’s sake!” Mike gulps as John unbuckles his seatbelt. “Alright… just…. Alright!”

He indicates and pulls into the kerb abruptly, waving an apology to the couple of cars behind who lay on their horns and steer around them.

John already has the door open and is struggling out of the car, his head pounding and half mad with confusion. He plants his cane and gets his feet under him, then gritting his teeth, pushes up and out, using the momentum to hobble a couple of steps before turning to Mike who is leaning across the car and looking up at him.

“At least drop me a text and let me know you’re home safe,” Mike says resignedly, obviously seeing no softening of John’s expression.

John nods and mutters a graceless ‘thank you’ before swinging the door shut. He turns and starts walking without waiting for Mike to pull away again. He is a good way away from home, he recognises. His leg and back are both aching, reminding him that he’s due another painkiller and it will be nearly dark before he gets it, but John needs the quiet.

This situation makes no sense and as far as he can see, it’s not going to while people are telling him that they don’t remember Sherlock Holmes - a media darling, the newspapers were full of him and the cases he’d solved for months leading up to his death. And after he’d jumped it was as if there wasn’t another story in the world for a few days. John had loathed it, but then found it had been worse when eventually entire days would go by without a mention of him in the press or in his life. Even if he didn’t like to talk about it himself, he knew what debt the country owed Sherlock and he’d wanted them to acknowledge that.

He hadn’t been thinking straight for a couple of months afterwards. Perhaps that’s what was happening to him now. Perhaps the shock of his own accident was distorting his memories of his friend. John knew that PTSD could have some strange effects on memory recall but he’d never heard of anything quite so precise as misremembering someone that had made such a huge impact on your life.

As he walks, or limps, really, he passes the time by testing himself, and he pulls together an order of their time. How they met, the flat, Mrs Hudson, the cabbie, his job, the circus, Moriarty, the pool. It sounds like a film plot or a series of thrillers but each piece is bright and sharp in his mind - nothing wobbles when he pushes at it a little and the detail he recalls cannot be anything but something he lived. He adds in the few things from that period that were only his, smiling to himself when he recognises how few there were, and how much of John’s life Sherlock had inhabited. It passes the time and it keeps his mind off the ache that has become a shrieking pain leaving him feeling like there isn’t an inch of his body that isn’t bruised or abraded.

He’s almost sick with relief when he finally steps through his front door. He locks it behind him and hobbles to the kitchen, finds his tablets and pops two, washing them down with gulps of water from the kitchen tap and watching out the window as night begins to fall on the world outside.

His flat is at street level, but there are two others in this converted Edwardian redbrick house, one above and one below with a garden. They all have separate front doors, so there’s not a lot of interaction between him and his neighbours. The woman downstairs is in her mid sixties, a ceramic artist. It is she who looks after the pretty garden that John can see out of the windows at the back of his flat. His living space is one long room that stretches from the street to the back of the house with his kitchen at one end and his sitting room at the other. Across the hall there is a double bedroom which also overlooks the garden, a small, chilly bathroom and a tiny box room that John uses as a study. It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but when all John had wanted was to not be at Baker Street, expecting himself to blow in at any moment with a sly smile and a new case, this place without memories or ghosts had been perfect.

John half sits, half falls onto the sofa. He’s exhausted but his mind is still full of swirling coat hems and eyes that can’t decide on a colour, on dark chuckles and quick fingers on violin strings. He clicks on a lamp, pulls his laptop off the coffee table and wakes it up. He doesn’t often allow himself to revisit those times online, and without the filter of his own memory he’s found they hurt more than he can put into words. But tonight, with the hospital and the long walk and the weirdness he decides to search for what comfort he can find there.

He opens the browser and types Sherlock’s name into the search bar.

The first hits are all businesswomen who go by Sherl, then there’s an American country singer, an animated character and an IT solutions firm. It asks him if he meant to type ‘Shrek.’

 It feels like the world has lost all colour and sound instantaneously.John stares down at the keyboard and notices that his hands are shaking and realises with a tsunami of sweet relief that he must have made a typing error - Sherlock always did tell him he should learn to do it properly.He takes a calming breath to steady his hands and types the name again, watching each keystroke to ensure that the correct letter has been selected.The monstrous green face appears again alongside the LinkedIn profiles and Wikipedia entries and adverts.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks into the silence of the flat.He types it again, backspacing when his fingers stutter and stumble over the familiar letters. He tastes bile, opens a new page and types it again.

