#but i figured holmes must have been lurking about

[blistering-typhoons]

THAT'S HOLMES RIGHT??? IN HIS BOOKSELLER DISGUISE ON THE LEFT???? THAT'S THEM WALKING IN TOGETHER SIDE BY SIDE RIGHT?!!?!? JESUS CHRIST?????

[mariana-oconnor]

The Lion's Mane pt 1

Merry 26th December, hopefully you're all having good winters so far. Strangely, I was a little busy yesterday, so we're still playing catch up. Lol.

It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London.

OK, so I knew that this was going to be Holmes' retirement, obviously, but also comparing and contrasting this statement with his previous diatribe about the evil lurking in the countryside, insidious and unseen, is very strange. Has he suddenly lost his aversion to the bucolic scenery and isolation that make such crime go easily undetected? Or has he perhaps decided that as long as he isolates himself sufficiently, he won't have to deal with them.

As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.

Firstly, the lengthy paragraph you have provided so far is anything but plain. Secondly, I think there might be a plant called Lion's Mane... is that what this is about?

Research has informed me that I am wrong. There is a plant called Lion's Tail, which is quite pretty, but there is a mushroom called Lion's Mane, so maybe that's what this is about.

Fingers crossed everyone gets high. But I suspect they won't be the fun kind of mushrooms, just the murder kind of mushrooms.

My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate all to ourselves.

I feel very sorry for the housekeeper in this arrangement. Imagine having only Holmes and some bees for company. Not that Holmes is bad, necessarily, but you've got to admit you'd need something to break up your exposure to him.

There's a lot of swimming going on here in the beginning. I'm not surprised that Holmes swims, because honestly the idea of there being any activity that Holmes hasn't tried is weirder to me, but there is a lot of swimming.

Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.

Here we see the difference between Holmes' narration and Watson's. If this were Watson describing him, Mr McPherson would have had at least another two sentences dedicated to his toned physique and golden looks. Perhaps this is what Holmes meant by 'plain'?

At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face.

I get that this is probably him dying and as such it's dramatic, but at the same time, it's a little amusing... y'know? There is a touch of the slapstick about it.

One glimmer of life came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips, were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense.

The weird thing is why would he know he'd been poisoned my lion's mane mushrooms if he had in fact been poisoned by them. To know the specific type of mushroom would be weird because if you knew what it was, you wouldn't eat it.

Is there a lion's mane jellyfish? I feel like I remember a lion's mane jellyfish as well. That would go with the swimming, and also would make sense. Jellyfish are nasty.

Oh, yep. One quick search also shows that there's a lion's mane jellyfish, which is also kind of pretty - sadly that probably means its extremely deadly.

The prettiest things are always the deadliest when it comes to animals. Alas, blue-ringed octopus, the forbidden friend.

woe.

Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell forward on his side. He was dead.

And we're back to slapstick again. Throw your hands in the air like you just don't care (that you're dying).

The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes.

So, ready for a night clubbing, got it.

As he fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge.

I feel like I've cheated by looking up the jellyfish. Sorry. I just half remembered hearing about a jellyfish with a name like that and since it didn't seem like mushrooms made sense...

Yeah, I'm 100% on jellyfish now.

But has a crime been committed? Did someone deliberately lure him into a (what's the collective noun for a group of jellyfish? A children's party? -- a bloom or a fluther, apparently) bloom of jellyfish. Or did someone release their fluther of pet jellyfish out into the bay knowing that Mr McPherson would be swimming there?

Or is it all just a horrible accident?

...we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He seemed to live in some high abstract region of surds and conic sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life.

I get that I'm supposed to be suspicious of this man, but I know enough mathematicians and have done enough maths myself that I immediately love him and will not hear a word against him. Even if he did deliberately release an entire fluther of deadly jellyfish into the sea to attack Mr McPherson, I am sure he had his reasons. They would have been entirely logical and well thought out and he could back them up by showing his working.

On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plate-glass window

OK, no. I hate him now.

Giving mathematicians a bad name. Shame. SHAME!

What is with the dog abuse in these stories? Holmes and John Wick should have a team-up.

"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"

"Well, I constructed a catapult and then hurled jellyfish at him..."

The latter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

Or, when emerging from the water covered in jellyfish stings, he decided that drying himself off was less important than finding help. Maybe. Possibly.

And the reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion

Emphasis on inhuman.

Who had done this barbarous deed?

Good luck getting the cuffs on the perpetrator.

Stackhurst was, of course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex breed—a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior.

That's closer to a Watsonian description, but honestly, it's not insulting enough.

I will be there, you may be sure. MAUDIE.

Alas, poor Maudie, she knew him, Holmes.

...nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson's desk and there were several which showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth.

Also alas, poor Maudie, her private letters are being read by random guys she's never met. Let's hope they weren't too intimate.

Reasons not to be murdered: people look through all your stuff. Yikes.

"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut up about it all."

We're definitely supposed to suspect Mr Murdoch, puppy pitcher. Not sure how he'd commit murder by jellyfish though. I'm guessing my catapult idea wouldn't be ideal, and if you're going to release a bloom of jellyfish you've got to first keep the jellyfish somewhere. Does he have a saltwater aquarium in his rooms?

"I seem to remember your telling me once about a quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog." "That blew over all right." "But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps." "No, no, I am sure they were real friends."

I've never had a dog, but I feel like if someone got mad at you and then threw your dog through a window, you'd be kind of vindictive towards them. One might even suggest vengeful. I went up to check if it was through an open window or literally through glass and it says 'through a plate glass window', which implies that there was a certain amount of smashed glass involved. I'm not sure how you get past that. Clearly Mr McPherson didn't care very much about his dog, either.

Fuck 'em both, I guess.

"Some human hand was on the handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries."

Ah yes, a human hand.

Yeah, I definitely spoiled this one for myself. If they do manage to come up with a way for it to be murder rather than misadventure, I'll be impressed. Jellyfish catapult is always a possibility.

[babylooneytoonz]

Sound of Music [Pt. 1]

Sherlock Holmes! Henry Cavill x Reader

Summary : Sherlock finds himself being curious about the occupant of the estate next to theirs, especially when all they can hear during evenings is the faint sound of the piano coming from the estate. One day, the detective inside of him decides to try and find out what's going on with the neighbours.

Warnings: none

*Please reblog if you like it, do not repost, copy or claim my work as yours.

[My Masterlist]

It was that time of the year again, at Ferndell Hall, where you could practically smell the blooming of the most exotic flowers that you couldn't put a name to; there were lilacs and chrysanthemums, gladulas and orchids that lined up until the iron metal gate of the structure. The grass was uneven and unkempt, weeds propped up almost everywhere, but that didn't bother Enola. However, as the carriage entered Ferndell Hall, carrying her two elder brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, there was someone that was bothered by all this — Mycroft. He looked at everything in distaste, grumbling in a not-so-silent manner as to what a mess the entire place was.

The day the brothers returned, all Enola listened to was Mycroft complaining about nearly everything, ranging from the ornaments in the estate that had been broken and left unattended, to the fact that Enola didn't have a set of gloves and a hat on while she was out at the station to receive them.

"How improper!" He muttered to himself, and to Sherlock and the younger brother of the two couldn't help but pass on a cornered smirk to the youngest, silently addressing her with his eyes, asking her to just wait until this fit of their brother passed away and he got just another reason to begin cribbing about.

Back at the house, Sherlock only gave her a half amused smile, as he sunk back into one of the armchairs with a parchment of paper in his hands, a letter that belonged to their mother, in desperate attempts to find clues as to who could have taken her, or whether she left herself with a lover. Although, he didn't let Enola in on his second lingering thought.

It was almost evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Mrs. Hudson had laid out the tea cups, and was pouring the gentlemen some piping hot tea when Sherlock suddenly turned towards the window in the dining room.

"You hear that too, don't you Sherlock?" Enola regarded her brother, who had now stepped up and was already standing by the window, his tall frame covering up her entire view, "that music.. it's captivating, isn't it? I listen to it everyday." Enola stood up rather loudly, and Mycroft chastised her for it, but paying him no heed, she followed Sherlock to fix herself by his side, staring out of the window. Just next to the Ferndell Hall estate was spread out the Cableton Estate, and just last summer's, when Enola and her mother were out in the gardens trimming the shrubberies, they had heard heavy noises radiating from the abandoned estate next door.

"Looks like we've got neighbours," Enola's mother told her, and in her mind, she made a note to go and visit the neighbours but for some reason, it never came up, and now she was gone.

