#a spark of magic

[stardustandrockets]

Coming up with questions is hard, ask me anything.

I've been seeing Peince of the Sorrows everywhere. I believe Rainbow Crate us the 3rd box I've seen feature it now? Which is cool for indie authors when their books get featured. I'm excited to read it because it sounds right up my alley. I'm happy to have this gorgeous edition in my collection!

Alternate dust jacket art by @houda_belgharbi.art, foiled hardcase by @jamielynnlano, and end papers by @morlev_art

Book also includes ruby gilded edges, a sneak peak at book 2, bound-in author letter, and signed art bookplate

[cracklewink]

My Mane 6 Redesigns all together! I was going to post them separately but ended up finishing them all before I got around to it lol

[redactedhaunt]

page entry for "a spark for us fanzine" hosted by @dulcesilly and @spoopyjupiart @_starry.clover_ on instagram ⭐️✨️

[th3e-m4ng0]

Okay so human au for tfo what would be the human equivalent of them getting te-cogs like do they just get magic rocks and the have some crazy growth spurt or something else…? 

Love your art btw

maybe it's like magic??? they don't get a cog but Receive a 'spark' that yeah, gives them a growth spurt like u said, and also gives them.. um.. Magic Weapons & abilities.. and Magic.. vehicles.... ?

thank you !!!! <3

[littjara-mirrorlake]

The Color of Hope: Ambition, Necromancy, and Black Mana

Black is one of the most misunderstood colors in Magic: the Gathering, not least because it appears on the surface to be so straightforward. Look at the most iconic black cards of Magic and you'll see deals with demons, necromancy, mass destruction and cruelty and suffering–the trappings of classic fantasy evil. Even the color's symbol itself is a skull, a universal signifier of death and danger.

And in early Magic that seemed to be all it was. White was the color of Fantasy Good, black was the color of Fantasy Evil, and the rest of the colors were... fire magic? Elves? Whatever odd but intriguing skeleton affairs are implied by Time Walk?

Gradually, though, Magic deepened as both a game and a storytelling medium. The color pie grew into itself as a system of complementary philosophies, archetypes whose associated aesthetics were only part of the full picture. Their arrangement around the wheel, below, is highly deliberate; neighboring colors are said to be allies with a high degree of philosophical and mechanical overlap, while colors on opposite sides of the pie are known as enemies, more likely to disagree on fundamental levels.

Black stopped merely representing capital E Evil and became the color of striving for power; unlike its peers, black felt that nothing, least of all morality, could prevent it from seizing what it wanted. Mark Rosewater's 2015 article about black emphasized the color's focus on the self:

"Black's philosophy is very simple: There's no one better suited to look after your own interests than you... Many costs require the sacrifice of others for your own advancement. Because it puts itself first, black is always willing to make this trade. The weak must fall for the strong to thrive." -Mark Rosewater

At its worst, black is an exploitative, amoral color that prioritizes itself at the expense of all others, allowing the "weak" to fall and scorning the very idea of compassion. Rosewater writes that black is "always willing" to trade others for itself. And these can certainly be parts of black's philosophy, when taken to its worst possible extremes, but they're far from the entire story.

Over time, Magic's outlook on black gained nuance. Magic story introduced protagonists like the necromancer Liliana Vess, whose craving for immortality, seemingly exploitative nature, and demonic deals called back to the oldest portrayals of black–and yet she was not one-dimensionally evil. She underwent character development over the years, learning the value of reclaiming herself and standing beside others, and at no point did she become any less mono-black for it. Remember her; we will come back to Liliana and her story later.

In addition to the usual death and decay, black cards began to feature a theme of relentless devotion. On the plane of Eldraine where each color represents a virtue, black's is persistence, explicitly as important as any other color. On the plane of Ikoria, the love between bonder and beast pulls Winota back from the brink of death. Wherever this Oathsworn Vampire printing is set, its flavor text is quintessentially black. It's the same self-driven attitude as before, but cast in a different light: black is nothing if not persistent when it's got its heart set on something (or someone) it cares about. Nothing, least of all the grave, will keep it down. After all, black will always come back for its own.

