#and so he makes his silly little remark to make watson smile. and i love him for that

[usalock]

This sort of case would have interested our old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Yes, indeed.

[dearjamesxo]

[drabble under cut]

Billy stands there, bear-chested and gorgeous, illuminated by streaks of midday sun streaming in from the windows above. His posture is rigid, on the defense before Leo has even had a chance to state why he's here.

After four months abroad, visiting his cousin, Alexander, Leo imagined his homecoming would be more than the cold, empty reception he received. If it wasn't for Spike taking it upon himself to retrieve Leo, Leo would still be wondering if something happened to Billy while he was away.

As it turns out, no, Billy is fine, all in one piece, he just didn't feel the need to let Leo know he's no longer interested in doing...whatever it was they were doing before Leo left. Leo refuses to label it as anything significant now that it's been made clear that it only ran deep on one side.

Jessie, face pained in sympathy, glances between them as Leo and Billy stand off, the silence thickening into a suffocating cloud that congests the room. From behind him, Spike squeezes Leo's shoulder. Leo feels his presence retreat, hears him clop up the stairs, narrowly followed by Jessie after she tries to offer Leo a sympathetic smile. The door creaks, a rush of sound from the street, creaks again, and Billy and Leo are alone.

Bea isn't around. In Colchester with Watson gathering witness statements, Spike mentioned on the trek back to the cellar. Well, that's what Leo was able to parse, anyway; Spike's cheeks were stuffed with confections Louise had a scullery maid assemble for him in a basket.

Their friendship might baffle many, but it makes complete sense to Leo.

Unlike Billy, who hasn't moved an inch or spoken a word since he rolled to his feet upon Leo's arrival. Leo can’t discern Billy’s expression, resting between aggressive and ashamed, as if he’s aware he’s done something awful but won’t apologize for it. And he has, he’s ripped open Leo’s chest and filled the cavity with so much bitterness and betrayal that Leo’s scarcely been able to draw a satisfying breath since he again set foot on British soil.

Leo desperately wants to hate Billy, wants to lash out and make Billy hurt as much as he’s hurting. But he can’t. Could never. Because he cares too deeply for the young man standing across from him that to hurt Billy would be to damage himself irreparably.

“Why?” Leo croaks when the silence becomes too much.

“Why what?” Billy says, fists clenching at his sides.

The harshness of his tone burns.

“You haven’t come to see me since I came back…” Leo looks away, can’t bear to watch Billy hate him for a reason Leo hasn’t been given. “I thought—”

“What? That I’d wait for you, just sit on a shelf doing nothing while you gallivant across Russia with your girlfriend?”

Leo’s head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”

Billy takes a step forward, eye blazing, ready for a fight, “I heard your Princess—” He spits the word, “Joined you on your holiday. That you n’ her were seen looking,” Here he uses his fingers to quote, “Madly in love. The perfect bloody pair, ay?”

“Where did you hear that?” Leo wonders, brows sinking in the middle.

“Who cares? It’s true, innit?”

Yes and no, Leo doesn’t say. Though not at all in love – at least to a degree that matters – he and Helena are remarkable at presenting themselves as the epitome of a love match. A fact Billy probably won’t appreciate hearing. Especially since he isn’t wrong that Helena was in St Petersburg, even if it was at the behest of Leo’s mother. The Queen believed it would do well for their public image that they be seen together. Again, a fact that Billy would bite his thumb at.

“Billy,” Leo’s voice shakes, afraid that what he has to say will be taken poorly, “You knew before that Helena and I have a duty we must fulfill. Together.” For a second, Billy looks thoughtful, eyes downcast and stance softening, “You said you didn’t care.” In an effort not to appear too affected, Leo straightens his back and juts his chin out, “If you’ve changed your mind, I think I deserve to be told. Not treated as a stranger to who you owe no explanation.”

Billy huffs, licks his lips and watches the ground as he crosses the room to his bed.

Leo trails him with his gaze, refrains from ranting as he wants to at Billy’s back. A back that Leo’s mapped the texture of with his lips and tongue, has seen bowed and arched in rapture, has felt the strength of under his palms as Billy rocked into him like the tide.

He missed Billy deliriously while he was gone, thought of little else to the point where Helena offered to rent him a strapping, blond man to use to work it out of his system. Leo didn’t, would never, but he did bring into his bed one of the toys Helena hid amongst her things, and fucked himself silly on it until he was able to do more than sulk over Billy’s absence.

Something in his expression must reveal where his thoughts traveled because when he refocuses, Billy’s features are slack and heated.

“Fuck.” Billy throws his hands up, rakes his fingers through his hair then scrubs over his face. He drops his arms and hits Leo with a fiery stare. “Just,” He growls, paces toward Leo, halfway back to his bed, toward Leo again to grab Leo by the shoulders and look him in the eye, “Did you fuck her?”

Leo’s hands fly up to frame Billy’s face, his gaze flickering between Billy’s eyes. He says firmly, “No. And I won’t, Billy, not until I have to, you know that.”

Billy’s voice is soft and defeated when he utters, “Do I?” He drops his forehead against Leo’s, runs his hands up to clutch Leo’s jaw and pull Leo into a quick, chaste kiss. “Jesus,” He whispers hoarsely, biting at Leo’s mouth, sweeping his tongue over the sting. “Do I know that, Leo?” A shuddering exhale and then he says, “How do I know you aren’t lying to keep me around?”

Billy continues nipping and soothing, chasing kisses as if he can’t help himself, wasted enough energy trying to resist tasting Leo as much as Leo wants to be devoured after so many weeks apart.

Putting a staying hand to Billy’s chest, Leo leans back to tell Billy very honestly, “You know me, you know I would never do that to you, to anyone.” Leo squeezes his eyes shut before he confesses, “I’m in love with you, William Marlott,” Billy gasps and his body sways into Leo’s. He captures Leo’s mouth in a dizzying performance of tongue and teeth. When they part for air, Leo quirks the tiniest smile, “You enormous bellend.”

In an arousing display of strength, Billy hooks his hands under Leo’s thighs and lifts, forcing Leo to wind his legs around Billy’s trim waist and his arms around Billy’s shoulders. Billy reaches up to give Leo a wet kiss and then turns on his heel, carrying Leo to his bed where he deposits Leo nonchalantly. Billy climbs after Leo, crawls up Leo’s body before insinuating himself between Leo’s legs, arms bracketing Leo’s head. Their noses bump, lips meet, and, at last, Billy quells the last of Leo’s doubt by saying, “I missed you so much, darling.”

Billy spends the next hour earning Leo’s forgiveness.

[v-thinks-on]

The Valley of Fear

Part 5 of The Man Who Sold the World

First | Previous | Next

In the weeks that followed the debacle of the second Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson came to a somewhat uncomfortable truce. They spoke amicably about anything other than the case at hand or any other that Watson may have been investigating, the topic of which was avoided at all costs. The doctor was left to pursue his practice alone with no input whatsoever from Holmes, who instead dedicated himself to housekeeping and music, which left him restless and frequently irritable.

It was early in the afternoon, nearly a month later. Watson was sifting through that day’s mail while Holmes watched from where he lay, strewn across his own chair in a fit of boredom that threatened for the worse. Amidst all the bills and advertisements, Watson came upon an old fashioned envelope. It was nothing special, at least it wouldn’t have been in 1887, but now it could not have been mistaken for an ordinary letter. Even the feel and weight of the paper were different.

Watson tore the envelope open to reveal a page of thick well worn paper bearing a familiar cypher. Holmes craned over to get a glimpse of the seemingly random string of numbers - and one letter - intercut with three words; “Douglas” followed by a repetition of “Birlstone.”

“What do you make of it?” Holmes asked, unable and unwilling to hold his peace any longer.

Watson put down the letter and gave him a reproachful look.

“Look at me, Watson, I’m wasting away. My mind begs to be used!”

Watson let out a sigh. He could feel this was not going to go his way. Still, he tried, “We can’t risk letting him get away again. Another man is dead, and the longer it takes to catch the culprit, the more victims will follow.”

“I can help,” Holmes insisted. “You know I am equal to it. For me to stay here and stagnate would be unfair to the both of us - in Moscow or London it’s the same. This is no life for me, my dear Watson, please understand.”

Watson heard the ultimatum as though it had been spoken aloud; if he did not allow Holmes to work with him, he would leave and that would be that. It stung badly to hear it aloud, even though Holmes had said it with a little more delicacy.

Watson had no choice, he could not bear to see him go, and Holmes knew it. There was no one else in the world who knew who he really was, who shared in his past. That alone may have settled it, but this was not just anyone; this was Sherlock Holmes, the dearest friend he had ever known, returned from the dead. No, he could not let Holmes vanish again.

Still, he reluctantly handed the letter over to the waiting detective.

Holmes glanced at it for a moment before rattling off, “Antique paper” - he sniffed it - “ink too, but still fresh. He was careful not to leave any prints, clearly a forgery - look at those horrible Greek e’s. It’s a standard book cypher, based on an old almanac, if I recall.” He turned back to the doctor and offered, his tone just shy of condescending, “So, what course of action do you suggest?”

After a moment’s consideration, Watson said, “We ought to solve the cypher to be sure - I think an old edition of Whitaker's almanac should do the trick, but we’ll have to go to the library for that. In the meantime, did you see anything in the morning paper?”

“Very reasonable,” Holmes declared, his energy returned with a vengeance. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper yet, but that can be remedied quickly enough.”

Watson stood as Holmes reached for the morning’s news. “Mrs. Houghton may know more than the press, especially if the case has already made it to London.”

“Don’t count our intrepid reporters out just yet. And there are advantages to working independently from the official force.”

“There are advantages to working with them too,” Watson said before picking up the phone, cutting one conversation short with another.

“Dr. Holmes, I was just meaning to call you!” Mrs. Houghton exclaimed on the other end of the line. “There’s been another one, out in Sussex this time.”

“I’ve just received a warning about it. I take it Mr. John Douglas was found dead in Birlstone Manor?”

“I don’t think the place is called Birlstone, but you’re right about the victim. I got a call this morning from the country Inspector. Apparently Douglas was shot around eleven last night. According to Inspector Mason, it looks like someone planted evidence of an intruder, but the current theory is that it was someone inside the house. The whole place is set up like the others were, all Victorian, which is why I was called in and I thought you might want to come along.”

“There’s not a minute to waste.”

“I can drive you, I’ll be over in a few.”

They both hung up and Watson turned back to Holmes, who was still flipping through the paper.

Holmes put the paper aside as Watson returned to his chair. “It seems Douglas’s murder was not quite in time to make the morning press. Tomorrow, I’m certain there will be a full feature on the matter.”

“I’m sure,” Watson said, his smile a little smug with his victory.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance, but neither was expecting anyone - it was impossible for Mrs. Houghton to have arrived so quickly. Finally, Holmes gestured for Watson to go ahead.

So, the doctor shouted, “Come in.”