"Who are the occupants of the, what was the name again-- Cableton Estate?" Sherlock turned towards his sister, bringing his pipe up to his well defined lips, who just shook her head, "Never really got the chance to greet them properly."

The screws in Sherlock's minds were turning. Maybe, whoever lived in that house knew something that Enola didn't know, or had seen something that could give him a major clue as to where Eudoria Holmes actually was.

Maybe it was time to pay the neighbours a visit.

The sound of the music was much louder now, loud yet comforting to Sherlock's ears. The Cableton estate was not as big as the Ferndell Hall, but it was definitely lovely. The front lawn was well kept, the hedgerows trimmed timely, and the weeds pulled out. Massive flowers bloomed in a line, and the air smelled fresh and breathy.

Sherlock's curiousity was getting the better of him, and Enola was just being Enola, looking around, holding a massive silver plate with freshly baked goodies layered neatly inside of it as Sherlock rasped against the door.

They were greeted by an older looking woman with a kindred smile. She eyed Sherlock carefully, before turning to look at Enola, and then the baked goods in her hands, "Yes? Can I help you?" She asked, politely.

Sherlock parted his lips, but before he could speak, Enola began, "My name is Enola Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock," she turned towards him just for a second and regarded him through her blues before turning back again, tightly gripping the plate of goodies to her chest, "We come from Ferndell Hall. My apologies, we wanted to make a visit last summer, but circumstances weren't as such."

"Oh dear, the children would be happy to see you, come on in," the older woman stepped out of the way, and Sherlock nodded politely, waiting for her sister to be the one to enter first as it only seemed appropriate. He wondered who these children were. As if on cue, a young boy, not older than eight perhaps, darted into the hall, almost colliding into Sherlock's legs, eliciting an immediate response from the governess, "Good God, dear child, would you stop running about all over? You've got visitors? Would you let your sister know you've got visitors?"

"Well, hello there, and what might your name be?" Enola knelt down, so she was squatting on her feet, to get to the same height as the boy, "I'm Enola."

"James, James [Y/L/N]," the boy nervously replied before he turned on his tail and ran off, and Enola couldn't help hide the grin forming on her lips as she watched him disappear.

"Tea?" The older woman asked, and Sherlock nodded, running his fingers through his curls, "If that won't be much trouble?" The woman waved him off with a smile and told them she would be right back, bring the tea whilst they waited.

"And what might you be thinking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock realized he was lost in his thoughts. He wiped his palm over his face, over his well defined jaw and looked at his sister with his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "A governess, a child, but no parents."

"Don't forget the mysterious pianist, Sherlock. Besides, the governess did mention the child's sister," Enola added.

While Enola had been busy interacting with the boy, Sherlock's eyes were scanning around the hall, studying the paintings that hung on the wall. They were mostly abstract but there was something captivating about them all. Sherlock clutched Eudoria's photograph tightly in his grip, waiting for the right moment so he could ask if the neighbours had seen something odd, and could tell him something when once again, the music filled up his ears.

He didn't understand it one bit, how clouded his senses became the more he listened to it. There was something raw, something painful lurking in that music, and although Sherlock couldn't put a name to it, he could sense the anguish of the person who was behind it. It became so unbearable to him, he began walking towards the source of the music, and Enola darted after him, frowning at how strange Sherlock was suddenly acting.

He didn't have to walk much farther, for the room aligned to the hall was the source of Sherlock's torment.

She didn't look much older, perhaps a twenty two if Sherlock's deducing skills were on point. Her dark tresses were short, strange for a woman living in London in that era. She was hunched over the piano, her fingers moving like butter over the keys and Sherlock, and even Enola, couldn't help but keep staring at her. Her side was towards them, so she didn't know she was being stared at. Besides, she was too engrossed in churning out the most melancholic melody to even notice that there were visitors in the house.

Her long lashes fluttered, her head gracefully thrown back, her fingers moving over the instrument without even her having to struggle to remember the notes. It had been as if she had been playing the piano ever since she was born, but she knew that wasn't the case. Slowly, the music that she was playing began dying down, and Enola, enraptured to say the most, unknowingly took a lousy step backwards, her back hitting the cabinet, toppling a vase over and Sherlock's breathing hitched.

The woman stood up, her eyes thrown wide open as she regarded them, obviously flustered and red like a freshly harvested tomato.

"Apologies for the intrusion, and for my sister's not so graceful ways," Sherlock turned towards Enola, giving her a stern eye and she just shrugged before turning to the woman, "I must agree with my brother. Um, you see, we wanted to visit last summer but the circumstances were such.. oh nevermind, we brought you biscuits?" She bit her lip, giving the woman a child like apologetic smile, and Sherlock shook his head silently.

His mouth opened to apologize yet again but before he could even do that, the mysterious piano woman turned around, towards the other door of the parlour. She pulled it open and disappeared through it.

"I scared her off, didn't I?" Enola drawled, staring at the vacant space in front of the piano where she sat, seconds back.

"I am most certain of that," Sherlock hummed.

Sherlock hadn't felt this level of unease in a long while as he sat there, his knee bouncing up and down, his eyes fixed to that one spot of dirt on the carpet, his lips puckered into deep thinking. He knew their behaviour had been way off, and was disrespectful, yet he couldn't wonder but think what had made her run away.

Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway just adjacent to the hall, until the figure of the governess emerged, a tray held in her hands. She laid the tea cups down and filled up the cups with piping hot tea. Following the governess, [Y/N] finally entered the hall, her arms in front of her, her fingers nervously toying with each other.

She lowered her head, just lightly before she glanced at her governess and gave her a slight look, a look that Sherlock quite didn't understand. Perplexed, he turned towards his sister for help. For a mighty detective, Sherlock Holmes was as clueless as a lamb when it came to women, and their thoughts and their actions, and she was a complete stranger. The nearest that the detective could bring himself to deduce was the fact that she had been offended by the intrusion.

It was only when the governess cleared her throat, the only sound in the parlour being that of the clinking of the silver sterling spoon against the ceramic tea cup as the [Y/N] began stirring the tea in her teacup, did Sherlock and Enola look up from their own respective teas.

"Miss [Y/L/N] appreciates the gesture, and might I add, she thinks that the biscuits were just perfectly done," the governess turned towards her and the woman gave her a half smile, half blush as she brought the cup up to her rosy lips and took a sip of it. Enola turned to her brother, and then back to her, and blinked, "thank you. The next time, I could try chocolate chip."

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned towards Enola, making her go quiet, as his fingers slid into the pocket of his pants and he pulled out Eudoria's photograph. He slightly leaned forward, his elbow resting against his knee as he threw out the photograph towards the two of them so they could take a look, "we did come with another purpose. We are trying to look for our mother Eudoria. She is missing." He threw out his hand towards [Y/N], and this time, she took the photograph from his hand and looked down at it, handing it to her governess as she gave him a confused look.

"Did you happen to see anything that you perhaps thought was remotely strange or unusual?"

Sherlock was quick to grasp the shock registering on the woman's face, making it known that she had no idea whatsoever and he sighed, slinking back against the comfort of the armchair, his hand resting on his knee. That's when he noted something, the woman lifted her hands in the air, keeping them parallel to her bosom, as she began motioning something to her governess in sign language. It was only then he realized why she hadn't spoken a word to him. It wasn't because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes, Miss [Y/L/N] does not have anything of importance that can help the two of you with your search. She hardly leaves the confines of Cableton Estate."

Sherlock nodded, his lips curling into the slightest of smiles as he took the photograph back, pocketing it, "Thank you for trying, Miss [Y/L/N].

[Y/N] nodded, and Sherlock noted the way her lips curved upwards, just slightly, her cheeks slightly rosy.

It was then that the governess informed her discreetly that it was time for her music lessons. Gently, she stood up, and nodded in curtsy, her head dipping just lightly as she took her leave and excused herself, slithering out if the hall from one of the mahogany doors, until she was out of sight, and the governess turned towards Sherlock, "You have questions, I suppose?"

"We don't wish to intrude," Sherlock's deep baritone went.

The governess sighed softly, flicking a glance towards the way [Y/N] had left from and she took a deep breath, "I was twenty when the [Y/L/N]s took me in as a governess for their lovely children, [Y/N] and James."

Sherlock regarded the older woman through his oceanic blue eyes, his fingers placed against his chin, as though he was deeply listening, which he was.

"Four summers back, it was a lovely afternoon, and the [Y/L/N]s were on their way to city, when they were brutally murdered. It's a miracle Miss [Y/N] survived."

Sherlock tensed, his earlier relaxed posture changing as he sat upright and glanced at Enola, before looking back at the governess again.

"Pardon me, but wasn't Miss [Y/N] an eye witness? Were the murderers not caught?"