These newer cards uncovered the true face of black as a color capable of both great love and harm (sometimes even the latter for the sake of the former), and suggested a tantalizing new thread: perhaps putting yourself and yours first isn't all that bad, necessarily. Black is a deeply protective color; it says you don't just have to accept what you're handed, it's okay even to be furious about it (hello, ally color red), but let that galvanize you to do something about it. 

Vraska, a gorgon who faces extreme discrimination on her home plane of Ravnica, triumphs by reclaiming herself, gorgon powers and all–and even more radically, loving herself. She displays traits often considered the purview of white and green, such as a love of home and a drive to elevate the oppressed, but they are all filtered through the lens of her black alignment. Vraska staunchly refuses to deny herself or her people, the Golgari Swarm, of their value. Nor does she allow law or propriety to prevent her from championing them by any means necessary–even if that means cold-blooded murder, or aligning herself with a villain like the Planeswalker Nicol Bolas.

"[Vraska] thought of Mazirek, of the kraul, of the rest of the Ochran assassins and the malignant Jarad who reigned with casual ruin over the most downtrodden of the downtrodden. She remembered her years of isolation, and the heinous cruelty of the Azorius, and how no group deserved to suffer as much as those who would subjugate her own. Eliminating that hell was all she ever wanted." -The Talented Captain Vraska, Alison Luhrs

Like Vraska, black loves fierce and hard, willing to break any taboo for the sake of those it cares about. And it whispers, the entire way through, you are enough. You deserve better. No matter what others may say or do, you are enough.

"If I am to be met with disrespect, then I must first love myself with a fierceness no fool can take away." -Vraska in Pride of the Kraul, Alison Luhrs

Even black's "ruthlessness" isn't as fundamentally cruel as it appears, centering a passion for problem-solving (shared by its other ally blue) instead of a blunt disregard for others.

"People don’t understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It���s not about being mean. It’s about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It’s about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it." -K. A. Applegate

All of this comes together to make a black a color not of evil but of strength, integrity, and persistence. And that's all well and good, but I'm going to take it even further and put forward a new proposition: that black is the color of hope.

Of the nine mono-black Magic cards with "hope" in their names, all but Liliana portray black as an instrument of hope's destruction. This is, once again, black's flaw taken to its extreme–crushing others to achieve its own ends–but neglects black's own relationship with hope.

Black, more than any other color, requires hope to stay alive.

For black to persist, it must believe in a light at the end of the tunnel, a future in which its goals are realized. As long as it does, it will endure any hardship, walk through fire, and turn reality itself upside down on its way there. Primal, desperate ambition is the engine of hope that burns at the heart of black, keeping it always one step ahead of stagnation. Bitter and stubborn, black believes tomorrow will come because there is no other choice. After all, for black to relinquish hope is to let itself wither, regress, and die–an unacceptable outcome. 

Thus, it is monumentally difficult to strip black of hope. That only makes it all the more crushing when it happens, when black contends with the idea that there is nothing it can do.

Black's deepest, darkest fear is helplessness.

Like any mono-black character, Liliana Vess is driven at her core by a seething, desperate hope. When Liliana first unlocks her necromantic power, it is out of a sheer refusal to allow her ill brother Josu to die, even when the esis root that would cure him is destroyed by enemy witches in an undead-raising ritual. She defies her previous training as a healer, which taught her only to take the safe path, in favor of a higher-risk and higher-reward approach: stealing life from the witches themselves to restore power to the esis root she needs. It is her knowledge that her brother needs her, and her sheer stubborn will to succeed, which allows her to defeat the witches against steep odds.