The door swung open and banged against the wall.

“A letter for Dr. Holmes!” a small boy proclaimed from the doorway.

He couldn’t have been older than twelve, dressed like a page boy not dissimilar from the one Holmes once had. But his oily hair and rough skin suggested he was a homeless child who had been paid to play the role.

“I am he,” the doctor said and held out his hand for the letter.

The boy handed it to him and the doctor gave him a tip.

“There's more where that came from if you can tell me who put you up to this.”

The boy laughed and shook his head.

“How much did he offer you? I'll double it,” the doctor insisted.

“He said he'd double your offer if I didn’t say anything.”

“And how will he know what you did or didn't say here?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. “He said his name’s Fred Porlock.”

“And where did you meet him?”

“Camberwell, in front of the post office.”

“Could you describe him for me? And then you can go on your way.”

“He was wearing a big yellow jacket. He’s tall and old, with gray hair and a silly moustache that he kept twitching.” 

Dr. Holmes nodded in thought. The moustache must have been fake, his hair could have easily been dyed, and it wasn’t so difficult for an experienced actor to play a man taller or shorter than himself. There wasn’t much he could glean from the description, but at least the boy had seen his face, if he could find him again.

“Did he say anything else?” Dr. Holmes attempted.

The boy shook his head. “Just to bring you the letter as fast as I could. He seemed pretty nervous about it, kept glancing over his shoulder like someone was following him. Are you spies?”

“No,” Dr. Holmes said, though he couldn’t help but smile a little at the suggestion. He handed the boy a sizable payment. “Where could I find you if I had more questions?”

“I’m usually in Camberwell,” the boy said, already running out the door.

If he hurried, Dr. Holmes could probably follow the boy on his next errand, perhaps catch a glimpse of the so-called Mr. Porlock for himself, but the chances of success were low compared to the risk of delaying their journey to the countryside.

“I doubt it would come to anything,” Holmes said, startling Watson out of his reverie. “We would do better to search for answers in Sussex than London.”

“How on Earth do you do that?” Watson exclaimed, caught entirely off guard.

“I’m relieved to find I can still surprise you on occasion.”

“Yes, I fear I’ve become entirely unaccustomed to your tricks.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t mastered it. It’s rather superficial.”

“I suppose I occasionally give Mrs. Houghton a bit of a shock, but I never intend to.”

“You’re much too modest, my dear Watson.”

“Am I?” Watson asked pointedly.

Holmes let out a barking laugh. “A distinct touch, Watson, a distinct touch.”

Watson smiled with his victory as he tore open the envelope the boy had delivered. Inside was a short note from one Mr. Fred Porlock announcing his resignation as turncoat. It had been hastily written, but holding the note and the cypher side by side Watson could see that they had the same distinctive features, forged and genuine.

“It’s a shame,” Holmes remarked, greatly subdued. “Porlock was the first man to turn informant on Professor Moriarty despite the grave risk. He didn’t have the courage for it in the end, but I shall always remember him for having taken the first step. And here he has been reduced to yet another agent playing his role.”

“Perhaps it’s not all in vain,” Watson suggested. “There may be some record of his presence at the Camberwell post office by which we can trace him, and that boy could serve as a witness - if we can find him again.”

Holmes just shook his head. “I fear our Mr. Porlock is long gone.”

As loathe as Watson was to admit it, Holmes was probably right.

They both sat ruminating in silence for a little longer until Mrs. Houghton arrived en route to Sussex.

“This may be our chance,” Mrs. Houghton declared as she waited in the doorway for Dr. Holmes to gather his things. “We’re pretty certain it must have been someone in the house - it doesn’t look like anyone escaped - and they’re all clearly in on it. Really, I don’t know what they were thinking, setting it up like this.”

“I’m afraid they very well know what they’re doing. I doubt the man behind these crimes is among the suspects, but perhaps he has made a mistake that will lead us to him. After all, no chain is stronger than its weakest link, we just need to apply the necessary pressure. Shall we?” The doctor gestured toward the door.

“Mr. Holmes, will you be joining us?” Mrs. Houghton asked with a glance at the doctor.

“I would love to,” Holmes answered with exaggerated politesse, “but I fear the decision is our dear doctor’s to make.”

The doctor gave a reluctant nod and they all made their way out onto the street.

It was nearing evening by the time the three detectives arrived at the old manor that served as the stage for the latest crime. They wound up a long driveway lined in old beech trees and parked in front of a large vegetable patch that encircled the house in place of an outer moat. Beyond that was the inner moat, still full of muddy water, surrounding the grand old manor house. As Mrs. Houghton had explained during the drive, the drawbridge that lay open across the moat was the only way into or out of the house, and it was raised at night.

A stout middle-aged man in plain clothes greeted them as they stepped out of the car. “Inspector Houghton,” he called out, “There you are! Inspector Gregson said you had gone into the city to find a specialist.” He gave both of the amateurs an appraising glance with a measure of disapproval. “We still haven’t found anyone tromping around in muddy trousers. At least one of them is lying, and the whole lot of them are pretty suspicious if you ask me.”

Mrs. Houghton nodded along as he spoke. Then she waved the amateurs forward - “Inspector Mason, this is Dr. Jonathan Holmes, and his friend, Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Holmes has been working with me on the case from the start and should be able to help us get to the bottom of it.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the doctor said with a tip of his hat.

Holmes, in turn, stepped forward to greet the inspector with an outstretched hand, which the Inspector hesitantly shook. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I don’t suppose you’re related to the late Inspector White Mason? I am quite familiar with his remarkable work in the Birlstone Manor case, but I didn’t know a penchant for detective work ran in the family.”

“My father was an officer and his father before him,” Inspector Mason explained with equal parts surprise and pride. “It’s good to hear that at least some word of my family’s work has gotten around.”

“The case your ancestor pursued was a very noteworthy one, not the least so in its parallels to the matter at hand. I believe you are quite right, and we intend to find out what’s going on.”

The doctor stepped in - “Shall we go in and see for ourselves?”

Inspector Mason startled and stared at the doctor as though he did not know what to make of him.

Holmes laughed. “Very well, we should not keep our dear doctor waiting.”

Watson was, to his credit, not disarmed by Holmes's smile as he passed, leaving the doctor and Mrs. Houghton to follow after. They exchanged a glance, but the doctor found little sympathy; Mrs. Houghton was on the verge of laughter herself.

Inspector Mason led them over the drawbridge and into the manor. The entire house was an antique, from the architecture,​ to the walls, to the furniture. It had not even been wired with electricity as the Baker Street flat had been. The various trappings lying about that should have given some insight into daily life in the manor looked to be as old as the house and could have once belonged to a country gentleman, but there was little evidence they had been used in the last century.

At the door they were greeted by a butler who, at first glance, looked as prim and proper as any. However, upon closer inspection, his clothes were not quite the right fit and he was more muscular than any butler the doctor had ever met. And then there was the tell-tale sign of a concealed weapon at his hip.

“What can I do for you” - the butler hesitated and what remained of his air of prim composure disintegrated into discomfort - “gentlemen?”

Holmes deferred to Watson with a glance, and so the doctor answered, “The scene itself first, if you will. And then we will need somewhere to interview everyone.”

The butler assented and led them a short way into the study. By the time they arrived, he and Holmes were in the midst of an avid conversation about football, of all things. They lingered at the door while the doctor followed Mrs. Houghton inside. Inspector Mason went off to attend to his own business.

The room had been emptied of its grizzly inhabitant, though some of the blood remained to emphasize the tape outline that marked where it had been. The familiar clues were there; the muddy footprints by the window, the bloody track on the sill, and the lone dumbbell sitting in the corner. The sawed off shotgun had no doubt been taken to ballistics already, assuming it had been present at all.

“Forensics finished up here a while ago,” Mrs. Houghton explained. “They've taken everything back to the lab to be analyzed, we'll get the report in a few days. If you want, I can show you all of their photographs of how everything was when they arrived. They removed the corpse, obviously, and a shotgun which we're taking to be the murder weapon unless they tell us otherwise.”

Dr. Holmes nodded. “Do those footprints match any shoes in the house?”

“The one on the sill was clearly made by one of Cecil Barker’s slippers, it was obviously faked. Someone dipped the slipper in blood and pressed it there, but we're still trying to figure out who. We haven't found the boots that made the muddy prints on the floor.”

“This is truly a marvelous piece of work,” Holmes remarked, having joined them at last. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “It's a shame your people have mucked about the scene so thoroughly, you haven't left us much to work with.”

He examined the scene, his eyes flitting this way and that, performing calculations the doctor could not even begin to fathom, as familiar as he was with the detective's methods.

“We haven't been ‘mucking about,’” Mrs. Houghton replied, with only a touch of humor to soften her otherwise sharp tone. “The forensic scientists have done their job and now we're doing ours.”

“Things have changed a lot,” the doctor attempted to explain, “The police have picked up a lot of your old methods and they’ve got the resources to more than do them justice. There's even new technology-”

Holmes cut him off with a wave, “No matter, there's enough left to draw a few conclusions.” He rounded on the doctor with an impish smile, “You have your methods, what do you observe?”

The doctor frowned. Though Holmes’s prompting questions had helped him begin to learn to imitate Holmes's deduction, now the detective's tone grated. Would he always have to prove himself - and then not even be Holmes's equal.

Still, the doctor had his pride. He examined the ground until he had gleaned enough to say, “These tracks are clear thanks to the rain a few days ago. I believe they include some of the dark mud we passed by the station in town, perhaps he arrived by train. They go straight from the door to those distinctive marks behind the curtains. Then, after some time, he stepped out and there was some sort of scuffle” - he followed the footprints around the room as he narrated - “And they end here by the body.”

“Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed, and for an instant Watson glowed with pride. “Though, of course, we both knew all that before we so much as entered the room. What do you see?”

The doctor’s smile quickly went flat. Two could play at this game - “What do you see?”

“Aside from the drops of blood on the floor made by the slipper as it was being carried to the window to make that print, a candle that is only barely burned - suggesting that there was only a brief interview between the victim and the perpetrator - and of course the missing dumbbell?” Holmes answered with a smirk and turned to Mrs. Houghton - “I take it your forensic scientists removed the card bearing the initials 'V. V.’ and the number, ‘341?’”

She nearly jumped in surprise, but quickly regained her bearings. “Yes, of course, it's in for handwriting​ and materials analysis. I think they're also sweeping it for fingerprints.”

“It must have been laid down after the crime was committed - see how the blood is smeared here” - Holmes pointed at a roughly rectangular spot on the ground that fit the description. “Shall I go on, or do you want another crack at it?” he challenged the doctor.

The doctor considered the facts and his surroundings for a moment before he responded, “That the candle was only briefly lit reveals little. It could have been lit any time today or even in the past week, especially if someone in the house was involved in setting up the scene. People nowadays use torches or even cell phones to the same effect. The lamp wasn’t even used, suggesting that for anything longer than a few minutes he must have had a different source of light that’s no longer in the room.” He turned to Mrs. Houghton and asked, “Was there anything here earlier?”