And again.

He scrolls through three pages, four, five. It’s impossible.

It’s too huge for him to grasp. He must be doing something wrong, but he can’t catch what it is. The country, the world, cannot have forgotten the greatest consulting detective who has ever lived. There are thousands and thousands of pages dedicated to his methods, his exploits, his wardrobe, his legacy, the rumours and the conspiracy theories - he knows there are. So why can’t he find them?

After a moment or two John realises that with his hands pressed to his lips hard enough to hurt, he’s hyperventilating, his thin, wheezing breaths sounding like an injured animal, keening and high pitched.He forces himself to breathe slowly. Opens another window.

S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k

Same results. He shuts it down.

H-o-l-m-e-s

A village in Cheshire.

A hotel.

A beer hall.

A footballer.

A company that sells air purifiers.

A seafood wholesaler.

A skip hire company.

A Shakespearean character.

It takes a moment for his brain to reboot and all the while, the keening noise is right there, trying to escape his lips, trying to scream about pain and loss and the wrongness of the whole fucking world until the very bricks and mortar of London are shaken down to nothing.

He types 221B Baker Street.

He types The Lost Vermeer.

He types James Moriarty.

Faster and faster, barely waiting for the pages to load before he discards them and tries something else.

The date of Sherlock’s death.

The Science of Deduction.

Barts Suicide.

Geoff Hope.

There is nothing even remotely connected to the man who made such a profound impact on John’s life that he’s been grieving him for the last two years.

Through the numb howling in his head a thought unfolds. He can barely type in his own password as he opens up his blog. He’d hated it when he’d started it on the advice of his therapist all those years ago. To begin with it had been a sporadic and bitter record of a man who hadn’t known where he’d fitted anymore but as he’d become involved with Sherlock and begun to write about the cases they had shared, he’d come alive, words pouring out of his fingers and onto the screen, bright and vibrant and mad and wonderfully, wonderfully real.

He should have tried this first, of course. He’d documented their life together first hand… well, a lot of it. Some had been classified, some had been tactfully omitted and some of it John still hadn’t found the words to explain and now most likely never would, but…

His most recent blog post pops up and he navigates his way back to before that day at Barts when everything had stopped. There are posts there - dozens of them, but relief sours in seconds when he begins to flick through them. Post after post, dates that should have been commemorated, not a single one of his posts is how he remembers them. A few lines each about London or his training or his new job - some of them have a couple of comments - none of them familiar. And not a single mention of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. No cases. No consulting detective. No snarky commentary by the man himself.

“No,” John says simply. He forgets (refuses) to breathe until the only other choice is unconsciousness, when he drags in a ragged, wet gasp. Then he does it again. And again, until his ears are full of  a whining buzz and there are dots in front of his eyes.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls for Greg’s number but it isn’t there. He doesn’t let this register for fear he will start hyperventilating again and instead pulls up a number from the internet for New Scotland Yard. He has to go through three switchboards to get to the right department where they at least seem to recognise who John is asking for. He then has to explain that although it’s not office hours, and he is aware of that, it’s vital that he speak to Lestrade.

“Who’s calling?”

“John Watson… Doctor John Watson.”

“And you say he’s expecting your call?” John has, in fact, not said this but he has implied very heavily that that is the case.

“Yes, it’s to do with what he’s currently working on. I’m from Barts.”

He doesn’t feel good, twisting things like that, but he hasn’t time to consider the moral implications of it right now.There’s a click and a muffled rumble of voices and a long sigh.

“Lestrade.”

John has never been so glad to hear a familiar voice, even one as weary as this.

“Greg, it’s John. Look I’m sorry to bother you… and that I haven’t been in touch lately but it’s about Sherlock.”

John doesn’t sound like a crazy person - he’s speaking fast and he’s a little breathless and thick, but he doesn’t sound crazy. He makes sure he doesn’t.

“Sorry?

”“It’s Sherlock, Greg. Something has happened and… I don’t know how to explain this really, but he’s… everything’s gone. There’s no trace of him anywhere online and it’s almost like he never… like he never…”

“Listen, Dr Watson is it? They said you were from Barts?”