"Unfortunately, she never spoke again. We did try our best to get her to speak, or even write but she decided against it," The governess arched herself forward, so now her voice was reduced to a mere whisper, "the police never found out who killed them, and the mystery still remains."

"The police can be.. er, incompetent but I can help if you would like?" Sherlock offered.

The governess shook her head, smiling softly, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I would convey that to Miss [Y/L/N] but I doubt she wants anyone to engage in this again. The last experience was not so.. pleasant for her."

Sherlock turned towards his sister, a weird set of expressions passing between the two of them, as Sherlock stood up, nodding courteously, followed by Enola who finally broke her own silence with a smile, "Thank you for having us, and apologies for er, our untimely visit."

The governess walked the two of them out until they were on their way to the Ferndell Hall once again, and Enola noted how quiet Sherlock was, all the way. As they reached the front gate, and stepped into the vicinity of their front garden, Enola turned towards his brother, her eyebrow raised slightly in jest, "You seemed fascinated by Miss [Y/L/N], Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth opened, and he narrowed his eyes for a bit, trying to come up with the right words, but it was as if words had failed to make a presence into his mouth and his mind. He was already thinking, his thoughts revolving around a singular thought. Who murdered her parents? "I'm not fascinated by her but rather the story that stays hidden from the rest of the world, Enola."

"And what exactly do you intend to do about it, Sherlock?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, sister, once I find where our mother is, I'm going to offer to look into the murder of her parents."

Enola smiled, a naughty one but she dared not comment. She knew what was happening, but she wanted destiny to play out its course. Enola had a hunch, and her hunches were never mostly wrong, except perhaps for one or two. But she was confident that Sherlock was somehow captivated by the stranger that lived in the estate next to theirs, and that the whole idea of trying to find out who murdered her parents were just an illusion Sherlock's mind had formed, just to get himself another chance to be able to see her again. She didn't need to let him know that though, and she decided that it would be the best to leave things run their own course.

Over the course of the next four weeks, Enola and [Y/N] grew close. Enola found herself sneaking out often, mostly escaping from her older brother, Mycroft, to shelter with the [Y/L/N]s. Although [Y/N] never spoke, Enola began seeking solace in her music. She would sit in an armchair, right next to the piano, her elbows resting against its surface as she watched the woman play. It was a sight for her sore eyes, watching the woman crinkle her nose just lightly when her hands were so engrossed in playing the piano but a loose strand of her dark locks managed to escape from behind her ear pricking against her nose. She would let out a giggle as she watched [Y/N] scrunch her nose almost immediately, and she would have to forcefully pause with the piano, and her palm would fly up to her lips, and she would sneeze lightly.

[Y/N] found herself spending more and more time in the company of Enola. She found herself on untimely walks with the younger girl, her arm in hers, as the two of them walked in the front garden of the Ferndell Hall. Although she never spoke, there was now like a deep rooted understanding between the two of them that wasn't formed on words, but rather unsaid emotions. If it were up to [Y/N], she considered Enola a sister she never had.

This led her to have another starkly contradicting thought in her mind. If she considered Enola like her younger sister, did that mean she had to think of Sherlock as her brother figure?

That afternoon, she sat under the tree, her back resting against the bark of the tree, her hair fuzzy and all over her eyes, as she used her dainty fingers to push them away from her eyes. She was listening to Enola rant on about Mycroft, as she paced left and right, her hands on her hips. She was extremely done for, eversince Mycroft had told her about his intentions to see her in a finishing school run by Mrs. Harrison,"Breeding a proper lady, he says. Can you believe that, [Y/N]?"

That afternoon she told [Y/N] about her plans to disguise herself as a boy and leave Ferndell Hall. At first, [Y/N] protested in her own silent way, grabbing her hands and tugging them down, shaking her head but when she saw how important this was for her, and when she heard how commited she was to this idea of going away, she couldn't say no or do anything about it but to accept what she wanted to do. Thus, she wished Enola good luck, kissing her forehead, and let her leave.

After Enola left, [Y/N] found it terribly hard to concentrate on the trivial things in life. She hated spending time around her piano, she hated reading, and she hated anything that was remotely not worrying about the girl. It was only that one day, when a letter finally arrived for her, from Enola, did the nervousness that had long settled into the pit of her stomach, start washing away.

Taking the letter from her governess, she ran outside, clutching the letter to her chest, pressing it hard against it as she ran up the hill, using her hand to hold her skirt up, while the other held the letter.

Once she was sat comfortably under her tree, she rolled the letter open, and a breath of relief escaped her lips. Although Enola had not told much, the letter said that she was safe, and she was closer in her search for Eudoria. That was good enough for her to get her tension and the knots in her body and her mind to melt away to an extent. And the rest was done by Sherlock.

[Y/N] didn't realize how her running up that hill had invaded the detective's privacy. He had already been up on that hill, shielded from prying eyes as he sat under another tree, smoking his pipe. When she ran up the hill, the faint rustling and the crunching of the dried autumn leaves made his attention spike, and he lifted his blue eyes, fixing it on her.

She was beautiful, sublime, her face the colour of summer, of flowers blooming in a backyard.

Sherlock stood up silently, in a way not to scare her off. He could see her read a letter, her expressions dramatically changing, from a straight face to a smile. It had to be Enola.

"Fancy meeting you here, Miss [Y/L/N]."

[Y/N] had the clearest of faces that Sherlock could think of. She was as transparent as water, and Sherlock could read her expressions like a book. This was maybe her way of communicating, through her lips and her eyes and Sherlock felt he was mastering the art of it. She bit her lip nervously, her fingers tightening around the now crumpled parchment of paper.

"I hope I'm not intruding."

He noticed how she shook her head, her nose crinkling slightly, a bit of panic in her eyes as she quickly hid the letter away, shielding it within the heavy layers of her dress. He didn't comment on it. The truth was, he had been keeping track on Enola himself so he knew he knew much more than she did.

It's only when she shook her head and looked up at him, her doe like eyes meeting his for the first time, did he realize how his heart skipped a beat. The last time he had seen her, back at her estate, she had been withdrawn, but this woman was far from withdrawn. In fact, she looked happy to see him.

The look in her eyes was enough to tell Sherlock that she was okay with him sitting down next to her, so he did, careful to keep a good distance away from her, but they were parallel, their faces drawn to the vicinity in front of them. He wondered what was running through that beautiful mind of hers but if only she could tell him.

Sherlock and [Y/N] silently sat for the next few minutes, the silence being comfortable enough for the two of them to absorb each other's breaths. It was only when [Y/N] stood up, and nodded at Sherlock, did he realize that it was getting late. Out of courtesy, the man stood up too, his eyes falling on the letter that had, unknowingly fallen from her, and was now laying abandoned on the grass.

He bent, lifting it up and slowly, without even reading it, handed it back to her.

"Miss [Y/L/N]. Can I walk you back?"

A nod of her head and a smile on his lips, Sherlock found himself walking with her in silence, with his own smile reaching his eyes, the letter clasped to her chest.

A/N- Any feedback is welcome, and appreciated 💗.

P.s Planning to write this as an extended fic because my baby Sherlock deserves some love !

Henry Cavill All Characters Masterlist:

@bitchynicole @libbymouse @petitefirecracker10 @naughty-koala07 @maan24 @pterodactylterrace

Want to be added to my Henry Cavill All Characters Masterlist? Please let me know via my ask box, DM or a comment. ✨

[mariamermaid]

I put a spell on you

Sherlock Holmes (19th century) x fem dancer Reader

Summary: After his brother´s persuasion, Sherlock agrees to go to the Ballet with him and is mesmerized by the dancer…

Words: 1.9k

A/N: This is more for the movies/ enola holmes movie, since it´ll take place in the late 19th century. I´m not too familiar with the ballet, so let´s ignore the accuracy.

 Halloween Masterlist

 Théophile Gautier´s ballet “Giselle” was an absolute success. Even years after the ballet was first performed in Paris, the London theater decided to bring the play back. An act that brought Mycroft Holmes into liberating excitement, much to his brother´s concern. The fog these days laid thick in London and Sherlock, who had just solved an exhausting case, that ended with a dangerous pursuit, in which he broke his arm, wasn´t practically excited. But the younger brother wasn´t left with many options. “God, Sherlock, what happened this time?”