She shook her head.

Holmes stepped over to the candle and examined it. “It’s new and can’t have been lit more than a few days ago,” he pronounced.

Dr. Holmes frowned. “That still doesn't mean-”

He was interrupted by a pair of sharp knocks at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the door swung open and banged against the wall to make way for a rather excited young man who must have been none other than Mr. Cecil Barker, the friend of the Douglas’s who happened to be staying with them at the time of their misfortune. He was breathing hard as though he had just returned from a long dash and his pants legs were splashed with mud that could have easily come from the road leading up to the house. He glanced between the detectives gathered in the room.

“Just in time,” Holmes remarked.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mr. Barker said, paying Holmes no heed. “I have news!”

Mrs. Houghton stepped forward. “What is it?”

“We- they’ve found a bicycle, his bicycle! He left it behind, not far from the house!”

“We may as well have a look then, shall we?” Holmes declared as though the matter was decided.

The doctor, however, turned to Mrs. Houghton, “Would it be possible for you or Inspector Mason to look into the bicycle, perhaps determine its origin? I would rather get a start on interviewing the witnesses, if it is all the same.” He shot a pointed glance at Holmes.

Mrs. Houghton followed his gaze. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“There is no cause for concern,” Holmes answered. “We’re quite accustomed to working together.”

“At least, we once were,” the doctor could not help but add.

Watson regretted it as soon as the words left his lips and for an instant he saw a look of deep hurt cross Holmes's face, but it was gone as soon as it had come, replaced by a smile he may have only fancied was a little forced.

“Don’t worry,” Holmes insisted in his easy way, “we’ll manage.”

“If you're sure…” Mrs. Houghton said and allowed Mr. Barker to lead her out of the room.

And so, Holmes and Watson were left alone. Watson was about to apologize, but Holmes spoke first.

“What now?” he asked, watching Watson with steely gray eyes and a sharp, critical air.

Watson hesitated, suddenly uncertain, “Well, I was thinking of interviewing the witnesses first…”

“Yes, you said as much. Who first? You seemed to have a plan.”

Watson glared at him, but he didn't really have much more of an answer. The doctor had just planned on hearing the witnesses’ stories and going from there. Was it not Holmes who had always cautioned against theorizing too much before the facts of the case were known? Watson elected not to dignify Holmes with a response and instead led the way out of the study and called for the butler.

The butler promptly arrived and greeted Holmes with a smile.

He seemed ready to resume their conversation about football when the doctor interrupted in his closest imitation of Holmes’s exaggerated politeness, though it came out a little sharper than the original, “Pardon me.”

The butler turned on him with a somewhat uncomfortable, “Sir?” that was a tad more aggressive than was proper.

“We’re finished in the study,” the doctor explained, “Do you have somewhere prepared for us to interview the witnesses?”

“Will the dining room be sufficient?” the butler answered stiffly.

The doctor nodded and answered with a smile, “It’ll do quite nicely, thank you.”

The butler exchanged a glance with Holmes, who merely shrugged in an intimation of innocence, before leading them to the stately dining room that would serve as their base of operations for the next phase of the investigation. The room was rather sparse aside from the requisite period appropriate decorations. The table bore a few small scratches and stains that indicated a few meals had been eaten there recently, but not many. Mostly, it seemed to be a set piece like the rest of the house.

The butler made to leave with a sharp nod to the doctor and an easy wave to Holmes, but the doctor motioned to detain him.

“While you are here, we may as well interview you first.”

With another glance at Holmes, the butler nodded and took a seat across from them at the table.

“For starters, I don't believe I ever got your name,” the doctor began.

“You can call me Ames.”

The doctor frowned - that was a point against the butler. “Your full name, please.”

Holmes cut him off with a dismissive wave before the butler could refuse to answer and asked all too casually, “What was Mr. Douglas like as an employer?”

The doctor shot Holmes a glare, but accepted the line of questioning. “It was Mr. Douglas who hired you?”

The butler nodded. “I met with him personally.”

“And what terms were those?” the doctor pressed.

“That’s between me and my employer.”

Holmes nodded in agreement. “Of course. All we need is to know is what you observed on the night in question and then you’re free to go.”

“Now wait a minute, Holmes!” the doctor exclaimed. “That may be all you need to know, but I have a few other questions I’d like to get to.”

“Really? And what essential questions did you have in mind?”

The doctor took a deep breath and tried to forget his insufferable companion.

At last, he turned to the witness and asked as cordially and professionally as he could, “If you don’t mind, I would like to begin with your own history, starting with your name please.”

Holmes made a noise of impatience, but did not interrupt. He had leaned back in his chair to watch the proceedings with the air of a critic observing a piece by an artist for whom he had very low esteem.

The butler considered for a moment, but seemed to take pity on the beleaguered doctor, “My name is Phillip Cole. John suggested I take on the name Ames while I worked here.”

“Do you know why?” the doctor asked with a glance at Holmes.

The detective continued to judge his performance in silence.

Mr. Cole shrugged. “Maybe he thought it fit the theme of the place better.”

They would come back to the question of Mr. Douglas, instead the doctor continued on in order - “Mr. Cole, where are you from?”

“London. I’ve lived in the city for most of my life,” Mr. Cole said.

“I wouldn’t live anywhere else,” Holmes put in with a wistful smile.

Watson tried to catch Holmes’s eye, but he was staring off into space with a distinct air of melodrama. Knowing him - a former spy no less - it was probably just an act, though Watson could not fathom to what ends.

The doctor forced himself back to the matter at hand. “Where were you employed before coming out here?”

“I was a bouncer at a bar in London.”

“How did you meet Mr. Douglas?”

“He came by the bar a few times, asked me a lot of questions, though he could have just asked for a resume” - Holmes chuckled - “eventually he offered me this job.”

“And what does your job entail?”

Mr. Cole shrugged. “Mostly delegating things to the maids and the rest of the staff. Mr. Douglas tells me what to do and I pass it along.”

“You don't have any prior experience as a butler,” the doctor remarked.

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you know why Mr. Douglas hired you for the job?” the doctor asked as delicately as he could.

“I guess he just wanted the extra pair of hands.”

“You said he specifically sought you out.”

“Maybe I looked the part.”

“I see…” the doctor said, torn between hiding his disbelief and pushing for a real answer.

Holmes seemed to have no such qualms and gave the witness a skeptical look.

“Well, he did seem nervous, the past few days especially, like he knew what was coming, but I'm no bodyguard,” Mr. Cole insisted.

The doctor had gleaned enough about Mr. Cole for the time being, so he turned to his late employer. “What was Mr. Douglas like?”

“You mean aside from all this?” Mr. Cole gestured at their surroundings.

The doctor smiled. “Yes, how would you describe him?”

“He seemed pretty normal otherwise, always stopped to chat with me when he had the time. Not afraid to speak his mind either. He got into a fight at the bar one time, didn't do too poorly either. He wasn't one to back away from a fight.”

That seemed to match the original rather closely, but that could have been the man himself or the butler’s invention.

“Did you know anything of his past?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shook his head. “I didn't ask and he​ didn't say.”

“What about the other members of the household? Mr. Barker and Mrs. Douglas?”

Mr. Cole chuckled darkly. “If they weren't having an affair, well, I can't fathom what else they’ve been up to meeting in secret in the dead of night. John seemed to know it too, or at least suspect. He and Cecil were best friends until Ivy entered the room. Your little tiff earlier had nothing on the fights John and Cecil have and I for one can’t say I blame the man. Cecil practically lives here, no clue why John lets him.”

“How was the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Douglas?”

“Seemed normal enough, I suppose. She is a lot younger than him, closer to Cecil’s age. She seemed to care about him in her way, always worried about him when he was out.”

“What happened on the night of Mr. Douglas’s death?”

“Nothing unusual, I don't think…” Mr. Cole trailed off in consideration. “They did have a woman over for dinner.”

“Did you get her name, by any chance?”

“Mary, I think.”

Watson tensed. It could not be the same, she would not go under the same name, this was the wrong case. And yet, Watson had also heard her posing as Miss Irene Adler in disguise.

“Did you get her last name?” He asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“It started with a 'W,’ I think, Weston, no, Watson, that's what it was!”

Mary Watson.

Dr. John Watson blanched.

He remembered his dear, beloved wife, wasting away while he - a doctor, for goodness’s sake! - could only stand by and watch. Unlike Holmes, he had seen her die, the coffin he buried had not been empty. This- this was a mockery of her memory, the only thing of her he had left.

His fists clenched.

“Is everything alright?” Mr. Cole asked from a great distance away. “Do you know her?”

Watson forced himself back to the present and shook his head in an attempt at a  coherent answer.

“Could you describe her to me?” he asked, his voice still a little choked.

“Sure,” Mr. Cole answered sounding anything but. “She was well dressed and all - not bad looking. She was small with short brown hair…” he trailed off as he searched his memory. “Very sure of herself. She was nice enough, but she almost acted like she owned the place.”

Watson nodded. That was her. She could have easily cut her hair and dyed it or worn a wig. She had used that name on purpose - it could not have been anyone else. He did not doubt that she had kept in character as she had when the doctor met her. It was unlikely that she had let anything slip. But still, he had to try.

“How does she know Mr. and Mrs. Douglas?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“You must have heard something,” the doctor insisted.

Mr. Cole hesitated, but obliged, “I didn't overhear much, I wasn't eavesdropping. They seemed to be friends, if a little distant, maybe a bit awkward or something, but I didn't see anything.”

“Did you overhear any of their conversation?”

Mr. Cole glanced at Holmes before answering, “I don't think so… just small talk. If you don't mind my asking, what does this have to do with the murder? She left long before John - well - died. I saw her out myself.”

“An excellent question,” Holmes said and turned to the doctor with a pointed look.

The doctor glared at him. “It has everything to do with the case!”

“Do you really expect to gather anything from that line of questioning?” Holmes asked, but some of the edge in his voice was gone.

Still, the doctor bristled, even as he tried to focus on the witness. “If you don't​ know anything more about-” he did not want to honor her with the name she had falsely claimed, “her, we may as well continue on to the crime itself. How did you spend the remainder of the evening?”

Holmes was mercifully silent as Mr. Cole answered, “Well, first John asked me to raise the drawbridge. It was down later than usual because of their little dinner party and he seemed a bit nervous. After that, I went to put away the dishes,” he said with a chuckle.

The doctor gave him a questioning look, and he explained, “When John told me to get out the silver for dinner, I thought he was joking. But no, there really was silver. It was in a pantry all the way on the far side of the house. When I went to take it out, it looked like it had never been used, it was badly in need of dusting. But they cleaned it up in the kitchen and used it for dinner.”

“What happened then?” the doctor pushed things back on track.