John manages to make an affirmative grunt.

“You’re part of Dr Hooper’s team I assume? I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about and I’m not waiting on anything from you, so unless this has something to do with the poor bugger we’ve just pulled out of the Thames, then I suggest you dial 101 and give them the details of your… cat, is it? Your Sherlock or whatever and they can take it from there, okay?”

“No, you don’t understand…”The call goes muffled and John can hear Greg shouting to someone who shouts back even more faintly. There’s a couple of concise swearwords and Greg is back, his Estuary accent strained enough to sound Cockney.

“I hope you find her, mate but do me a favour and don’t call Serious Crimes unless it actually is one.”

For an indeterminate amount of time, John sits, mobile still in hand. It gets quiet outside as even the drunks make their way home to bed.And then John sniffs. He picks up his laptop, wakes it up again and begins to type.

[stadtfunk]

The Hack Green Adventure

Date: October 17, 2020 Last week I decided to head North and revisit Hack Green Nuclear Bunker in Nantwich, Cheshire.

Originally I was going to stay at my second home in Paddington and catch the train up to Cheshire, but then Covid struck back and I didn’t want to take the risk.

The next best thing was to drive up, so that’s what I did.

After finishing work yesterday, I slept overnight in the car (I say slept but it was far from it), just off the M25 in Surrey.

I then set off around 8.15am, round the M25, up the M40 and a bit of the M42, then the M6. I passed Birmingham on the journey too so that’s another place ticked off the list. 😄

The last time I came to Hack Green I went by train to Nantwich, got a cab to the bunker and then walked back to the station, so it was nice to go by road this time and not have to worry about the walk back.

The staff were as lovely as ever, and we had a good old laugh about being Cold War nerds.

As I write this, I’m already in bed in the Crewe Travelodge (nearly called it a Travel Tavern there 😂) and am feeling pretty shattered.

Tomorrow on my way ‘back South’ I hope to be able to visit Greenham Common, but we’ll see how I feel.

Before I go on to the photos from Hack Green, I’d like to give a shout out to the staff at Travelodge in Crewe. I’d never stayed in a Travelodge before and I was really impressed with the service and the room.

Looking back on my old website, through the Internet Wayback Machine, I’d previously caught the train up and ended up walking to the site! Here’s what I said before

After a 4 and a bit journey from hell, up from Brighton, across London and up to Cheshire I arrived at Hack Green. Tip: The bunker is 3.5miles away from Nantwich Station. If you are planning on going and don’t drive, get a cab! The walk is pleasant enough but it’s goes through a country road and lane which can be a bit hairy at times!

I’m glad I drove this time, I got to see the sights of the M6 Toll, the outskirts of Birmingham and I had to get a silly pic of my car by the security check point.

My summary is still the same though and hasn’t changed

Being legally bound by the Official Secrets Act, I can’t tell you anything else apart from; The staff are really friendly, The NAAFI is great, it’s well worth a visit and, it’s very very real!

[xridetaxiservice]

Gatwick Airport Taxi: Choosing the Right Service

Traveling to or from Gatwick Airport by taxi is a popular choice due to its convenience and ease. Whether you're heading to central London or another destination, here's what you need to know about Gatwick Airport taxi services.

1. On-Demand Taxis

Gatwick Airport  taxi ranks located outside both the North and South Terminals. These ranks are serviced by licensed taxis, ensuring a reliable and safe journey. You don’t need to book in advance; simply follow the signs to the taxi rank and wait for the next available cab. The fares are metered, and you can pay by cash or card.

2. Pre-Booked Taxis

Pre-booking a taxi can save you time and provide peace of mind, especially during peak travel periods. Numerous companies offer pre-booked taxi services to and from Gatwick. Booking in advance ensures that a driver will be waiting for you upon arrival, helping you avoid any potential delays or long queues.

3. Comparing Prices

Taxi fares from Gatwick to central London can vary significantly depending on the service provider and the time of day. It’s a good idea to compare prices from different companies online before making a booking. Look for fixed-price fares to avoid any unexpected charges due to traffic delays.