Mycroft pointed towards his arm, hanging in a sling to his side, above his shirt. The jacket was loosely thrown on top of his shoulders, Sherlock shrugged not paying much attention to Mycroft´s needless worries. Around him were a few men gathered and Sherlock found himself falling for simple, but plain and boring small talk. Sighing, he followed his brother into the hall and braced himself for boring hours. But then, the classical music started, Sherlock expected it to be the best part, until he saw you entering the stage. It was the first act and you played the Giselle in the village. Giselle was portrayed as a young, innocent but endearing girl. The white long tutu graced your figure perfectly and throughout the act, you danced across the stage with ease. The forester Hilarion and the prince Albrecht are both in love with Giselle, but after Hilarion unmasks Albrecht´s disguise as a farmer, the girl is led into a disaster. Heartbroken after finding out about Albrecht’s true identity, she falls into his sword and dies. In that scene, Sherlock found himself clinging onto the seat and when the light went out to announce the break, he realized how hard he had grabbed the armrests. His tongue slid across his lips, trying to relax his jaw. He then joined his brother and his entourage outside at the bar for a drink, but the picture of you in the white tutu floating across the stage as if it was nothing, didn´t left his mind. “She´s stunning”, he admitted and the men around him nodded.

“Who? Y/n, she´s a natural”, Mycroft added slightly smiling. “You know her?” Sherlock asked interested and the men echoed in laughter. William Grey, a friend of Mycroft and well-known man in London, grinned. “Your brother, Mr. Holmes, is one of the many men running after Miss Y/L/N.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, he hated admitting that he failed. “I never ran after her.” To Sherlock´s despise, the topic was then dropped. He wanted, no he needed more information about you. While the men gathered for a second round of whiskey, Sherlock did what he did best; research and investigate. He unobtrusively glided through the doors leading to the rooms behind the stage. And there you stood, one hand against the wooden bar and practicing your posture. You had changed costumes, after Giselle´s death, you now wore a blood red tutu and your lips were painted in the same color. Sherlock felt goosebumps raising on his skin, in the soft light of the mere headlights behind the stage, the dry dust floating in the air, you did indeed like a ghost. But a stunning ghost, so beautiful, Sherlock just stopped in his tracks to stare at you.

A man, who worked behind the scenes and was just arranging a background piece, bumped against Sherlock. “Man, don´t stand around!” He eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “No spectators behind the stage”, he added and his low went low. “I…” He didn´t know what to answer, his eyes were still glued onto you. A man, as far as Sherlock guessed he was the regisseur, came to talk you and you nodded to whatever he was saying. You then turned to get your hair checked again, but you noticed the unknown man standing around. His tall figure with his neat clothes, his eyes meeting yours. For a second, you stood still, admiring his dark locks and his angular features. But then you remembered the work and disappeared within the crowd of people running around. “Didn´t you hear what I just said?” Sherlock jerked, as the man spoke up again, louder and clearly angry.

“Sorry, I must´ve taken a wrong door somewhere.”

As quick as he appeared behind the stage, he vanished again. Sherlock found his seat next to his brother, who eyed him confused. “Where have you been?” Luckily, the lights went out before he could think of an excuse.

 The second act started, the forester Hilarion waits at Giselle´s death bed, until the nature ghosts and their queen Myrtha appear to welcome Giselle in their realm. Sherlock couldn´t tear his eyes of you, you were pale with powder and your once white gown, was now black as the night. Albrecht finds the ghost as well and follows Giselle into the woods. Myrtha and her wilas, dance around Hilarion until he drops with exhaustion and dies. Myrtha shortly after finds Albrecht, but he is protected by Giselle´s love. At dawn, the queen loses her power and Giselle forgives Albrecht, before she vanishes.

The whole act was preposterous, the dance of the dead ghosts and in between them; you. Sherlock saw the light of life in your eyes glistening. You looked magical to him; he couldn’t describe any other way. The hall echoed with applause and Sherlock even joined in the standing ovation, your performance was outstanding. He then waited outside with his brother again; some men with wife´s went home, but Sherlock waited with anticipation. It was almost an hour later, when he finally saw you. The stage make-up was gone and you looked exhausted, but happy. You had a coat thrown over your shoulder and a dark red, rather simple dress. Your hair was loosened, but remained closed. People quickly approached you, congratulating on the success and praising your abilities and talent. But you had spotted Mycroft within the crowd, and with him the man who had caught your attention earlier. You slipped away and made your way to them. “Mycroft.” You smiled as he greeted you, leaning down and placing a delicate kiss on your hand. “Y/N, extraordinary and perfect as always.” A faint blush was on your cheeks, but then your glance wandered to Sherlock.

“Who is your companion, Mycroft?” It was almost awkward, how Sherlock couldn´t do anything but stand around and stare at you, his brother chuckled. The sight was rare, but welcomed for him. “You´ve heard of him, my brother Sherlock!” A grin crept on your rosy lips and you put out your hand to greet him as well. Sherlock could´ve punched himself, a lady like you holding her hand out first; what kind of gentleman he was! He took it softly and did his brother equal, placing a kiss on your hand. “Mr. Holmes, are you working on a case right now?” Sherlock stopped, raising his eyebrow confused.

“It seemed like you nosed around behind the stage in the break, are you looking for a thief?” The assumption you made was perfectly fine, but your tone stated differently. You knew he wasn´t there for a case and Mycroft snickered. “You have to excuse my brother, Y/n. Snooping around runs in his veins.” Sherlock breathed out, a slight annoyance rising. He didn´t like the way his brother was able to interact with you, not unless he was able to do so as well.

Mycroft changed the subject; “My birthday, Y/n, next week, I hoped you would come?” Your eyes left Sherlock and jealousy rose in him, a feeling he wasn´t very familiar with. “I have a performance, but I will try to sneak away afterwards.”

William Grey interrupted your group, saying his goodbye´s for the evening and you cleared your throat. “I´m going home as well, training and rehearsals are getting the better of me.” For once this night, Sherlock was quicker than his brother. “Can I walk you home, Miss Y/L/N?”

You grabbed your bag a little tighter, hanging over your shoulder and he noted how hard to read your expression was. “I don´t need a man to protect me, Mr. Holmes. But I´m willing to let you accompany me in exchange for some details about your solved cases, I´m quite a fan if you will.” Sherlock smiled and tilted his head proudly.

“So, you recognized the murderer due to his shoes?” You asked interested as the two of you walked through the dark streets of London. The light from the lanterns fell softly to the ground, but the air laid silent. It was late, barely any light left in most houses. Sherlock nodded, lurking down to you. “That´s fascinating, Mr. Holmes.” “You can call me Sherlock.”

For the first time, you actually blushed. “Willing to solve some riddles for me, Sherlock?” A shiver ran down his spine as you called him by his name, but he nodded. “When the water comes down, it rains. I go up, what am I?” Sherlock paused for a second, but a grin spread on his lips. “An umbrella.”

“I can fly but I have no wings. I can cry but I have no eyes.” “A cloud.”

"I dance as the night rises and a wooden pole accompanies me; what am I?” He chuckled confident.

“A ballerina.”

You stopped on the street and behind you laid a park, dark and the silhouettes of trees and bushes rose like giants in the night. “A witch, Mr. Holmes. A witch on her broom.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, behind you walked a black cat and the coincidence let him shiver. He usually wasn´t a superstitious type, but you were not to be underestimated; he was sure of it. He swallowed realizing how you had been able to distract him from the logical solution. “As far as I´m concerned, I have bewitched your mind, Sherlock.” From your coat you pulled out a notepad, his notepad. All notes on previous cases and current observations were written down. “How-“

“For a detective, you´re not very good at sneaking around, behind the stage.” You fell into his word, before he was able to ask questions. He wondered how on earth you had stolen his notepad, maybe due to his lack of movement with the broken arm? You were absolutely right however; you did drive him insane. Laughing, you held his notepad still up. “Don´t worry, you´ll get your notes back, if you solve my last riddle.”

His tongue glided over his lips. “A party, but the ballerina doesn´t want to dance.”

He anticipated more, but you closed your mouth, grinning. “I´ll see you next week, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hadn´t realized that you had reached your destination and you turned to leave him standing in the middle of the street. “How did you steal my notes?”

You laughed out loud as you hurried into a dark alley, he guessed that the entrance to your apartment laid there.

“I put a spell on you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He hurried after you, but as he entered the alley, a dead end as he realized, you were gone. There was no door and no windows at the wall surrounding him, you had basically vanished into thin air. Sherlock smiled in excitement; the evening turned out so much better than he ever imagined. He lit himself a pipe and strolled to his own home. A party, but the ballerina doesn´t want to dance, your words repeated in his mind. I´ll see you next week. Mycroft´s birthday party and you don´t want to dance. What does a lady do, that gets invited by someone, who she doesn´t want to dance with? She arrives accompanied by a different man.