"Six foes, and Liliana stood alone. But Josu's life depended on her, and the power blossoming within her was more than enough." -Liliana's Origin: The Fourth Pact, James Wyatt

Tragically, however, Liliana's attempted cure goes horrifically wrong, transforming Josu into an undead being plagued by eternal suffering. In his pain, Josu attacks Liliana. For a while Liliana holds out hope, finding the power to fight back while she determinedly searches for a spell to reverse the harm she's done. It is when she realizes this isn't possible that her strength falters.

"All this time, she had believed… that she could turn the power of death to the service of life and health. That a healer should use every tool at her disposal. But Josu was the result, a horrible fusion of life and death, and all her spells meant to manipulate the life force of the living could do nothing to harm the dead." -The Fourth Pact

Liliana learns that even her own dark magic, fueled by determination, cannot solve the problem she's created. She discovers the hard limit of her willpower, and the despair of this discovery is what causes her Planeswalker spark to ignite.

At this time Planeswalkers are as gods, immortal and near-omnipotent. Liliana spends decades enjoying this affirmation of her capability before the Mending strips her and all her peers of their power, reducing them once again to mortal mages.

"Then the Multiverse reshaped itself, robbing her—and every other Planeswalker—of the godlike power they once had wielded. Some called it the Mending, as if something broken had been repaired, but to Liliana, it seemed the opposite. It broke her beyond any hope of repair." -The Fourth Pact

Once again, it is Liliana's fear of helplessness and her refusal to accept it that drives her to push beyond the bounds of propriety–this time, to make a pact with Nicol Bolas and four demons to maintain her immortality. It is not enough for her merely to delay death; she requires the security of knowing she is fully beyond its reach, that she will never be helpless before it again as she was with Josu.

"Holding death at arm's length for whatever years are left to me? No, that's not enough. I want to be free of its shadow." -Liliana in The Fourth Pact

Black isn't like its enemy colors white and green, which are superficially associated far more often with hope. Unlike white, it doesn't believe that conviction, justice, and community will bring about rightness. Unlike green, it doesn't trust in the wisdom of the world or the natural order. Black believes that nothing will change unless you make it change; ultimately, black's self is the only one it can trust to bring about the world it needs. In addition, black lacks its enemies' idealism. Instead, it strives to be a pragmatic realist, making a final assessment of defeat all the more definite and crushing.

While white and green are more amenable to finding hope and holding it aloft as a banner, black claws hope desperately to its chest with shredded, bloody fingernails. Every ounce of hope black has, it tore by itself from the clutches of an uncaring world.

Ironically for such a self-driven color, black's fierce hope is the greatest asset it can provide to others–on its own terms, of course. It was Liliana who turned the tide of battle against the Eldrazi titan Emrakul, defiant in the face of cosmic despair. And when Nicol Bolas made his bid to return to godhood, using Liliana's necromancy to command his undead hordes, Liliana finally turned against him. In reclaiming her power, so too did she use it to free her fellow Planeswalkers from Bolas' assault. Her fear of helplessness no longer shackled her to him; agency and autonomy were hers at last.

The triumph of black, its moment of ultimate victory, is the hard-won fulfillment of its hope.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." -Dylan Thomas

An aetherborn, railing against the shortness of their natural lifespan, constructs a new body for themself with their own bare hands. An artificer's grief over her lost companion causes her to push invention to its limits. A young girl who loves her brother calls on the darkest of powers to save him. As it turns out, necromancy–that original thematic keystone of black–is only one of black's many, many refusals to let go of love and hope once it has them, even in the face of the ultimate end.

Time and time again, black–in love with life, ablaze with hope–looks the Grim Reaper in the eye and tells it: "Not today."

[imagine-sterek]

Imagine stiles thinking he’s just good at manifesting things.

Like he doesn’t want to go to class so he wishes class was canceled so then there’s bad weather, when there shouldn’t be, or the fire alarm breaks and keeps going off. Or the teacher had to cancel class for like a meeting.