“I was putting away the silver when I heard someone frantically pulling at the bell - the house is full of bells and pulls so that John or anyone else can call me from wherever they are. I ran to the front of the house where I met Mrs. Allen - she’s the housekeeper. We found Cecil and Ivy arguing at the door to the study. At first I thought they were having a lover’s spat, but then Ivy shouted to us that John was dead. She said she had called the police and that there was nothing to be done, but I insisted on seeing for myself.” He shook his head like a man who now knew the error of his ways. “What I saw, well, I'm sure you've seen the pictures. I'm not ashamed to say it will haunt my nightmares for years to come.”

The doctor nodded. He remembered how the presumed Mr. Douglas had been found, he saw the body. The sight of a man with his face blown in had lingered in his nightmares even long after he knew the victim had earned his fate.

“Did anything more happen before the police arrived?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shook his head. “It wasn't long, it's a short drive to town from here, though it doesn't seem it.”

“I believe that is all,” the doctor said, “Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

“You're welcome, good luck to the both of you,” Mr. Cole said and stood to take his leave.

“Please ask Mrs. Douglas to join us.”

Mr. Cole nodded and left them alone once more.

Once his footsteps had faded out of earshot, Holmes asked, “You mean to say you couldn't ​tell he was a bouncer? You must have seen how he stood at the door, blocking it as he invited us inside, the scrapes from fights with unruly patrons, and of course the 'concealed’ weapon.”

“I had my theories,” the doctor said.

“But only one fit all the facts.”

“I don't know,” the doctor exclaimed. “There are many other explanations I could think of, and many more I'm certain I couldn't. So much of this case hinges on who the suspects really are, I wanted to hear it from him.”

“You think our criminal mastermind would let something slip in an official interview?”

“One of his employees might. And no one can keep a story perfectly straight. If you ask enough questions they’re sure to make some sort of contradiction.”

“As is an honest witness. You won’t get anything directly tying the culprit to their crime this way, just loose suspicions.”

“Perhaps that’s all you see, but somehow I’ve managed by it,” the doctor retorted. “What method do you suggest?”

“Perhaps something a little more subtle, that’s all,” Holmes said with an enigmatic shrug.

“I’m a detective, not a spy!”

Holmes's gaze turned sharp and Watson readied himself for a retort, but suddenly the detective let out a harsh barking laugh.

“A distinct touch, Dr. Holmes,” he said with a mirthless smile.

The doctor frowned, but did not feel nearly as bad as he knew he should have. Instead of apologizing, he turned to face the door and wait for the next witness to arrive.

She did not take long to announce herself with a steady knock at the door.

Holmes was silent, so the doctor said, “Come in!”

The door swung open to make way for a middle aged woman whose dress and worn hands declared her to be the housekeeper.

“Good afternoon,” Holmes greeted her, his easy congeniality returned as though it had never gone. “Thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to answer a few questions for us.”

“Not at all. Mrs. Douglas sent me down ahead of her and said she’ll be ready soon,” the housekeeper explained.

“Let's get to it then,” the doctor said, “Do have a seat.”

She sat down and the questioning began. Holmes said little, only interrupting every so often to make some conversational comment that threatened to draw the witness away from the inquiry altogether.  But they did not last long and on the whole he was a silent observer, even going so far as to feign boredom with an occasional yawn.

As far as the doctor could tell, Mrs. Amy Allen, as she identified herself, was just as she seemed to be. She told them that she was an experienced housekeeper from London who had been hired by Mr. Douglas to do a somewhat unusual, but well paying and otherwise reasonable job. Dr. Holmes believed her, though a background check would confirm or deny the sentiment.

She was reluctant to say too much about her employers beyond that they were generally polite and agreeable. When pressed, she acknowledged that there were not infrequent disputes between Mr. Douglas and Mr. Barker, but did not dare speculate about their cause.

Her testimony about the evening of the crime corroborated Mr. Cole’s account. She had met her employers’ dinner guest and identified her under the same alias. After dinner, Mrs. Douglas had gone upstairs and suggested Mrs. Allen turn in as well. She had heard a door slam, but no gunshot. Like Mr. Cole, she had been summoned by the ringing of the bell and had found Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Barker arguing in front of the study. She had also entered the study briefly and found the same grisly scene.

“After that I helped Mrs. Douglas upstairs. She was so shocked she could barely cry. I offered to keep her company, but she said she would rather be alone, so I returned downstairs to wait for the police to arrive,” Mrs. Allen concluded.

Her story matched the original sequence of events well, but she was, by all appearances, innocent. At the very least, the doctor doubted there was much more to be gained by questioning her more now. He reflexively glanced at Holmes, but the detective appeared lost to the world, his eyes were half shut, out of boredom or in thought the doctor did not know.

So he relied on his own judgement and said to Mrs. Allen with a smile, “Thank you very much for answering all of our questions, you're free to go.”

Holmes seemed to startle into awareness, but it was a little too forceful for the doctor to believe it.

“Yes, do have a nice afternoon,” he said as Mrs. Allen stood to leave. “Those petunias will bring some nice color to that patch by the windows.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she let out a peal of laughter. “You must have seen them on your way in. I do hope so, you have to come by and see them this evening when I've planted them. Good afternoon to both of you as well, and good luck.”

With that, Mrs. Allen took her leave. Mrs. Douglas greeted her at the door and took her place at the table.

“Good afternoon,” the lady said as though there was nothing good about it, but she remained composed.

The doctor could not tell whether her voice carried some undercurrent of antagonism or just the pain of loss. Did she, like the original Mrs. Ivy Douglas, know her husband - if they truly were married - to still be alive and feared for his freedom, or was she completely in the dark as the housekeeper and butler seemed to be? Or was she but another actress in yet another murder staged as a piece of macabre theater?

And what of Holmes? The doctor glanced at his companion. He seemed to have roused himself from his pretended rest and was now hunched forward, examining Mrs. Douglas with a curious air. The doctor wondered what Holmes found so intriguing, but prepared himself for the worst. As unfortunate as it was, he had a much easier time of things when Holmes was feigning disinterest, even if it was a little unsettling not knowing what he had planned.

The doctor greeted Mrs. Douglas with a solemn nod. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, a real tragedy,” Holmes said, almost dismissively.

Mrs. Douglas looked taken aback, as anyone would be by the detective’s tone and piercing gaze. But she asked without a hint of trepidation, “Have you found anything out yet?”

“We are doing everything we can,” the doctor answered, “and we hope that your testimony could help shine a little more light on what happened. No trifle is too small to be of use.”

“I fear there is little I can add. Have you spoken with Cecil yet?”

“What information do you think Mr. Barker will provide?” the doctor asked.

“I didn’t see anything; Cecil wouldn’t let me into the study, said it was too terrible. And he’s known John for much longer than I have.” She spoke in a very matter-of-fact, straightforward way, though her expression remained clouded.

“He’ll have his chance,” the doctor assured her. “Now, can I have your legal name?”

She gave him a look of confusion, but answered all the same, “Ivy Douglas.”

“And your maiden name?”

“Blackmore. Why? What does my name have to do with the case?”

“It’s just a legal matter and good practice to ascertain the identities of one’s witnesses. And where are you from?”

“Newton Abbot, in Devon, though I haven’t lived anywhere long,” she said with a dark chuckle. “As strange as this all is”  - she gestured at the house around them - “I’ve really settled down since I married John-” her face fell.

She busied herself with her handkerchief and the doctor gave her a moment to recompose herself.

When she seemed ready, the doctor asked, “There was something unusual about your marriage?”

“I know this isn’t what you’d call a normal household. But I never thought anything like this would happen, John just had some peculiar tastes, that’s all.”

The doctor gave her another moment to recover before moving on, “You said you moved frequently. What for? Work?”

She shook her head. “You could call it youthful restlessness. I lived hand-to-mouth for a while, doing odd jobs or just living by what people were kind enough to give me.”

“How did you meet Mr. Douglas?”

She hesitated, drawing her handkerchief up to her face as though to preserve her appearance of self-possession. “I returned to London to try and get my life together. I was staying at a hotel and he happened to be staying there too - he had returned to England looking for a fresh start too. We met at the hotel bar and it wasn’t long before we were married.”

“And how did you meet Mr. Barker?”

“He’s an old friend of John’s from America. He moved back to England not long after we moved in here and since he’s been around more than he hasn’t.”

“What do you know of Mr. Douglas and Mr. Barker’s pasts? You said they knew each other from America?”

“They tell all kinds of stories of California and their time in Silicon Valley. That’s where they both made their fortunes mining virtual gold.”

“And that’s where they were before they came to England?”

“Yes.”

“What about their lives before then?”

“John avoided talking about his life before he went to California, but I could tell he was afraid of something from his past. He’s had nightmares and once I heard him murmur the name ‘Bodymaster McGinty.’ I asked him about it, but he refused to say any more. A few times, he mentioned a ‘valley of fear’ that he was afraid he would never escape, but that was all he would say about it. I can only assume that’s what happened.” Mrs. Douglas let out a small gasp and ducked behind her handkerchief once more.

She seemed to know her story at least, but whether it came from her or her husband was anyone’s guess. “Do you know why your husband had such peculiar tastes?” Dr. Holmes attempted.

“I always supposed he was just old fashioned,” she said with a shrug.

“Was there anything else that struck you as unusual about your life here?”

She shook her head.

“Mr. Cole and Mrs. Allen mentioned you had a guest last night, who was she?” the doctor asked.

“I think she’s a friend of John and Cecil’s - I don’t know her. Mary Watson, that was her name. Do you think she may have been involved? They did seem a little wary of her, but I was only there for a little while before I went upstairs.”

Before Dr. Holmes had a chance to continue questioning her about the night of the murder, there was a knock on the dining room door.

“Yes?” the doctor called out, perhaps a little impatient.

It was Mr. Cole with Mrs. Houghton in tow.

Dr. Holmes let out a sigh of relief and waved her inside at the same time as Holmes said, “Just a moment, Inspector, if you would be so kind as to wait outside until we’re done.”

She remained standing in the doorway, watching as the argument unfolded.

“What? Why?” the doctor demanded.

“Why do you feel the need for official oversight? You were doing plenty well on your own, weren’t you?” Holmes gave a dismissive wave and his tone suggested it didn’t really matter how well or not Watson was doing.

“What are you playing at?” the doctor snapped. It felt like Holmes was just making argument for argument’s sake.

“I just don’t appreciate your implication that we need official supervision,” Holmes retorted. The nonchalant way in which he said it only served to feed Watson’s ire.

“I let you come along to help! But you’ve done nothing but critique my methods and obstruct my investigation. Mrs. Houghton and the other ‘officials’ have done more to contribute than you have.”

Watson glimpsed a flash of hurt in Holmes’s eyes, but it was gone before he had time to fully register it, and then Holmes was on his feet, towering over them all. Watson could feel a subtle undercurrent of powerful emotion radiating from him - his hands seemed to shake by his sides - but Holmes kept his tone perfectly casual. “I refuse to work under these conditions. If you don’t think you need my help, then so be it - see how you do without me.”