[lorcaswhisky]

Fic Writer Review

@ussjellyfish tagged me in this meme an emBARRassingly long time ago ... thank you, and sorry this is so overdue! I'm passing on the baton to anyone who would like to have a go themselves...

how many works do you have on AO3?

20 - 19 of which are Trek

what’s your total AO3 word count?

173,047 and growing

how many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

On AO3, multiple Treks (under my all-Trek-all-the-time pseudonym, lorcaswhisky) and one Sherlock Holmes fic I never finished (under my main blog pseudonym, aristofranes). Outside of Ao3, there are ... others that still lurk in the depths of the internet. These must never, ever, be known.

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

None of my fics have a particularly high kudos count! Settle (Laris and Zhaban try to find their place on Earth) is my most kudos-ed, with 92; then we have The Buran (does what it says on the tin - the final months of the USS Buran) at 85; The Other (the first, scrappy little thing I wrote after 10 years of not writing - Prime Lorca is held captive by his mirror counterpart), inexplicably popular at 82; Chicken Soup (just fluff - Cadet Cornwell is unwell, and Cadet Lorca tries to help), another baffling entry on this list at 77 kudos; and then in joint fifth are two I still love - Medal of Honour (in the aftermath of the war, Kat reflects on her legacy) and the sehlat has been fed (drabble - sehlats are just big cats, really), both with 76 kudos.

do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I love replying to comments! It's always amazing to me to find out what people have noticed or the things that have really spoken to them - and it's helped me make some great fandom friends (some of whom I now get to count among my IRL friends too).

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Oof. I always try to tinge angst with humour and vice versa, in a light and shadows kind of way, but the angstiest/bleakest is ... probably A Promise. I mean, I do blow up a whole Admiral at the end...

do you write crossovers? if so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I have written precisely one (1) crossover, but it probably counts among the [BLEEP]ing silliest things I've ever written - Drawn That Way, a TOS/Strange New Worlds/Lower Decks crossover.

have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate, I've been very fortunate in that regard, but I still remember a really unnecessarily critical comment I got on a fic when I was about ... fourteen? fifteen? I'd been pouring my angsty little teenage soul into it, and the comment was so crushingly dismissive I almost gave up (unfortunately for everyone, I'm stubborn).

do you write smut? if so what kind?

*gulps* my current WIP will contain my first (published) smut - the less said about my earlier, unpublished efforts, the better.

have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I know...

have you ever had a fic translated?

Not into other languages, but I'm lucky enough to have had a couple (Not Yet and Settle) podficced, which is a kind of translation as far as I'm concerned - hearing words you wrote performed out loud is really transformative.

have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet, but open to the idea, so long as I can find a patient someone who doesn't mind that I can sometimes go for weeks or even months without a single word in my head.

what’s your all time favorite ship?

I'm a multishipper and ship many contradictory pairs and groups, but Cornwell/(Prime) Lorca is still my one true weakness

what’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have a Jett Reno fic with one of the strongest openings I've ever written that goes ... absolutely nowhere. Maybe I'll figure it out one day...

what are your writing strengths?

I think - I hope - that dialogue and voice (including inner narrative voice) are the things I'm best at. I always try to find the cadence and rhythm of a character's speech and to make then distinct from eachother, and it's something I love doing. I've also been complimented on my plotting and pacing, which - look, I don't know that I'm actually any good at that but I'll certainly take the compliment!

what are your writing weaknesses?

Description. Almost any sort of description. It's something I'm working very hard at - but I'm not a visual writer, and I never 'see' the scenes I'm writing, so it's challenging. I've developed a couple of cheats - mostly, trying to evoke the feeling of whatever it is I'm trying to describe rather than stress myself out trying to describe every tiny detail of it. My other top tip - if like me you are sartorially challenged, always describe clothing from the POV of a character who knows nothing about clothes...

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I don't know that I really have any! I'm not competent enough to write in other languages - I occasionally make up a few alien words, but otherwise if I need to include moments where characters are speaking another language, I'll opt for something like, "X and Y exchanged a few short words in Klingon - Z couldn't follow the conversation, but they could understand enough of the tone to know they were in trouble".

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

Officially, it would be That Wizard Series, when I was a teenager. Unofficially - I'd been writing what I'd later learn was fanfic since I was tiny - the earliest things I can remember writing stories about were Super Mario games and a weird BBC educational series called Through the Dragon's Eye.

what’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

This question is evil. They all mean something different to me - Settle is sweet and sad; Not Yet was a fun idea with not enough plot and because of those constraints became something (I think) really interesting; Case Notes was the fic where the dynamic I wanted for my Cornwell/Lorca ship really snapped into place; Tap is not at all popular but I love it - it's creepy, a ghost story without ghosts; and sings the tune without the words made me feel sympathy for Sarek, which is no mean feat. If pressed, though, the two I always come back to and the ones that are closest to my heart are The Buran, which was the first multichapter fic I managed to finish in a decade of not writing, a fic in which I fell in love with the crew I created (and blew up) - and the Last Resort series (Lost Cause and its sequel, my current WIP Long Shot), which is some of the most ambitious writing I've attempted in terms of plot, pacing, character arcs, relationship building and Descriptions of Stuff. I've learned so much writing them, and I genuinely think it's some of my best writing to date (and hope that in a few year's time I can look back on them and feel embarrassed because I've continued to grow as a writer). I'm really, really excited about what's still to come in Long Shot.

Over to you! Questions are below the cut

The questions:

how many works do you have on AO3?

what's your total AO3 word count?

how many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

do you respond to comments, why or why not?

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

do you write crossovers? if so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

have you ever received hate on a fic?

do you write smut? if so what kind?

have you ever had a fic stolen?

have you ever had a fic translated?

have you ever co-written a fic before?

what’s your all time favorite ship?

what’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

what are your writing strengths?

what are your writing weaknesses?

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

what’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

[swissmissficrecs]

Favorite fics of 2012

2012 was when things really started happening in earnest in the fandom. There was a veritable explosion of fic, and many of the absolute classics were posted. I have something like 15 pages of bookmarks from that year, and as such, it was incredibly hard to narrow things down to a manageable number for a rec list. Here are the ones that I felt are the must-reads, that have stuck with me the longest and strongest.

A Cure For Boredom by emmagrant01 (81K, E, Johnlock, John/OCs) They'd never talked about sex in the year they'd known each other. Well, that wasn't quite correct: Sherlock had never said a word about sex; John had bemoaned his personal dearth of it on many occasions.

A Goose Quill Dipped in Venom by Polyphony (52K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is called in to a very ordinary although brutal murder. Something is badly out of tune with the whole scenario and Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with the crime - and also with the victim.

Across the Sky by Mazarin221b (23K, E, Johnlock) Top Gun AU. After an accident that nearly cost the life of his previous RIO, Lieutenant John Watson (Call sign Doc) has grown reckless and arrogant, but an even better pilot than he was before. A heroic maneuver and complete chance sends him and his new RIO (call sign Copper) to Fallon, Nevada, home of Top Gun.  Problem is, the ghosts of John's past could cost them more than just the Top Gun trophy—it could also cost John a chance at happiness.

An Avalanche Of Detour Signs by gyzym (56K, M, Mollstrade) In which Molly Hooper gets a job, gets a degree, breaks a heart, has her heart broken, falls in love, keeps a secret, saves a life, runs a morgue, falls apart, pulls it together, and finds exactly what she didn't know she was looking for--not necessarily in that order.

Applications and Practices of Basic Arithmetic by 1electricpirate (128K, M, Johnlock) After Reichenbach and in order to 1) Keep Sherlock alive, 2) Keep John alive and 3) Get Sherlock home to England as soon as possible, Mycroft devises a plan that will not only incentivise John's continued sanity and survival but force Sherlock to come running. It is a perfect plan, though perhaps less than ethically sound. He has no doubts that using frozen samples of your younger brother's sperm to create children for his husband to care for falls deeply within the realm of socially unacceptable behaviour, but it is efficient, and that is what matters most.

Ava Watson verse by keeliethompson1 (347K, M, Johnlock) Five year old Ava Watson's life is changed forever when her Daddy's old friend comes calling.

Be Here Now Universe by Todesfuge (181K, M, Johnlock) John Watson was already fighting demons when he and Sherlock met. With Sherlock's suicide, it all comes flooding back, forcing Sherlock to intervene before he's solved the persistent riddles of Jim Moriarty and his game. Together they find that something darker lurks behind Moriarty, forcing Sherlock, John, and Irene Adler into an even deadlier game with a much more dangerous foe.  Begins six months after the events of The Reichenbach Fall.

Burn Down & Reignite by augustbird (20K, E, Johnlock) When love isn't enough.