4. Special Services

Many taxi companies offer special services such as child seats, wheelchair accessibility, and executive cars for a more luxurious experience. When booking, make sure to specify any additional requirements to ensure a comfortable and tailored journey.

[chorusfm]

The Postal Service to Go on Hiatus

The Postal Service have announced an indefinite hiatus after this run of shows. “As we bring the Transatlanticism / Give Up Tour to a close, I want you all to know that getting the opportunity to perform these two albums live has been one of the greatest thrills and honors of my entire life. On behalf of Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service; Thank you so much for coming out and singing along. We will see you all again somewhere down the road.”  – Benjamin Gibbard      The Postal Service has confirmed that the final date of the wildly successful and critically celebrated Transatlanticism / Give Up Tour — this Saturday, September 21 at HFStival in Washington DC — will mark the beginning of an indefinite hiatus for the band. Since making their long awaited return to stages last September, The Postal Service have toured across North America, the UK and Spain, drawing nearly half a million fans to one unforgettable show after another — including a pair of sold-out shows at New York’s Madison Square Garden, three sold-out nights at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, and more recently, headlining the closing night of the All Points East festival in London. "In the crowd, tears are shed, clusters of people dance, and memories are rekindled. The show as a whole serves as a reminder of Gibbard’s endurance, too." - The Independent   Extended into 2024 by popular demand, this extraordinary run celebrated the 20th anniversaries of both The Postal Service’s lone masterpiece Give Up and Death Cab for Cutie’s breakthrough Transatlanticism – two RIAA Platinum-certified indie classics released in 2003 within a mere eight months of one another, and created with a total recording budget of just $20k. --- Please consider becoming a member so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/news/the-postal-service-to-go-on-hiatus/

[hazel-of-sodor]

Presenting the Great Western Railway 85xx Stone Circle class. This engine came from a discussion with a friend about a 'what if' next step for Great Western Express Locomotives had nationalization not occured.  It's not a Cathedral, but a further design. Some history on these giants.

 8500 Ring of Brodgar was the prototype, and would be purchased by a private owner before being officially being withdrawn from service. Upon her owner's death in 1982, she was donated to the National Collection. 

8501 Mitchel's Fold was the first production 85xx. She would be rescued from Barry's Scrapyard in 1973 by a preservation group dedicated to saving and restoring her. While the group would go on to save other engines after her restoration, she remains their pride and joy.

8502 Avebury was included in the purchase of the  Kingsbridge Branchline from British Railways by the Kingsbridge Preservation Group. She would serve as the line's main attraction until the late seventies, when she was withdrawn from service for overhaul. It wouldn't be until 1998 that she would return to service. Since then she has spent the majority of her time in service, although she is currently awaiting overhaul.

8503 Callanish Stones would be purchased directly from British Rails by the Great Western Society.

8504 Castleriggs Stones would be wrecked in 1965 on an embankment. British Rails determined it would cost more to recover the stricken engine then she was worth in scrap, so the engine was left abandoned.  In 1968 the Severn Valley Railway Society approached BR for permission to recover the engine. After negotiations they were given a 24  hour window to bring Castleriggs Stones back to the rails. In the waning hours of May 13th, 1969, Wrexham Cathedral pulled her newly righted cousin back onto the rails. She was found to be in shockingly good condition, having been mostly sheltered from the weather by the embankment. She would steam for the first time in 12 years in 1977.

8005 Boscawen-Un was purchased for testing by the London North Eastern Railway. Upon Nationalization she remained with the Eastern Region. When Gywneth Amari purchased the former Great Central line in 1966, 8005 was allocated to the line, and transfered to her ownership. It is hard to say which angers Great Western purists more, that she is in LNER Apple Green, or that is historically accurate.

8006 Nine Ladies would the last withdrawn from service. The workers at Swindon hid her on unused sidings, moving her evertime she was discovered, until BR just gave up and donated her to the Dart Valley railway in late 1969 just to be rid of her. Donated her as in dumping her in their yard with ownership papers left in the cab.

8007 Merry Maidens was allocated to the Midland region in 1962, and was painted in their maroon livery. Less than a year later she was scheduled for immediate withdrawl, the first of the class to be withdrawn, only for the engine to disappear. In 1973 she would be found by volunteers on the Coleford Preservation Railway in an abandoned shed during an expansion project, hidden by her old crew