And with that, Sherlock Holmes slunk from the room.

[elliemarchetti]

THIAM FIC PART 2

I finally figured out how to work from my pc! Since some of you liked my previously Thiam fic and since I already wanted to write a part 2, here we are, with some more Thiam angst and some Scolia cuteness. 

Words:2237

The tree house was a cube of six and a half feet on each side, so low that Liam could not stand up straight. He liked that place: it had an opening in which to slip and a window on the opposite wall. As a child he had placed an old stool, on which he put the cores of candle that he stole from his mother; he needed them to sneak out at night and enjoy the solitude. Even as a child, even before the Devenford Prep disaster and his transformation, Liam was a particular child. He never needed the tree house again, after his transformation and the first, terrible nights, but now it was different: his room’s walls seemed to suffocate him and he needed some fresh air, even if, in California, there was no fresh air, in February, just warm breaths of wind. Why does he needed to choose what to do with his life in February? And why he can’t be with his friends after all the time he spent with them? He needed to run away. He jumped down from the tree and stepped over the fence that divided the courtyard from the road. He had painted it a long time ago with his father, and already at the time, the gate creaked loudly.

Beacon Hills wasn’t a pretty place, but it was perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be noticed when he ran away from home at night for a supernatural run. No one went home late during the week, and anyone approaching the forest knew about the existence of werewolves and other such creatures, so that night, everything went smoothly. Liam saw no living soul on his way and went into the woods with his yellow eyes and fangs pressing on his fleshy bottom lip. If his mother saw him like that, she would have died of a heart attack, he knew. Liam had sometimes saw himself, in the reflection of shop windows or in some, sporadic mirror: it was not a good sight. After a long time, however, he had come to terms with his being and the need to hide began to get on his nerves: almost all of Beacon Hills knew of supernatural creatures. Except for his parents, of course, or they wouldn’t allow him to leave the house ever again, werewolf or not.

Liam felt himself observed, and turned, just to make sure no one was following him. Monroe's followers were no longer around, but there could be other fanatics ready to shoot him. He sniffed the air, for safety, motionless, with his back against a tree. There were no smells other than those of the forest, and no suspicious noises. Probably, by pretending to be a normal boy, he had begun to behave like one, scared by the night and by the woods sounds. After some time he cannot help himself and he turned back again. There was clearly something following him, but it could have been a wild animal, and as long as he did not have the rabies, he would not have to worry. He mentally reproached himself for his foolish behavior, but ran closer to the road, frightened by the possibility that whatever might follow him could take him into the woods, alone and impossible to save. If he had howled, so close to the road, some of his friends would have heard it before Lydia announced his death with one of her screams.

Liam abruptly stopped his run when he saw a big, surely not normal, black wolf, looking at him straight in the eyes. At first, he didn’t recognized Theo, but when he came closer, it was obvious it was he: he even had the same eye color. He reached out a hand slowly, hoping that the friend would let the space between his straight and pointed ears touched.

"Can I know what you are doing around in the middle of the night? Should not you sleep?" Liam asked, even though he knew that he would not be able to answer him. Finally, his fingertips reached the soft, thin coat of the wolf, who allowed him to caress his head for a few moments, before biting the boy's pale wrist playfully. "Cantankerous as usual, I see." Liam commented, throwing his arm down his side. It was a strange feeling, he could feel his humanity still intact, despite the yellow eyes, yet he felt perfectly at ease, crouched there, together with a wolf who could not answer, as if he were made for that life, as if the woods called him.

Theo, however, for a few moments would have liked to be able to leave aside his own humanity, let Liam caress his back and neck without having to regret it the next day. He would have liked that Liam could transform himself, that he would finally become an Alpha, that finally he was able to fully understand his own strength. In short, he would have liked many things to happen, but none would have been realized, so he stood up on all four legs, a clear sign that even Liam would have to get back on his feet.

"Do you want to follow me in my night run?" Liam asked, going over the wolf. He was certain that Theo would not attack him. Liam had been the first to allow himself to turn his back on what had once been their enemy: it had seemed a great sign of trust, and Theo seemed to have caught it.

With a small smile, Liam started to run again, deeper in the wood, this time, because with Theo he felt like he was invincible. They were a great team, like Sherlock and Watson, but Liam can’t figure out who should have been Sherlock and who should have called himself Watson.

Liam stopped, exhausted, and sat on the dry topsoil, his back against a tree. Theo felt sorry for Liam: he wasn’t tired, not even a bit. It was as if his friend was stopping himself to fit in someone else’s canons, and the letter he received from Pomona didn’t seemed to help him. In any case, that Theo was sorry or not, he should have left. Getting away from Beacon Hills would do him good, allowing him to grow up and make a normal life. Then, maybe, he would even find his ex-girlfriend, that idiot, at school. If he did not remember badly, before becoming a wolf, he was good at some sport, so a scholarship was almost assured now. Or it was Scott’s ex, the lacrosse player? It didn’t mattered, anyway. He hated both. And he even had to kiss Hayden to make one of his plans worked! Looking back at it, it was unbelievable to him how high school girls could be silly. Because of a kiss, both Hayden and Tracy believed him and they lowered their guard. If Theo had learned something from the terrible person he had been, it was always keeping his watch high and thinking the worst about people. Only with Liam he could not do it. He had tried several times, but the boy had always shown him to deserve his trust and respect. He was starting to be nicer even with Lydia, but perhaps he was only attracted by her immense power and the current aura of despair and self-pity that surrounded her. She was also a promising mind who had decided to stay in Beacon Hills against the wishes of her parents, a mind so promising to be willing to lie to the majority of people she loved just to stay in that hell she called home. Someday, that place would have killed her. And it would have happened to Liam too, if he had not hurried to decide to accept the place in Pomona. Everyone in that city seemed to be ready to give up something for the one they loved, like Mason who wanted to go to a worst college than the ones that offered a place for him to stay with his boyfriend.

As he tried to catch his breath, Liam watched Theo in his wolf form, as if he wanted to impress that moment in his mind. If he really had to leave for college, he wanted to remember every single reason why he should not have done it.

It was not usual to see Theo in his animal form; he always said he felt more vulnerable, like that. Liam believed, instead, that he preferred his human form only because in that way he could respond with sarcastic remarks to anyone who surrounded him.

It was more than a week that he did not see him and he really began to miss him a lot. He believed that, after that afternoon spent together in the suburbs, the need to see him and stand next to him would have faded for a while, but it seemed only to be increased, leaving a sense of terrible nostalgia for the moments they had spent together in the last year.

Theo also studied Liam. He was by far the nicest guy in town, not just in Beacon Hills High School. His brown hair, blue eyes, that spontaneous smile that lit up his still so childish face. He was changing, Theo had to admit it. The jaw began to be more squared and the cheeks more dug, a sign that the juvenile chubbiness would soon abandon the boy. He had also become more muscular, in the last period, as if he were training more consistently, pushing himself to the limit. In the dim light, Theo noticed that he also had deep dark circles. He must have slept too little recently. The black t-shirt and sweatpants he had decided to wear were worn, with holes in several places, like it was his in-the-woods running suit.

Theo would have sat all night watching him, but a noise he could not immediately define made him raise his ears. Liam must have heard it too. Even in the form of a wolf, Theo raised his eyes to the sky: he had imposed to himself only one task, and that was to keep safe that walking mess next to him, and the danger reached them there, in the woods. He had suffered for weeks, he had decided to stay away even when the only thing he wanted was to waste his time with him, to keep him away from any risk, and now how those hunters dared to approach them so, in the only moment of peace that Theo has allowed himself to have? He ran to the danger with a growl, hoping Liam had the good sense to follow him. The ideal would be for someone to escort him home, but there was no one else with them, and Theo preferred to have his friend in his field of view, rather than put him at risk. Moreover, in the various battles they had fought together, they had always been a great couple, certainly the best. Scott and Malia did not have the same chemistry, they could not think like a single person. Liam also thought it that way, or at least, with his terms. Their friendship reminded him of that of the Greek warriors in ancient poems, linked to their companions by a bond that some called almost supernatural. Much of their skill as warriors was due to the support of their companion, and if alone they were only good fighters, they were invincible together. And it was not good, because soon or later Liam would have to leave Theo's side and live a life of his own, even if he was nauseated at the thought.

They reached the source of the noise, and Liam almost fainted at the sight of that wolf so mammoth. He had never seen anything like it, not even Derek had evolved that way. In front of them a black beast, so similar to the beast of Gévaudan, who had taken possession of his best friend, was chasing a coyote. After the initial moment of shock, Liam noticed that what was clearly supposed to be another werewolf was much smaller, compared to Sebastien Valet, and that somehow, underneath that dark skin and furry hair, its features were still partly visible. It looked like a half-completed transformation, and not the half that they all shared when their mind was still human, but they needed a different force but  a half that tasted like failure. The first thing Theo noticed, however, was that the coyote that that werewolf was chasing was Malia. He had known her in her wolf form first and could hardly forget it. A wave of joy crossed his body: if that wolf wanted to do the dirty work for him and get rid of her, better for him. But that werewolf did not seem at all intent to hurt her, their chasing and letting go seemed more like a game than something dangerous. Liam was the first to recognize that family face so tormented.

"Scott?" Liam asked, amazed. The werewolf turned, and the monstrous expression on what was impossible to decide whether to call face or muzzle disappeared. Theo, in a moment of lucidity, was sad for him. His work was about to be judged by the one who had once treated like a son and, suddenly, had decided to betray

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

We Were Legends

a retirement!lock songfic based off of Kelsea Ballerini’s song, Legends! Give it a listen! (x)

Yeah, we wrote our own story full of blood, sweat and heartbeats. We didn’t do it for the fame or the glory but we went down in history.

               Molly was looking through the various photo albums spread out on the counter when her husband of twenty years appeared with his arms wrapped around her from behind.

               “How are the bees?” she asked.

               “Performing brilliantly,” Sherlock replied. He leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek and settled his head on her shoulder. “What’s all this about?”

               “Just reminiscing,” Molly answered, running her dainty fingers over the photos of them taken during Rosie’s christening. They were so young then. Greg, who had snapped the photos, told them they bickered like they were married. At that time, they never thought they would’ve wed only months later after the Sherrinford incident opened up the new path for them.

               “Mm, you look so beautiful in your wedding dress,” he murmured against her neck where his lips were now trailing across. “And you’re still so gorgeous.” The wedding photos were among Molly’s favourites. There were photos of their dear friends and family, all celebrating their love. It was during their first dance that Molly had told him she was pregnant.

               “You were so thrilled about becoming a father,” Molly remembered.

               “It was the best wedding gift I could’ve asked for,” he told her.

Yeah, we were legends. Loving you baby, it was heaven. What everyone wondered we never questioned. Closed our eyes and took on the world together. Do you remember?