Castle and Sand by grey853 (158K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock and John both have difficult pasts that affect their evolving relationship. When John prevents a mugging, it sets off a dangerous chain of events that not only impacts him, but his whole family. In the end there's a wedding and a honeymoon, but will there really be a happy ending?

Cinnamon series by lbmisscharlie (150K, E, Johnlock) When Sherlock invites John to live with him, he fails to mention that he's a single father to a four-year-old girl.

Collared by VelvetMace (83K, E, Johnlock, John/Sarah) In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.

Common Grounds by couchbarnacle (66K, M, Johnlock) John Watson is working at Holmes Manor for the summer and is caught up in the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. Teen AU.

Electric Pink Hand Grenade by BeautifulFiction (67K, E, Johnlock) "If Sherlock's brain is a hard drive, then these attacks are an electro-magnetic pulse." Sherlock Holmes does not do anything by half, not even a migraine. It falls to John to witness one of the greatest minds he has ever known tear itself apart, and he must do his best to help Sherlock pick up the pieces.

End of the Story by kres (53K, E, Johnlock) Post-Reichenbach. The return, the fallout, the pieces you pick up.

Equilibrium by augustbird (12K, M, Johnlock) At Baskerville, John is infected by a virus that turns him into a genius. But when the infection progresses into neurodegeneration, it's a race against time to save himself. Flowers for Algernon fusion.

Given In Evidence by verityburns (97K, M, Johnlock) Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

Hearts At Home series by yalublyutebya (74K, M, Johnlock, Viclock) A series of stories chronicling the intertwined lives of Father John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Just a Kiss by emmagrant01 (19K, E, Johnlock) Five times John and Sherlock kissed because of a case and one time they kissed for real.

Limping Forward series by bendingsignpost (58K, E, Johnlock) As the newest instructor at St. Bart's, John has been explicitly warned to never do Sherlock Holmes any favours. Too bad the sex is so good.

More Things Than Are Dreamt Of series by 1electricpirate (37K, E, Johnlock) In which John is (reluctantly) a wizard, Mycroft is (apparently) omniscient, and Sherlock is (surprisingly) oblivious.

Murderous Imprint by MojoFlower (52K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock should be focusing on the series of brutal vivisections Lestrade has brought to him. Instead he's distracted by a most amazing and unexpected experimental opportunity from the basement apartment of 221C. Will he figure out the one in time to stop the other? And does he need help in order to do it?

Renegades by augustbird (39K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes takes down Moriarty’s syndicate.  He also takes John Watson with him.

School For Scandal (orphaned) (222K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock lusts from afar. John tries to fool himself. (Boarding school AU)

Spectrum series by thisprettywren (95K, E, Johnlock) In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

Stranger at the Gate by bendingsignpost (85K, E, Johnlock) As far as initiation rites go, kidnapping a human doctor from a defended town ought to seem extreme. When James Moriarty offers him the challenge, Sherlock never considers saying no. (Fantasy vampire AU)

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (95K, E, Johnlock) Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes.

Our Brave Boys by unknownsister (29K, E, Johnlock) John worked himself to the bone to get into military school. He meets Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't want to be there at all. Sherlock simultaneously insults him and turns his curiosity up to eleven, in mind and body. As if John doesn't have enough to deal with.

Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (32K, M, Johnlock) The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.”  The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

Tennis series by Jupiter_Ash (216K, E, Johnlock) John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?

The Bone Fiddle by htebazytook, Vulgarweed (61K, E, Johnlock) Appalachian AU! In November 1973, Vietnam vet John Watson returns to his family's old home in Arthel County, West Virginia, deep in coal country. His low expectations include recuperation and boredom. Instead he finds a ruined landscape, a series of grisly murders, and one of the world's weirdest neighbors.

The Brave and The Cunning series by thequeergiraffe (95K, E, Johnlock, Adlock, Sarah/John, Sheriarty) This series will have one fic per Sherlock episode, with series one being set in John's 6th year (and Sherlock's 5th) and series two being set in John's 7th and final year at Hogwarts. Fics will have similar (but nowhere near identical) plots to the actual BBC Sherlock episodes, with most locations being replaced with HP-universe settings. This series is set well after the Second Wizarding War and involves next to none of the HP characters, instead using Sherlock characters and the occasional minor OC.

The Fabric of Life (orphaned) (156K, E, Johnlock) The fabric of life rearranges itself around the re-emergence of Sherlock.

The Good Morrow series by greywash (216K, E, Johnlock) My post-S2 series where everyone has a lot of feels about everything and plausibility is stretched unto breaking. Also: fucking.

The Great Sex Olympics of 221B by XistentialAngst (58K, E, Johnlock; John/OCs, Sherlock/OCs) John Watson thinks Sherlock Holmes should admit that he, Watson, is more of an expert on sex than Sherlock is.  But Sherlock refuses to concede the point.  He comes up with an experiment plan that will resolve the issue.  The results will determine who wins the prize.  But sometimes even the best thought-out scientific study has unexpected consequences.

The Green Blade by verityburns (72K, T, Gen) As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit...

The Iceman Cometh by Polyphony (60K, M, Johnlock, Viclock) An intriguing puzzle tempts Sherlock to accept Victor Trevor's invitation to the French Riviera, but all is not what it seems. Frustrated by the case and increasingly concerned about an absent John, Sherlock uncovers far more than he was meant to and is forced to become a fugitive, pursued by those on both sides of the law, as he fights for his freedom and the lives of all those around him.

The Making Of by emmagrant01 (58K, E, Johnlockstrade) In the aftermath of Sherlock's death, John Watson and Greg Lestrade take comfort in each other.  But of course, Sherlock isn't really dead, so this is all about to get complicated.

The Paradox Series by wordstrings (98K, E, Johnlock) In which what's in Sherlock's head is never going to get any better, and John is nearly thrown out of his flat.

The Prize by Trillsabells (101K, E, Johnlock) On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on.

The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (157K, E, Johnlock, Warstan) "Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?"

The Sustain Stories by maybe_amanda (151K, M, Sherlolly, John/Sarah) "So now you're behaving like a six year old 'cause he didn't take you along on his honeymoon?"  Lestrade said.  "Grow the hell up."

Through the Looking Glass by obsidienne (106K, M, Johnlock) When you chase criminals over rooftops, death is always a possibility. We woke up in 1889 instead. Which is not a place two men in a relationship want to be.

To Light Another's Path by BeautifulFiction (128K, E, Johnlock) Teaching John to observe seems to be a losing battle, but when Sherlock falls ill and submits himself to John's care, will he realise that there is more to life than the science of deduction? Meanwhile, there is a murder to solve, and John must try and convince Sherlock not to sacrifice his own health for the sake of the case.

Watches 'Verse by bendingsignpost (66K, E, Johnlock) First, he is shot in Afghanistan. Second, he wakes to a phone call in Chelmsford, Essex. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the eighth, he's lost track.

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

'Falling Through the Cracks' Chapter 4: House of Memories

Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

.

.

Moriarty kicked the ground hard. He and Seb had been searching up and down for Lady Margaret nearly all night. It was close to noon now and they still hadn’t made any progress. The two lingered in the marketplace, stealing things from stands here and there, and pickpocketing others. Seb took a bite out of the apple he stole away as they weaved in and out through the crowd. His eyes scanned the area, but found no one of particular interest. An alley across the way caught his attention.

Seb elbowed his associate. “Jim, look. Is that them?”

Eyes locked on them, Moriarty smirked. “Indeed it is.”

“Should we take ‘em now?” Seb asked.

Moriarty shook his head. “Let’s follow them for a bit. I’d like to know what they’re up to.”

.

.

They were traveling through alleys, discovering every nook and cranny in London Below. Sherlock could sense they were being followed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was lurking around every corner. He subtly alerted Molly, speaking under his breath. They acted as if they were unaware, and began leading them away from their true destination.

Being much further ahead gave them an advantage. Once they were out of sight, Sherlock saw their shot to lose them. They quickened their pace, nearly stumbling over a loose manhole cover. Up ahead, there was a ladder attached to the side of an old building. “How quickly can you climb?” he asked her.

Molly began her ascent without a word, Sherlock following right after. Moriarty and his lackey had turned the corner just as they hid themselves on the roof, lying flat beside each other. They heard the men below remove the manhole cover, assuming that their targets took that path. As Molly stifled a giggle, she felt his fingers interlacing with hers. She turned to face him, their eyes locking together, and the undeniable feeling that she knew this man came over her. Something about the way he looked at her was so familiar.

“I think they’re gone now,” she whispered.

His soft expression remained. “It would seem so.”