He’d say that he needs to get groceries and someone would accidentally deliver food to his door and let him keep it and it’s his exact order too.

He’d go thrifting and find all kinds of cool clothes and vintage stuff he wanted.

He’s late and he’s hoping all the lights are green and there’s no traffic and instead of getting there 30 mins late he’s on time.

Like if he buys a mystery figurine he’d say I hope it’s …(which ever one he wants) and he gets it and it keeps happening if he has a bunch of them.

But it’s actually all part of his spark and anytime he wishes or manifests anything his spark is making it happen.

The reason no one asks him out is because he thinks no one wants to ask him out and is accidentally wishing it, and then…

[riss-mlp]

proud to announce i’m a contributor for the #asparkforuszine, a zine centered completely around twilight !

first picture is my page drawing for the zine itself, and the three pictures after it are sneak peeks at my contributions as a goodie artist! i made three character cards of twilight. they are heavily cropped because they are for donors, who will be given access to the full pictures to print out!!! (that is why they are in cmyk) all donations made go towards palestine, please consider donating if you are able!! the zine releases october 13th :]

**edit, just learned the release date was pushed back to november 1st!!

[were-wolverine]

derek, kidnapped by hunters: you guys are so fucked

hunters: oh wolfy, this is a trap for your little betas. your wolves can’t save you

derek: i wasn’t talking about them :)

stiles, slamming the door open, covered in blood and furious: who the FUCK took my boyfriend

hunter: it’s one human, what’s he- *chokes and falls to the ground*

stiles, fully darth-vadering it: oh no, do go on :)

[ogpromiscuouspaperplanes]

[spark-platinum]

some more art of flutters because shes so pretty and so me fr 🥰

[teencopandthesourwolf]

read on ao3 HERE

.

“I'm good, Stiles.”

Stiles thinks about the times when, all too often, he himself says I'm good in that particular way, and thinks about how it actually means everything in his life is currently lighting up like a dropped match landing in a trail of gasoline.

In the space of a single heartbeat, he knows he would somehow harness the contents of an entire fucking lake to dampen down that metaphorical trail for Derek, murdering the thought of that lost little boy playing Hide-Go-Seek in Derek's pale eyes.

Only he isn't about to start talking about things being on fire. Not to Derek, not ever.

Instead he says, “I always had this rule, you know, where I’d flat out ignore a problem and wait for it to—and I used to swear to myself that this would actually happen—” His lips drag themselves up one side of his face as he sweeps an arm dramatically through the drizzling rain and the pressing twilight. “—just go away.”

He then allows his arm to fall unceremoniously to his side, and the sound of hand slapping khakis rings out through the sparse and quiet branches of the preserve's stripped bare trees.

“Okay.” Derek says the word with an infinitesimal shake of his head, looking as if he wants Stiles to stop talking.

Thing is, if Derek wanted Stiles to stop talking he would say Stiles, stop talking.

So, Stiles troops on.

“And it kind of worked, a little bit. For a little while, at least. ” He takes a hit of chilly November air. Releases it slowly, enjoying the crazy plume of breath-smoke it creates. “Until I met you,” he shrugs.

Derek blinks and it's a betrayal, giving away his hard-won secrets.

Stiles briefly wonders who else—who left in the world—would know this about the werewolf standing opposite of him. Stiles doesn't need to be a ʼwolf to know this stuff, not when it comes to Derek Hale.

He tries not to look at Derek's lips when Derek licks them before asking, “What are you talking about, Stiles?”

“Magick,” he answers, his feelings and other things shifting underneath the layers of his skin, crackling away like a hundred tiny Roman Candles traversing his bloodstream and manifesting as gooseflesh.

Rolling his hoodie sleeve, he lifts a cold hand between the two of them and allows a miniscule fraction of whatever beats like a heart at the earth's core to flow up through the ground and into his feet and up his legs and down an arm, warm and thrilling, to then spring free out of his right palm.