There were newspaper clippings of when Molly herself ended up in the limelight when the press found out about their relationship. It had died down a bit after the wedding until her belly began to swell quite noticeably with their unborn daughter. That started a whole slew of gossip. Some had said it was just a publicity gimmick but most were in full support. The meaner remarks never affected Molly, as she and Sherlock knew the truth of their love and that’s all that mattered.

“Remember this?” she smiled. It was a photo of their first Halloween with their daughter, Charlotte. Molly had thought it would be funny to put the deerstalker on her head. In the photo, Charlotte was seated in Sherlock’s lap who was actually laughing about the fact the hat kept covering half of her face. Her frustration grew quickly, just as short tempered as her father. She was quite the feisty little girl and still was as a grown woman now.

“Don’t forget about that Christmas,” Sherlock chuckled. The photo was of the two of them snogging beneath the mistletoe in 221B. Well, one of the many hanging plants. At the time, their children, Charlotte and Victor, were ten and eight years old. Unlike most kids, they didn’t get grossed out by their parents showing affection. So, they hung mistletoe in every possible place they could that December to give their parents a Christmas gift of their own. Molly and Sherlock had definitely played with their children’s plan like a game, teasing and prodding at each other playfully.

“That was a fun time,” Molly agreed. On that Christmas night that year, they were at Sherlock’s parents’ home and making snow angels together as a family. The children saw a shooting star for the first time. Molly had told them to make a wish, in which Charlotte had voiced hers.

“Mummy, I wish for a love like yours and daddy’s one day.”

It was to that, Victor agreed. It still warmed the hearts of the now elderly Sherlock and Molly.

We were crazy, tragic and epic and so amazing.

There had been a time that they were called crazy by their friends who only said it with affection and laughter. It was only after two months of being together that Sherlock had proposed to her and they were married four months after that. It had been a whirlwind romance once those three little words were uttered and confirmed by both parties. They were happy together and that still rang true for them.

The most tragic parts of their relationship earlier on weren’t so hard to look back on now. The first being when Molly had helped him fake his death to save their friends. Sure, she knew that he didn’t actually kill himself, but while he was away for those two years, Molly had worried constantly and missed him greatly. Though she was introduced to Tom only mere months after the fall, she knew that no one could ever replace the love of her life.

Speaking of Tom, the next tragic event was the day she and Sherlock had fun together solving crimes after his return. The subtle glances and smirks, the silly faces and jokes; those moments warmed her heart. He had even asked her out for chips. And those sweet, sincere words he spoke to her in the stairwell nearly broke her for the awful timing. She was engaged. He looked heartbroken. Molly swore he was aiming for her lips as he leaned down but changed his mind last minute to press his lips to her lower cheek, near the corner of her mouth. It was a bittersweet goodbye. The wistfulness that enveloped them of what could have been was there to haunt their minds forever.

Yeah, we were legends and we wrote our own story.

“May I have this dance, Molly Holmes?” he asked, back in the present.

“Why, I’d love to my sweet husband,” she replied with a smile.

“We built quite the life together, haven’t we?” Sherlock told her in question. His onyx curls were only peppered with grey whilst Molly’s was a shining silvery colour.

“We really did,” Molly agreed, burying her face in the crook of his neck as they danced, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

“Mum, dad, we’re here with Uncle John and Rosie,” Charlotte called out. Along with her, Victor, John and Rosie all smiled at the sight before them. It was sweet to see Sherlock and Molly dancing. They parted but still stayed close together as they went to greet their family.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, sweetie,” Molly told Charlotte with a hug. “And you too, our little troublemaker.” She hugged Victor who was laughing at the old nickname he received when a chemistry class experiment went wrong. He and Rosie had been in a relationship for two years now which caused a bit of a row between John and Sherlock at first. This was all because John had been alarmed when Rosie seemed to have fallen for the spitting image of his best friend. So, naturally, Sherlock felt insulted when John had voiced his opinions but it didn’t take long for him to let it go and apologize for his behaviour. Mary was his voice of reason even after all these years. Rosie was his only daughter after all and only child at that.

“Happy anniversary,” Victor cheered. It was, indeed, the twenty year anniversary of their parents’ marriage.

“Let’s hope for another twenty years, right Uncle Sherlock?” Rosie grinned. She looked exactly like Mary and held the same wisdom her mother had. Rosie Watson was an old soul. John believes a part of Mary’s own soul lives on in their daughter.

“Mary would be so proud of the both of you,” John told them.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock nodded in appreciation.

“Is that?” Victor sniffed the air.

“It is,” Charlotte beamed.

“Ginger nuts!” they exclaimed in unison.

“You two are your father’s children, there is no doubt,” Molly laughed.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft announced his presence.

“I take it you only came for the cake,” Sherlock smirked.

“Only partially,” he admitted. “I mainly came to ask your wife how she handled you for twenty years.”

“It’s good to see you too, Mycroft,” Molly smiled.

The family ate and enjoyed the anniversary cake in the backyard garden. They spent the late afternoon reminiscing about all of the crazy, epic moments in their lives together. It was well into the evening when the fire pit was all aglow. The laughter and revelry of the momentous occasion was another that would not be forgotten. A camera was passed around as everyone took photos of each other and themselves, documenting the little moments of the night.

“I love you so much,” Sherlock whispered in Molly’s ear as they watched their grown children run around with water guns. It was as if no time had passed at all.

fanfiction.net | ao3

[holmesoverture]

For more info on my Sherlock Holmes AU, go here.  You don’t necessarily need to if you don’t want to though :)

When I bumped into Mike Stamford that day and told him of my financial difficulties, his face lit up in such a way that I suspected he was about to offer me a place to stay.  What came out of his mouth, however, was infinitely worse.

“Sounds like you’re a man who could do with a distraction,” he said. “How about I set you up with someone?”

“I don’t think I’d make very good company on a date right now—”

“How much time have you spent alone since you came back from Afghanistan?”

I didn’t like where he was going with that line of questioning, but I nevertheless answered truthfully, telling him that I had had no real companionship since my return.

“Then it can’t hurt to try something different.  I talked with someone just this morning who was complaining that no one would ever be interested in him.  Perhaps you can prove him wrong.  Or perhaps you can’t.  At the very least, you can give it a try.”

“You’re setting me up on a pity date.”

“Oh, no, he’d see through that immediately.  I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think there was at least a chance you two would hit it off.”

“Am I allowed to know the name of my mystery date, or do I have to guess?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Seriously?”

“You think that’s bad, you should meet his brother.”

“I haven’t even met him yet and you’re already making arrangements for me to meet the in-laws?”

“So you do want to meet him, then?”

I didn’t, particularly.  If the man couldn’t get a date, surely there must be a reason for it.  I said as much to Mike, who chuckled into his glass.

“There are multiple reasons, but they’ve all got more to do with the other person than with him.  Come on, mate, you know I wouldn’t deliberately set you up for a bad time.  If you hate him, I’ll buy you a pint and let you complain about it to me for as long as you like.”

I heaved a sigh and resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but only just.

“How will I know him?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Mike, laughing again; “He’ll know you.”

After that ominous note, I was more wary than ever about meeting Mike’s friend, but I’d already mostly agreed to it by that point so it didn’t seem fair to back out.  I thought it would be a standard dinner-and-a-movie sort of outing, but, as I was soon to discover, nothing in my life would ever be standard again. Mike insisted we meet at the zoo for reasons he said would be clear once I met the mysterious Mr Holmes.  All of the uncertainty surrounding the event was stirring up my anxiety, but that was hardly Sherlock’s fault and I resolved to be as considerate a date as I could be.  I’d even brought a gift: a little book of math puzzles.  It was a silly thing, but Mike had mentioned that Sherlock enjoyed logic problems, so I hoped he would appreciate the gesture if nothing else.

I had never been to the London Zoo.  It seemed a nice enough place.  It wouldn’t be hard to have a good time here, assuming my date was at least tolerable.  If he showed up at all.  Why hadn’t I insisted Mike give me a description?  How did Mike expect his friend to know me, anyway?  Had he given the man a photograph of me?  That didn’t seem very sporting, to give Sherlock the advantage and leave me wandering about like a child who’d lost his mother.

Could that man be him, the one buying the sunglasses?  He looked like the sort of fellow who’d be friends with Mike.  Oh, he was buying the sunglasses for his wife.  Must not be him, then.  Perhaps he was that dark-haired man coming out of the aquarium?  I rather hoped it wasn’t him.  He was far too handsome.  I could easily have attracted his attention before, but now—

“Dr Watson.”

I turned and nearly walked into a small bundle of carnations. The person holding the bundle was tall and pale and lithe.  He was rather formally dressed for a trip to the zoo, his waistcoat and crisp white shirt standing out in the sea of t-shirts and trainers and ripped jeans.  His grey eyes drilled holes through my shirt to the point where I looked down to ensure I hadn’t spilled anything on myself without noticing.  The fingers of his free hand drummed frantically against his thigh.  Both hands were covered in stains, burns, and brightly coloured sticking plasters.  He was not handsome by any stretch, but I found myself fascinated nevertheless.

“You are Dr Watson?” he said, looking moderately less sure of himself now.

“Yes.  You must be Sherlock Holmes.”  I took the flowers and shook his hand.  He had a very good grip, as evidenced by the slightly squashed stems I now held.  Fortunately, the blooms themselves had suffered no damage, and I made sure to thank him for them.

“I understood flowers to be a nice thing to bring on a first date. I hope I didn’t misunderstand?”

“No, not at all.”  I don’t think a date had ever given me flowers, but I wasn’t averse to the idea. They were very nice ones, too.  At least Mike had set me up with someone somewhat considerate.  “Oh! Here.”

He said he was pleased by my gift, and I believed him.  Sherlock did not seem the type to lie about such things. At least I would know for certain whether he enjoyed my company by the end of the day.

“Before this date begins,” he said, once he had helped me fasten the flowers to my cane so I would not have to carry them around the entire afternoon, “I think it’s best we know the worst of one another so we have ample opportunity to back out before either of us is emotionally compromised.  I’ll start.”

“All right then,” I agreed, nonplussed.

“I have bipolar disorder, but it’s well controlled with medications most days.  That is more than I can say for my sensory processing disorder, which is why we’re meeting outside instead of in some crowded indoor venue.  I’m also autistic, so I forget to take care of myself without reminders, and I need you to be completely forthright with me at all times as I won’t understand subtle hints.

“In addition to this, I’m a habitual smoker, though I think I’d be willing to quit for you, should it come to that; I am honest to the point of rudeness, or so I’m told; I play the violin at all hours; I’m transgender, but the exact configuration of my parts is none of your business at this juncture, so please don’t ask; and finally, I am asexual, and while I am very much interested in finding a romantic partner, I find sex disgusting and will never be interested in initiating a sexual relationship with you.  There. Your turn.  Or have I already lost your interest?”