She slipped her hand out of his quickly. “We should probably get going, before they come up near the harbor.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock stood and offered his hand out to her. Tentatively, she took it and allowed him to help her up off the concrete. They climbed back down, and as he followed her lead, Sherlock hoped The Ice Man would provide him with some answers.

.

.

It wasn’t difficult to find Redbeard. It was a massive fully rigged ship. Apparently, The Ice Man felt it was best to hide in plain sight. They had no trouble boarding it, the wood creaking beneath their feet. Just below where the captain’s cabin was located is where they were told to meet him, so down they went, feeling the ship bobbing in the water with every step. Molly opened the door, and together they entered the room. The candlelight provided a warm, comforting glow. The Ice Man had his back turned to them in the big leather chair behind the desk.

“Lady Margaret, I presume.”

Sherlock reeled back. He would know that smug voice anywhere.

“Yes,” she answered. “I didn’t come alone, though. I’m afraid my companion and I are package deal.”

The Ice Man spun his chair around slowly and took in the sight before him—Lady Margaret, her fingers clasped in front of her, and Sherlock Holmes, looking angrier by the minute, his brother.

The detective found it hard to find his voice, but when he did, he was curt. “Mycroft—it’s been awhile.” He began to turn to walk out, but came right back. “The Ice Man?” He laughed, though it was devoid of amusement. “So, what, you’ve been here the whole time playing political games?”

Molly turned toward him, just as surprised at the revelation. “Your brother? The one who disappeared?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

Mycroft stood, seemingly towering over both of them. “I assume you don’t remember me yet, Miss Hooper. I can see Sherlock is still putting the pieces together, himself.”

“Look,” she began, “I don’t understand much of what’s happened. And I certainly don’t believe we’ve ever met. My family was murdered by Moriarty and Moran. I’ve no idea if they have their own agenda or if they’ve been hired to do so.”

Sighing, Mycroft took a seat. “I can tell you what I know. It will anger my little brother further, but the truth must be known.” He waited for them to seat themselves in the chairs opposite the desk. “My parents—excuse me—“ he looked pointedly at Sherlock—“our parents were the Marquis and Marchioness of this London. They were murdered just as your parents were.”

Sherlock glared at his brother. “You told me they died in a car crash. And now you’re telling me, not only were they murdered, but this is where we’re from? What else have you lied about?”

“Welcome home, brother mine,” Mycroft remarked with a roll of his eyes. “I was trying to protect you. Our sister murdered our parents. In fact, she had just gotten started. She rules over this land now. She has Moriarty and Moran on a tight leash, but make no mistake, those two always have their own agenda aside from what Eurus wants them to do. You and Miss Hooper grew up together. The two of you befriended a peasant boy, Victor Trevor. You would play pirates in the cemetery. He was Eurus’s first taste of blood, so to speak. She trapped him down a well where he inevitably drowned.”

Molly laughed in disbelief. “I think I would remember growing up with him. How come I have no memory of this?? How come Sherlock doesn’t? Please, I don’t understand.”

“Miss Hooper, your family’s ability is to unlock or create any door. The Holmes family is gifted with memory control. I suppressed Sherlock’s memories of you and London Below so that I could protect him in London Above, just after he suppressed your memories of our family in order to protect you, though I see he doesn’t yet recall doing so,” Mycroft explained.

Sherlock scoffed. “A lot of good that did. Did it ever occur to you that I’d be in more danger because I wasn’t aware of the circumstances?”

“Did you?” Mycroft retorted. “It seems you would think differently if you could remember why you did the same to Miss Hooper. I can’t restore your memories all at once, Sherlock, but I can allow them to slowly come back over the course of a few days. Either that or you can choose to let it come back naturally.”

“And what about Molly’s?” he asked.

She nodded in agreement.

“Unfortunately, only the person who suppressed the memories can return them, or, as I’ve said, she can also choose to let them come back on their own. There will always be certain triggers. If you want to bring back her memories for her, she will have to wait until you remember exactly who you are,” Mycroft told him. He turned to Molly. “My apologies, Miss Hooper.” Silence permeated the room for a moment too long. He clapped his hands together. “So, let’s adjust your memories, brother mine.”

.

.

Molly stepped out of the room and sat on the stairs, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. She felt her entire life had been a lie. Surely, Sherlock felt that way too, but it didn’t prevent her from feeling angry with him for altering her memories. It should have been her choice, not his. There most likely was more to all of this than Mycroft was saying—a missing piece of the puzzle—but she no longer felt she really knew the man who had offered his help. The ship felt as if it were spinning and there was no safe place to land.

The door opened, startling her. Sherlock joined her where she sat. He pulled something from the inner pocket of his coat. “Here; they’re some photos that were salvaged. Mycroft had them.” Molly took them silently. He sighed. “I didn’t do it—get my memories restored. If you have to go into this blind, then so will I. We’ll figure things out together.”

“Fine,” she replied, standing up. Before she could climb the up onto the deck, Sherlock took her hand gently in his. A brief flash of an image came to her mind of a moment in time: his hand taking hers just like this before, a long time ago.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I put you in this position,” he told her.

Molly shook her head. “But the fact is, you did. How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t, but are you really going to get angry with me right now? Molly, I don’t even remember doing it or why. If I had to guess, I’d say I thought it would protect you,” he explained. “Let me make it up to you. Let me help.”

Roughly, she wiped at her eyes. “Okay,” she told him. “Let’s get out of here.”

[agentnico]

A Quiet Place Part II (2021) Review

This film series is starting to remind me of The Walking Dead. Unfortunately, that is not a compliment...

Plot: Following the deadly events at home, the Abbott family must now face the terrors of the outside world as they continue their fight for survival in silence. Forced to venture into the unknown, they quickly realize that the creatures that hunt by sound are not the only threats that lurk beyond the sand path.

In a nutshell this sequel picks off straight after the events of the first film. The first film being a huge surprise that featured an original idea for the horror genre and the overall cinema viewing experience (yeah, try and slurp on your slushies loud now, ya bastards!!) and featuring a great blend of tone and tension with no release where you’re clinging to your seats real TIGHT. John Krasinski directed the hell out of that movie. He directed it FIRMLY and he directed it HARD!!… Sorry, I’ve recently been rewatching The Office (US) (ironically also featuring Mr Krasinski!) and now I’m all about ‘that’s what she said’ jokes. Anyway, naturally the first film was a huge success and garnered enough revenue for a sequel, and then the COVID pandemic hit which postponed this movie to this year and then it came out and I didn’t watch it because look, your geezer here has a busy life, he ain’t got so much time on his hands like he used to, he can’t just swashbuckle and see every cinema release on the planet, so I don’t apologise for this very very late (by numerous months) review of A Quite Place Part DEUX which is French for learn some French!!

A Quiet Place didn’t need a sequel. Yes you can say the first one ended on a cliff-hanger, but it was the kind of cliff-hanger which didn’t necessarily needed to be answered. The result is now we have a sequel which, though still filled with moments of tension and good performances, comes off as unnecessary. There’s a bit more world building however it is limited, and the plot progression is near to none. Following the discovery of how to kill the monsters in the first film, in this one we go ahead and learn... how to kill the monsters from the first film. Give them tinnitus, get a shotgun and George Ezra them in the face!! Rather than grow the story, they went in a circle and rehashed the same story on a slightly bigger scale. Heck, even the introduction of Cillian Murphy’s character is mainly for the purpose of replacing the father figure that died in the previous film. Even has the beard and all! There’s a reason I referred to The Walking Dead at the start of this review. There doesn’t seem to be an end goal. It’s just the same thing over and over again and honestly it drags, This movie isn’t particularly long and yet it feels long. 

I should also talk about the characters. In the first film they all seemed more intelligent. They were aware of what they could and couldn’t do, so they behaved themselves sensibly and carefully. I mean, yeah, it all went to crap at the end, but that was more due to a load of heavy bad luck. In this sequel however all the characters fall into the horror movie trope of making purposeful stupid decisions. Characters now think it is okay to go around and take unneeded risks every now and then. For example, our central family split up early on in the film due to the deaf girl deciding to go on a solo suicide mission which makes me wonder why James Gunn didn’t cast her in The Suicide Squad. And yes, I’m going to keep referencing that movie in my reviews, I loved it, it was great, all hail The Suicide Squad!! So yes, deaf girl does her thing, the mother decides to take a detour and visit her son’s grave because, you know, who cares if monsters are lurking about and then the son decides to become young Sherlock Holmes and go out and about and investigate whilst everyone else is out cause you know, monsters don’t eat kids apparently. Cillian Murphy’s character to be fair seemed like the more logical thinker this time around and I warmed to him quite quickly, and Murphy delivers the emotional baggage of his character well. We also have Djimon Hounsou pop up in a role which literally reflects how stupid characters are in this movie. 