A small sphere of pure light around the size of a tennis ball now glows about an inch above his hand, kind of like an oversized firefly—and just as alive.

“Cool as fuck, huh?” Stiles mutters, basking in its incandescence, super-proud of himself. Then he gets to his point. “Deaton showed me how to harness my spark, yeah? But I would never have found it in the first place, if you hadn't followed Scott and I into the woods that day.”

Derek blinks again. His jaw ticks like a clock.

“Stiles, that's a little like saying one, two miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred,” he deadpans, and Stiles can't help but bark out a laugh.

Then he steels himself for one anticipatory moment before daring himself to take a step closer to Derek.

Derek stays put.

“Doesn't make it any less true,” Stiles shrugs.

Derek just stares at him for a moment, before peering down properly at Stiles's little orb, for the first time since Stiles summoned it.

“You've been practising,” he says simply, his eyebrows doing their thing.

He's now staring at Stiles's effort as if he wants to sink his fangs into it, like you would a quarter to test if it's real.

“Is it freaking you out?” Stiles asks.

“No,” he answers flatly. “I think it's cool as fuck,” and he looks up at Stiles like he might want to keep looking.

Stiles wants him to never stop.

“Then here, you can have it,” he says.

He takes another step closer to Derek.

They are toe to toe, now, and still Derek doesn't bolt, nor pounce, nor warn Stiles off.

So, Stiles—really slowly—reaches for Derek's hand.

Derek lets him.

Stiles then transfers the light to Derek's palm, cupping his hand around Derek's to ensure it keeps hovering there. He directs their hands to Derek's chest, stopping right over his heart and flattening them both there, he and Derek watching as Stiles's spark dissipates into Derek's body, leaving behind a few wispy tendrils of light that Stiles guides back into himself with a couple of waves of his free hand.

“Now, whenever you're good, I can be right there being good with you, even if I'm not around,” Stiles says, and then he hopes and hopes when he asks, “Is that okay?”

Derek smiles, and it's the first truly happy-looking smile that Stiles has been privileged enough to witness blooming on that beautiful, beautiful face of his.

“It's better than okay, Stiles,” he says. “It's magick.”

.

unedited, soz! this is for @dontcallpanic (pip knows why) <3

.

...edited version now found HERE on ao3 if you want to drop me a comment xp

[stardustandrockets]

What's a large item you wish was included more in sub boxes?

This blanket might be the softest thing I own (sorry, Obi!). It's got several of the books that have been featured in @rainbowcrate boxes over the last three years on it. I can't wait until it's not a THOUSAND degrees so I can adequately reap the benefits of such a fluffy blanket!

Today ends the June 'A Spark of Magic' photo challenge. I always enjoy these weeks because I get to shout out one of my favorite companies while also showcasing different artists. The artwork for this blanket is by crookedquilluk.

[chellychuu]

Sailor moon ✨

[witchofthesouls]

In the soul mate au between Miko and Tarn, the incoming Cybertronians would think that Jack Darby is the biggest ho to ever ho.

Ratchet is dying because Jack's mannerisms and ways of affection do remind the medic of the halcyon days with Orion Pax, pre-Megatronus. (Mind you, Ratchet has rose-tinted glasses about those days and feels really nostalgic over Orion's quirks. Even if he had to bail the mech from jail several times and stop him from eating tampered fuel substances.) And he just wants his other colleagues and fellow Autobots to know the real Jack.

Unfortunately, Jack has a tendency to meet all the newcomers in various states of undress, aka without his armor, which is a very shameless state.

Ratchet first walked into a freshly cyberformed!Jack, coming out of the shower with only a towel around his waist because of the nasty amount of sludge in every inch of his frame. Even his armor needed a deep scrubbing. In parts.

Soundwave remet the guy in his swim trunks because he came from relaxing in a geyser.