“No, no,” I managed, head still spinning.  Good Lord.  “You wish to know the worst of me now?  Well, I believe I have PTSD, though I’ve never been diagnosed.  Loud, sudden sounds make me nervous.  I’m terribly lazy—just can’t seem to work up the motivation to do anything with myself.”  What else? After the laundry list he’d presented me with, I couldn’t give him just three items.  Imagine starting a date by trying to make yourself look bad!  “I suppose I gamble more than I should.  And I have a dog.”

He laughed then.  It was the most peculiar laugh I’d ever heard—more a bleating chuckle, really—and yet it was unrestrained and joyous.  It was practically a reflex to smile back.

“A dog is not a problem.  I love dogs.  It’s a short-haired breed?”

“Yes, a bulldog.  How did you guess?”

“I never guess.  There are dog hairs on your clothing.”

“Oh.”  I thought I’d gotten them all off.  “You are very observant.”

He shrugged even as he flushed.  He was, it would appear, quite susceptible to flattery.

“Can we start at the reptile house?” he asked.  “I can tell you which animals are the most venomous and what would happen on a chemical level if they bit you.”

Not only could he do it, he did so with great enthusiasm.  The man knew more about murder and death than could possibly be considered proper.  It should have unnerved me, but his interest in the subject was, strangely, endearingly innocent.  He wasn’t trying to be creepy; he just wanted to share a passion, and listening to him was rather like being bowled over by a wildly intelligent tornado.  As nice as it was, I found it a lot to take in after so long spent with no true company besides myself and my dog.  Once he got through describing a man who tried killing his mother-in-law with the secretions of a golden mantella, I asked if we might take a break from the sightseeing.

We found an unoccupied bench and rested a while.  Clouds had been steadily gathering throughout the afternoon, but it wasn’t supposed to rain until that night.  I regarded the flowers tied to my cane.  They had held up remarkably well thus far.  I wondered how many other people Sherlock had given flowers to, and how far into his ‘worst of one another’ speech he got before they walked away.  A couple of the things he’d mentioned gave me pause, I admit, but it was nothing that couldn’t be worked out.  It would be worth it for the opportunity to get used to the overly friendly bulldozer of a man humming to himself on the bench beside me.

After several moments of quiet, I heard him mutter to himself, “Oh, damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“When I told my brother I had a date, he advised me to give my date a chance to talk once in a while, and here I’ve spent all our time together blathering on about cytotoxins.  Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“I’m probably not as interesting as cytotoxins.”

“Probably not, but tell me anyway.”

Honest to the point of rudeness. Right.  “I was in the army, but not for very long.”

“I already know that.”

“Oh, right.  Of course Mike would have mentioned that.”

“Mike didn’t tell me.  I just knew.  Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I can’t do that until I know what you do know.”

“You served in and were invalided out of Afghanistan.  You’re a surgeon, though you’re not currently employed. You spend a lot of time walking about in parks—Hyde and St James’, if I’m not mistaken.  You live alone, except for the dog.”

I’m afraid I did not make a very attractive picture, gaping and blinking in utter astonishment at my date.  He smiled at my confusion, his fingers dancing on the edge of the bench as he waited for me to come back to my senses.

“Mike must have told you that.  You couldn’t possibly gather all that just by looking at me.”

“I can and I did.  Like you said, I’m very observant.  Now!  Surprise me.”

“Are you free next Saturday?” I said at last.

“I believe so.  Why?”

“I’d really like to see you again.”

It was his turn to gawp then, fingers falling still for the first time all day.  Great grey eyes flickered over my face faster than I could follow.  What he was looking for, and whether or not he found it, I cannot say, but the knowledge that I had indeed managed to surprise him made me feel warm with pride, even if the reason for his surprise was a sad one at its heart.

We could have fun together, Sherlock and I.

[arlenejp]

A Forever Birthday Gift

Prompt for June 2017

Aha! After all these years living with the world's only consulting detective, I have FINALLY figured out when his birthday is. It's June, and the date is now May 15th. What to do for him? Surprise party? Nah, he'd get everyone angry with him. Jewelry, nope. He would put it away and never wear it. Clothes of which I cannot afford the ones he would even think to wear.

It's a few days later, and I happen to be having a drink with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade at a local pub. We have become drinking buddies as of late. Well, at least since Greg divorced his wife. Gives both of us a chance to get out. "Greg, Sherlocks birthday is in June. He doesn't know I know. I want to get something for him, but I'm utterly stumped. What do you think?" At this point, Greg takes a big swig of his beer, sets it down, looks at me straight in the face and says, "What the fuck, John. You KNOW what Sherlock would want! Why are you waiting? Give it to him." Now it's my turn for the swig of beer. I look down at the bar, afraid to speak. "Aww, come on John. Man up to it" "Well, you know what I mean." "Yes I get the drift but I'm so afraid if I guess wrong he will throw me out and I'll lose him altogether." "John you're a damn fool! Both of you are so afraid. Why not write a letter to him?" "Good thought. "And with that, the subject is dropped.

That next evening we're at home, and I pick up my laptop to start the letter when I realize, can't write it on this. Sherlock takes my laptop when he wants, and he'll see it. Finding a pencil and paper in this place is hard. So much paperwork is lying around. But I finally find one, and as I say goodnight to Sherlock he looks up, sees what's in my hand and says" Why do you need those, you have a laptop to write on?" Cannot think of what to say, so I don't say anything but, "Night, going up early," and leave. In my room, I start, erase, erase again. This is not going to be easy. I think I'll put it away and use tomorrow to think more about it and get back to it in the evening.

All the next day while at work I plan it out, changing the wording over and over again in my head. Once at the flat and having had something to eat with Sherlock, what little he eats, I take the pad and pencil, sit in my seat and begin to think. I write a few words, and find Sherlock trying to look over my shoulder as he surreptitiously tries to see what I am up to. Sigh, "A bit of privacy would be nice, you know." Putting the writing paraphernalia down I take up the newspaper and know it will have to be done in my room. And I'll take it with me when I go to the clinic.

My letter writing begins: ----Sherlock, first of all, Happy Birthday. Yes, I do know when it is, even though you have tried to hide it from me. I thought about taking you out to dinner, but you pick at your food so that would not interest you. But I still will do it. I asked Greg to find a good murder case, but nobody is murdering anyone lately. So, what could I do but write a letter to you, expressing what you mean to me and, oh, I don't know? I'm finding this as hard to write as it is to say it to you. Over these few years, you have rescued me in more ways than you realize. From the first day when I shot(don't tell Greg) the cabbie to now. There has always been some fascination about you. Your analytical mind, your looks ( yes, your looks) your ability to drive people crazy with your rudeness.(including me). But this is not what I want to say. Oh shit, Sherlock, you are enough to drive anyone away from you! Why I haven't run is something I can't explain.----

Sherlock knocks on my door. "John, what the hell are you doing in there? Come watch some telly with me." Putting the paper in my coat jacket, I head downstairs. Sherlock gives me a look that says 'What are you cooking up?' I ignore the look, make us some tea, and we spend the rest of the evening with a comedy and a murder mystery show. All the while having Sherlock yell at the tv and deduce every little thing. Sometimes I laugh so hard at the absurdity of it.

I decide to take the paper and put it under my pillow every night, so you know who won't get to it. And even take it into the bathroom when I shower the next morning. Talk about being paranoid!! But, I know my Sherlock. He knows something is up and will try to ferret it out.

The next day at the clinic I have a lunch break and out comes the piece of paper.

Sherlock, I have always hollered to anyone who could hear that I wasn't gay. Guess you could say I wasn't going to go the route that my sister Harry did. The problems she had with my parents, enough about that. But, in all honesty, I am not gay. No, I am not. I am just gay for YOU. In plain English, Sherlock, I am in LOVE with you. I want to shag you into the end of time. Sherlock Holmes, the best birthday gift I can think to give you is this; I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. John Watson. I don't look at it anymore, because I will keep trying to rewrite it.

Not knowing Sherlock's exact birth date I decide on June 16. I tell Sherlock we are going to Angelo's Italian restaurant for that night. At the restaurant, Angelo has been prepped by me. He sets out a candle and the wine, and we order food. "Sherlock we are having dessert so save some room." Not that he eats a lot anyway. Angelo and staff come out with an Italian cheesecake with a lit candle on it and sing happy birthday. Sherlock has the good grace to smile and not make any off the wall remarks. We then head home and once inside I open another bottle of wine, and we toast to his birthday. "John, this is all so silly you know." "Not to me, it isn't. And I have a special present for you. Sit down in your chair please." I get down on my knees in front of him and take out my declaration. He opens it, reads it, places it on his lap, picks it up and reads it again. "John Watson, what can I say but I love you. And want to shag you til the end of tomorrow and beyond." I smile, nod my head and we both stand, and I finally can give my Sherlock the kiss I have wanted to. That is the greatest birthday gift I have ever given my Sherlock Holmes.

[orenbeval-blog]

Rosie Watson’s Diary - 04/02/2030 (part 2)

Gosh, Ms Hakimi ended up arriving 5 minutes before the bell rang. Just in time to give us LOTS of fucking homework. Christ from Hell, how is there any justice in this fucking world ? And even worse, I completely forgot about this silly Chinese vocabulary test we had to prepare for today… God, this was failure. GOD I’M PISSED OFF ! And now Yifan and Kiara have come up with that fucking plan about Sherlock’s phone… I…

Anyway. Sunday, (well, yesterday) during brunch :

Sherlock was still somewhat shaken about our small “no-conversation” and had some hard times behaving normal (whatever this is supposed to mean… I guess sitting on the couch with one’s arms folded around one’s knees while rocking wild, doesn’t fit into “normal almost 50 years old dude’s” behaviour). And I was in a playing mood. I mean… I am an almost grown up, it utterly displeases me when someone, anyone, especially Sherlock and his forever inappropriate half childish half puppy alike behaviour just… dismisses me on a growns up subject. So I was playfully devilish mooded. War is war. And Daddy was anyway sensing something had happened. I briefly looked at Sherlock, sitting straight as a Greek temple column in his chair and, smiling my most “girly-genuine-innocent” smile, I casually asked:

“Daddy, do you still own your army boots?”

Sherlock twitched and almost bit his tongue. Daddy noticed, of course, but he only slightly frowned and gently put his hand on Sherlock’s wrist.

“Well, yes, of course. Why?”

“Well, do you still use them?”

Sherlock was now so tensed, even Mrs H. noticed. I had trouble keeping my angel face on and not bursting into very unladylike laughter. Daddy noticed something was really wrong. So he went on carefully.

“What is this about? Of course I don’t use them anymore… I mean… why should I use them for?”

Sherlock blushed so hard and seemed so confused and so lost, I could not help myself and burst into fat laughter. Mrs H. was smiling somewhat enigmatically while poking through her eggs and Daddy seemed to think about, like, 100 ideas at a second. I had to laugh even brighter.

“Rosie, Sherlock… I don’t get the joke…”

“Oh come on John, even I got it!”

Mrs H. was positively having fun, I could tell. She smiled at me and was making an effort not to snigger like a little mouse. Daddy, on the other hand, really didn’t seem to get it. So Sherlock lost it and diving into his hands mumbled something about awful teenagers and sex.

“Oh Sherlock, my poor boy…”

Mrs H. seemed sympathetic. Daddy suddenly understood and his gaze locked mine : “What is going on here, Rosie?”

“Well, I had some very simple questions about sex and Sherlock somehow implied that beneath fingers, lips and consent, army boots were related to it.”

“I also said willingness and imagination, and I eventually added MAYBE army boots, Watson”

“Sherlock, army boots? And what about proper prevention and condoms? Good Lord, leave your bloody kink outside the conversation when you are talking about sex with a teenager! Especially our daughter!”

“I…”

“And Hell Rosie, well played, why don’t you come to me, with those questions? I am the doctor here, not the blushing maiden… what was this about?”

“I thought you were too old for this. That’s all. Didn’t think you were still…”

“What do you mean with too old? I am too old for sex but he’s not? I could not manage but Sherlock yes and... with who exactly should he manage if not with me, may I ask?”

Well... good point. I bit my underlip, thinking. Sherlock moaned in his hands. Mrs H. was desperate not to break into laughter and even Daddy couldn’t keep on his grumpy-angry face in a believable fashion: his lips were twitching a bit at Sherlock’s desperate attempts to disappear into the table. He patted his shoulder gently and then, benting over on the table, tried to meet his gaze and said in the tender voice he usually uses when Sherlock is socially freaking out: “It’s all right Sherlock, love. You will survive it.”

Mrs H. happily took a bit sausage in her mouth and added: “Rosie, Darling, I can insure you that your parents are still active on that matter. Including the army boots part. And I must say… I am happy with this state of facts.”

At that, Daddy froze next Sherlock and even I felt a bit awkward. But Mrs H. just smiled. He cought a bit, straightened slowly up, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Well Mrs H. this is maybe too much information, even for me…”

“Well John, your bedroom is just over mine and walls are kind of thin. It’s an old house, here. So… I can’t not hear you. I mean… I don’t mind. Not at all. I think this is gracious and utterly welcome but I hear you, yes.”

She blinked at me while Sherlock was moaning again, even more desperate than before. Daddy had a sort of beaten smile and shrugged, gaze turned down. Daddy being shy? I LOVED this conversation. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and murmured to himself: “It’s all right, I will survive it.”

Mrs H. put her fork and knive down: “I mean, back in my times, this was hardly a subject matter! For anyone! Sex was not discussed! It was taboo! Even worse, you two would even have risked to be arrested if a preying landlady had heard anything… Jesus, we had to fight so hard, all of us, but especially the women, to get some available prevention, to get some freedom, to get some respect, to get the right to actually enjoy sex as human beings, as women… Please, how long did it take so queer people’s sex was not an issue anymore but was just, say… normal… at least for most people. I know Rosie dear, you still get some remarks at times and others… and I am so sorry for that. I mean, John, please, I will never forget your firm statement about “of course we will need two bedrooms” when I first met you… and everything that went on from that. Jesus Christ, John, should I remind you that you actually were jealous of a gay woman ? A gay woman, a lesbian, John !”

She slamed her flat hands on the table and her fork flew on the ground. Daddy was still looking down. And suddenly, Sherlock’s somewhat bemused voice was to be heard : “Well… he still is…”

Daddy rolled his eyes and sighed, flushing a bit. Mrs H. went on.

“I am sooo happy to see where we stand now, what has all been achieved… Because, Rosie, Darling, I am an old woman. I have seen lots of changes. Good ones, bad ones. And sexual freedom and broken taboos belong, as long as I am concerned, to the good ones.”

And we spend all four talking about old times and old fights. Mrs H. had A LOT to tell. Daddy too, surprisingly. Sherlock and I were mostly silent and listening. It was a great Sunday brunch. But somewhere, in my mind, this Woman lady was calling from unknown ground. An unknown world in which my mother was a “killer wife” and in which Daddy was “beating the shit out of Sherlock”. This had to be clarified. 

I totally forgot about sex.

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

7teen - a teen!lock Sherlolly songfic <3

based on Avril Lavigne’s 17, in which Sherlock and Molly were high school sweethearts (give it a listen)

He was working at the record shop. I would kiss him in the parking lot. Tasted like cigarettes and soda pop.

Sherlock had picked up a summer job at a record shop. It was never his first choice of work, as he preferred to solve mysteries. When there was a lack of interesting cases to help the local police force with, he needed something that would pay. His shift had just ended and he was leaning against his car, finishing up a cigarette. Dropping it to the ground and putting it out, he took a sip of his Coca-Cola.

“Guess who?” a sweet feminine voice spoke from behind him, her hands covering his eyes.

“Hmm, let me guess,” Sherlock teased. “Could it be none other than Molly Hooper?” He turned to face her.

“Right again,” she smiled, standing on her tip toes to kiss him firmly. He tasted like a mix of his previously smoked cigarette and the fizzy beverage he was drinking. She detested the habit but at the same time, the taste was just so him.

He would tell me I was beautiful, sneaking in the neighbor’s swimming pool. Yeah, he taught me how to break the rules.

“You are so beautiful,” Sherlock whispered in the warm summer night air. Molly had a tote bag with her to throw her clothes into once she took them off. First, they needed to climb over the fence. Sherlock had convinced her to sneak in their neighbor and friend, John Watson’s, swimming pool. If John’s parents found out, they’d probably be appalled but since they were out of town for the weekend, there weren’t as many worries.

Molly tossed her bag over the fence. Sherlock was taller than it but at Molly’s mere five foot three, she needed a bit of help. He picked her up by the waist after she slipped off her sandals and threw them over. Sherlock maneuvered to where one hand grasped her waist gently and the other was pushing against her bum to help her over. Once Molly stuck the landing, she moved out of the way as Sherlock backed up to run and jump over the fence. He landed on his feet with a thud.

“Sherlock, you need to be more quiet,” Molly giggled. She had already slipped off her t-shirt and jeans, leaving her in her underthings.

“Do I?” he smirked, stepping closer. He pulled his shirt over his head of onyx curls and tossed it to the ground. He leaned down to brush his lips against her neck, giving a small nip. She yelped in surprise then quickly covered her mouth.

“Seriously, Sherlock, what if John hears us?” Molly warned. She was not one to break the rules, but he was rubbing off on her. He rolled his eyes playfully at her as he slipped off his jeans, leaving him in his boxers and they climbed into the pool. They both dunked themselves under the water and Molly pressed a light, closed-mouth kiss to his full lips before they came up for air. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled his nose against hers before tickling her sides. Molly burst out laughing, a bit too loudly, alerting John to the racket in his backyard. When he made his way out of the backdoor, he saw Sherlock and Molly in the pool snogging each other senselessly clad only in their underthings.

“Bloody hell,” John shouted, causing his friends to jump. Molly leaned her face into Sherlock’s bare chest, and for a moment, John swore she was crying. It wasn’t long before he realized she was actually laughing so hard, tears were streaming down her face. Sherlock joined in with her, amused by the expression on John’s face.

“Thought we’d make good use of your pool,” Sherlock casually remarked.

“Alright, get out,” John demanded, crossing his arms. “I expected better of you, Molly.”

“Can’t we stay a little while longer, John? Please?” she asked, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

“Fine,” John conceded, “but no shagging or I swear to—”

“You needn’t worry, John, that will take place elsewhere,” Sherlock grinned.

“Cheeky bugger,” Molly playfully scolded him with a light slap to his arm.

“I should take up drinking,” John mumbled under his breath as he walked back into his house.

Those days are long gone but when I hear that song, it takes me back.

Molly Hooper, new head pathologist at St. Bart’s, was reminiscing about her whirlwind romance with Sherlock Holmes. They were high school sweethearts that broke up over the long distance that came with going to separate universities. She sighed sadly as the memories flooded her mind. Their song had come on the small radio she kept in her office. It was a cheesy eighties ballad by the name of I Want to Know What Love Is.

“Doctor Hooper?” DI Lestrade called out, peering into her office.

“Yes, that’s me,” Molly smiled, snapping out of her nostalgia. “What can I do for you?”

“We need your expertise in the morgue,” he informed her.

“Of course,” she agreed, leading the way.

We laid a blanket on the rooftop that time I knew I wouldn’t make him stop. The nights were cold but we kept ‘em hot.

They were looking at the stars, lying on an old duvet that Molly laid out on the balcony rooftop of her house.

“What do you see?” Molly asked, looking up into the night sky.

“I see the most gorgeous girl I have had the good fortune of loving,” Sherlock spoke softly in her ear, his warm breath giving her chills while combined with the cool September air. She turned to look at him, her eyes all aglow. The desire of needing to come together as one overcame them, tension lingering between them.

“It’s a bit chilly innit?” she asked. Sherlock said nothing but kissed her passionately.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he whispered against her lips. Molly melted into him and lost herself in his arms for the night.

I remember what it felt like; just a small town kinda life. If I could only just go back in time…

Molly tried to keep the memories at bay but no such luck. She and Lestrade stopped outside of the doors of the morgue.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“Eh, no. He doesn’t like more than the necessary amount of people being around him,” the detective inspector told her.

“Who is he?” she inquired.

“He’s a consulting detective; the only one in existence. I know it’s a silly title, right?” Lestrade laughed but Molly allowed a gasp to slip from her lips, rushing into the morgue. Greg Lestrade just stood there, his brows furrowed at her outburst.

There he was, studying the cadaver before him. He had the same dark curls and oceanic eyes that Molly had drowned in so many times.

“Ah, finally, let’s hope you’re comp—” the words died on Sherlock’s lips as he looked up at a ghost from his past. The girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago and never stopped loving stood before him just as beautiful as the day they met. “Molly.”

“Sherlock,” she replied, allowing his name to be voiced for the first time in years. Molly assumed it would feel foreign to say it out loud again, but it felt like home, as if no time had passed at all.

Acting stupid for fun, all we needed was love and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

John Watson walked into 221B, the flat he shared with Sherlock. His best friend’s clothes were strewn across the flat.

“Can’t bloody pick up his own laundry,” John complained as he gathered each item in his arms. He tossed open the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, ready to toss them inside when he found Sherlock snogging none other than Molly Hooper against the wall. His jaw dropped so far, he could’ve sworn it hit the floor.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “It’s like we’re all seventeen again!”

“Um, hey, John,” Molly blushed, stifling a laugh.

“John,” Sherlock said with irritation.

“Yes?” he answered.

“A bit not good,” Sherlock remarked. John got the hint and backed out of the bedroom, deciding to go out for an ice lolly or something; anything.

“Now where were we?” Molly flirted before Sherlock continued to snog her senselessly.

“I love you.”

“I missed you.”

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