The first time he met the Justice Division, he was stripped down to sweatpants while Miko was categorizing his opened chassis, including his spark chamber. Miko was practicing the new educational module from Soundwave and Ratchet, and Jack was the willing dummy since they were trying to nail down the differences between baseline Cybertronians and their hybrid status. So not just shameless, but in a highly provocative position as well. Miko and Jack were treated to the sight of stumped D.J.D. members with slaw jaws and choking noises.

So now, mecha are thinking that Jack and Miko have an "understanding." And Tarn's jealous over it.

______

Jack breathed as evenly as possible. Body still as Miko carefully traced his new organs, muttering Neocybex under her breath on what each part was called, both in Pit Kaonite and Iaconi medical. Her fingers were blunted, not her usual talons, as she skimmed the connections, musculature, protoform, and circuitry. Jack closed his optics, sinking into a light mediation, and only shivered as those fingers brushed over his new heart.

"How does this feel," Miko questioned as she coaxed the chamber to open. And he allowed it. All three of them had been together for lifetimes, and very little boundaries existed between them at this point.

"Weird," Jack replied as his spark quivered, white light blinding, shadows playing across Miko's curious face and the walls.

"Good weird? Bad weird? Spiritual possession weird? You have to give me something more descriptive." She said with exasperation, teeth glinting in the byplay between light and shadow.

"Dangerous weird." His words hitched, body twitching, vision clouding at the edges, and he forced down the sudden instinct to flee-FLEE into dark corners, to sink into the safety of the furniture shade.

Due to the uplinks between them, Miko immediately applied the medical overrides, and the painted diagnostic sigils flared to life across his limbs, and Jack went limp, tension cut from his body.

Miko frowned. The geared rings in her amber optics turned as she ran calculations, and whatever she was about to say was cut as the closet door opened.

Jack couldn't see them as he was sitting on the couch with his back towards them, but he picked up quite a crowd. All of the individuals choking on air. Wings twitching from the unknown signatures suddenly appearing in his space, and Miko lined her own over his, exuding calm-still-potential allies.

She huffed, amusement and annoyance warred in her field as she quickly pulled off the sigils with a fanciful twirl of her fingers, and they worked together to disconnect their systems from each other. Jack shut closed his chassis, and his innards dispersed once more, spark chamber hiding wherever it was. It was honestly far more difficult for him to drag that specific organ to the open air than his first attempts to blend his new metal frame into living trees. "This isn't what it looks like, old man."

Jack pulled over his shirt to cover his protoform, and turned around, dark and pink wings avoiding each other in familiarity, to see Ratchet running a servo down his face and an assortment of bewildered strangers staring at them through the portal. Even if the Decepticon badges weren't gleaming on a chassis, the tank with the mask shaped as the very Decepticon logo was a dead given away of their allegiance.

:: Soundwave does it better. He got the extra creep factor without the eye holes. :: Miko snorted through the private channel, crossing her arms as she leaned on the back of the couch, deceptively loose and uncaring.

:: Hey, don't knock down a perfectly good presentation. Eyes are windows to the soul, and eyes make others feel at ease. Soundwave gives no fucks about normalcy or social manners. ::

:: Soundwave does what better? :: Raf commented. :: And hard agree on that assessment. ::

:: We'll fill you in later. :: Jack replied as Miko simultaneously responded. :: We got fresh meat. ::

"So," Jack drawled, propping an elbow on the sofa back, supporting his head on that hand. "What brings this lot to our corner of the universe?"

[toweringclam]

Things we can ascertain from this as being absolutely and totally canon:

Teysa Karlov collects paintings of other pale black-haired women (Cunt Knows Cunt)

Her collection likely focuses on women from other planes, likely even before planeswalkers became common knowledge.

There is/was a thriving interplanar art trade that we never heard about.

Liliana, Death's Majesty, was an in-universe painting that Liliana sat for.

Since they didn't really have time for that in the original story, it must have been on a previous visit (likely to confirm Amonkhet was Razaketh's home plane)

This means that Teysa Karlov had a painting of Liliana Vess in her collection at the time of War of the Spark.

Upon realizing she had a painting of Nicol Bolas's top general, she moved it to a place of prominence on the grand stair because that's a real fucking power move.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Silvery Witchcraft

It is of course not a secret. Not per se. I don’t hide my true identity. It has more to do with what people observe. Or believe, I suppose. Coming to terms with the fact that the paranormal is real doesn't sit well with most people. Therefore, I always find it amusing when someone calls me a witch. Little do they know…

I took my time when I got to choose my appearance and colours. An image of an elderly, fragile-looking lady filled my mind. She fit my favourite colours perfectly. Purple and silver. 

My place of residence had already been chosen for me. 221 Baker Street, London. Such a pretty place. Victorian. Reminded me of my childhood. I immediately set about furnishing the place. 221A would serve as my quarters. I decorated it as a woman my supposed age would. Lots of lace curtains, antimacassars, velvet cushions, a Persian carpet, and mahogany furniture. I hid the modern kitchen appliances in old, almost ancient ones. My cooking and baking would not suffer because of an unpredictable oven, thank you very much!

I didn’t bother with 221C at first but moved upstairs. 221B was going to be rented out. I needed to earn a living. Keeping up appearances and all that nonsense. The flat was quite spacious and had two bedrooms. The empty space got my full attention, and I chose carefully. My intention was for it to look as if the previous tenants had left it fully furnished. 

The walls were covered with creamy-coloured wallpaper and a black lily pattern. Two mismatched chairs, one in worn, but exquisite leather, the other a faded red upholstery one, were positioned by the fireplace. Although they looked old, they weren’t. 

I used quite a few moments to get the bathroom and kitchen just to my liking. The space was scarce, but by using my silver sparks, my secret weapon, I got everything to fit without it seeming cramped. Letting the rooms expand unnoticed by the users, was quite a challenge.

***

My first tenant was Mycroft Holmes’ little brother, Sherlock. Witchcraft is surprisingly fully recognised by the British government. Not publicly, of course, and only a handful of ministries are aware of its existence.

Mycroft summoned me to the Diogenes club, and almost begged me to save his brother.

“He won’t listen to reason,” he sighed. “I have tried everything. You are his last chance, or he will end up dead under one of London’s bridges.”

Mycroft Holmes is just as much of a drama queen as his brother, but this time he wasn’t far off. I saw it in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

Arrangements were made, and I literally served my fake mafia husband to Sherlock on a silver plate. We got on like a house on fire after that.

Sherlock immediately fell in love with 221B, and he moved in the day after we returned from Florida and the execution. I hadn’t felt so alive in centuries!

“You will need a flatmate,” I told him after a while. “It’s too lonely for you. Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man. I hear you during the wee hours. Playing your violin and pacing. A loyal companion is what you need.”

“Who would want me for a flatmate, Hudders?” he asked.

My heart nearly broke at that. Sherlock had become like a son to me, and I hated to see his loneliness. Few people were able to look behind his haughty façade. Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, and Molly Hooper being the exceptions. And me and Mycroft, obviously.

“Talk to Mike Stamford,” I urged him. “He will keep an eye out, and he certainly won’t pull someone like Sebastian Wilkes out of his sleeve.”

***

Before Sherlock left for Barts on January 29, I sent some silver sparks after him. For a moment, too brief for the human eye to discern, it lit him up, making him appear even more handsome. Not that he needed it. It was more for good luck, which he might have needed. It was difficult to use my magic on him due to his unpredictability and that monster of a brain.

The moment I laid eyes on John Watson, after Sherlock’s unprecedented hug, I knew he was just the one to share 221B with the genius detective. I didn’t even consider using my magic on him. He was already perfect for Sherlock. I just had to make sure that Sherlock didn’t push John away when he made his move to inquire about his romantic life and orientation. 

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