It’s evident that this sequel was rushed and that John Krasinski originally only had a plan for one movie and a very good one in all honesty, and then business meant business meaning they wanted more dollar dollar bills and hence here we are. I don’t want to say that A Quiet Place Part II is terrible. The sound design is still incredible and as I said, there are real decent moments of tension that will tinker with your nerves, but overall I found myself to be disappointed with this one. I hear talk that they may be planning further sequels, and that’s all well and good, but I hope they take more time on them and maybe consider actually moving the story forward.

Overall score: 5/10

[justanotherone16]

He pressed send. And then he waited. The extreme tedium of simply waiting was not something that Mycroft Holmes could tolerate. His brother’s erratic behaviour and inability to accept the normalities of every day life was well known, and indeed Mycroft’s unwillingness to play along with the inane and mundane of ‘normality’ could well be inferred. Few people, however, successfully inferred or recognised that Mycroft’s consequent impatience manifested as restlessness too.

Dr Watson would surely come. He always does. Mycroft drummed his fingers rhythmically on the black folder that rested upon his lap. In times gone by Sherlock didn’t have a Dr Watson that Mycroft could go to with sensitive information, or emotional conundrums. No, in times gone by, he just had to take it straight to his brother. All things considered the widening of the tiny pocket of trust around Sherlock was a good thing; there was considerably less chaos.

A thick film of fog choked London, almost Dickensian in its persistence to blanket the city. November was in full swing and the days were drawing in rapidly. Today, the fog and the biting, piercing cold only served to cheer on the early darkness, that was knocking at the door in spite of it being just 15:42.

Mycroft was so lost in his pondering that he was somewhat startled when the car door opened suddenly and the familiar figure of John Watson ducked into the car and settled next to him.

The scent of winter air clung to John’s coat and his cheeks were rosy with cold. He rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm them.

“I hope you’ve planned at a stop at a coffee shop, I’m freezing my bollocks off” John joked as leaned back into his seat and blew hot air in between his hands.

Mycroft pushed the small red button near his window which rang through to the driver. “The closest Nero please.”

The car pulled away slowly and joined the chaos of the London afternoon traffic. “I didn’t expect you to agree, should I be worried?” John asked lightly.

Mycroft didn’t speak, he just opened the folder in his lap, which had been fulfilling a singularly percussive purpose while he had been awaiting John’s arrival. Mycroft took 3 separate pieces of paper and passed them wordlessly to John.

John’s brow furrowed as he scrutinised the contents, trying to understand the context. “Okay so three dead men... yeah I don’t get it. Why are you showing me these?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, placed the folder on the seat beside him. “Jonathan Callaghan, Zachary Noble and Jack Sharpe. Long-term heroin addicts that Sherlock has had previous associations with. All overdosed on Tuesday evening.”

“Shit... how?” John shook his head as he perused the documents, wincing inwardly at the photographs.

“Their heroin was laced with a fatally high level of fentanyl. It would seem that the quality of heroin circulating the streets of London is categorically unsafe.” Mycroft gave John a knowing look.

“I don’t think he’s using”.

“No, he isn’t. I would know”. Mycroft assured John.

John put the paper down and turned to face the elder Holmes. He was balding quickly now; ageing fast.

“Right so, why are you telling me?” John asked.

Mycroft rubbed his face with his left hand and when he spoke, there was more than a hint of resignation. “Because Sherlock will hear of these deaths soon, and more I should imagine. Many of his homeless network will fall victim to this. And... Jonathan in particular, was quite close to Sherlock, well about as close as anyone could get to him during this time of his life. Jonathan saved his life three times. Once he personally provided mouth to mouth and administered adrenaline that I had provided him with. The other two occasions he called me, even on pain of death from Sherlock. I... well I will always be grateful that Jonathan was with Sherlock in those... instances.”

John was sat dumb struck. That was a lot to take in; a great deal to unpack, with a man who rarely paused long enough to unpack anything.

“So, Sherlock will be upset? I’ve never heard him mention any of them, or Jonathan?” John tried.

“I should think so... He rarely discusses his past with drugs, I think because the regret, shame and fear of the power it had over him is too much. But, I do fear when he finds out he will be somewhat aggrieved. I don’t believe he will seek out drugs to cope with that, given what he will know about the chemical composition. But I can never be sure with Sherlock. And when I saw, saw these photos of these men. Men I have interacted with, men who have saved my brother’s life on more than one occasion- dead... I can’t help but picture, in my worst nightmare, Sherlock in the same state. This news will come to him. Not from me, probably not from you. But he will hear. And once again Doctor Watson I must ask you to look after him. Please.” Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically small. The pain of the past and anxiety for the future swam in his eyes.

“Of course I will look after him. Always. Although, for all of Sherlock’s complaining it doesn’t sound like you’ve done such a bad job yourself. In these kinds of conversations, I am increasingly surprised that Sherlock was alive to meet me.” John lowered his voice too. He didn’t see eye to eye with Mycroft and he never would. And there were half a million things that John wanted to tear into Mycroft for. But the care he had for his brother was clear and unrivalled.

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft smiled weakly.

John smiled grimly in return. “So alongside being there for Sherlock and keeping an eye out. You know he will pursue this. Try to find the source and stamp it out?”

Mycroft nodded and took a long sharp breath. “Yes I know. And I’m sure he will be successful. I’m primarilh concerned at how he will take the passing of Jonathan, Zachary, and Jack. You know... He went back to find them once he had gotten clean himself, for his longest period of sobriety, not long before he met you. He offered to fund their own rehabs. All three men declined of course. For various personal reasons.”

John was consistently surprised at what he did not know about Sherlock. While the pair of them virtually ignored the swathes of Sherlock’s life that were taken up by being high and shooting up, the effects and associated risks seemed to lurk everywhere.

“Perhaps I should tell him? Tell him what you’ve told me so that we have some control of the situation?” John asked.

“No. Sherlock won’t appreciate the idea that I am soundboarding you. If you must bring it up. Tell him only that I had made you aware of the lethality of heroin currently for sale in London and nothing else.” Mycroft firmly answered.

The car stopped outside a cafe Nero and the driver got out of the car, locked it, and strode into the shop to order coffee.

“When Henry returns with your coffee, walk back to Baker Street. Sherlock will assume you got the Metropolitan line at 4pm.” Mycroft said conspiratorially.

John nodded and defaulted to silently waiting for the driver to return with his coffee. “Are you okay Mycroft?” John asked seriously.

“Me? Yes of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

John just eyeballed Mycroft, trying to the best of his ability to convey a ‘don’t be dense, I’m not fucking stupid’ sentiment in response.

Mycroft stood down his defences and sighed. “Yes, I am okay. Just, let me know how Sherlock is. And... I’ll, well I’ll thank our lucky stars that Sherlock did live past 30. And have a quiet toast to Jonathan Callaghan, who saved my brother 3 times and deserved far more than he got in life. That’s your coffee John. Don’t worry, it’s decaf, soya milk, one vanilla syrup shot. Text me if you need anything.”

A steaming cup of coffee was passed back to John. He couldn’t help but notice the Christmas theme on the cup- that time already?!

“Right, yes, yeah. Thanks for the coffee and, um take care. I’ll be in touch.” John said climbing out of the car, the chill in the air swiping at him as he did so.

[wafflewarriors]

A Shot in the Dark

The hallway was dimly lit. The luminosity was questionable; it forced you to squint your eyes and wonder if a shadow was a lurking foe or a fault in the bending of light. You were constantly at edge as you crept around the corridors of the abandoned hospital. You were timid, hesitating and doubting yourself at every suspicious figure. You had always been the type of child who turned off the light in the basement and scurried upstairs while picturing something behind you.

Of course, Sherlock insisted you split up.

You could chase a suspect across rooftops and fight a man twice your size, but you could not do so blindly. The assassins were waiting for one of you to peep around the corner, knife ready.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Breathing was difficult to rein as it hitched and sighed. The palms of your hands were slick with nervous sweat. Your heart rate flew when something shuffled and instinct kicked in. The gleam of a polished blade swung out, impaling your rib as you stumbled back. As your skin ripped open, an excruciating burning sensation spiked up your chest.

Through the adrenaline, you elbowed the enemy in the nose and punched him in the throat with your knuckles. You kneed him in the gut, to which he sank to the floor. In a brutal and morbid haze of fear, you kicked at his temple with the toe of your boot, expelling all motion from the newly beaten attacker.

Adrenaline drained as quickly as it’d come. You floundered your way backward until you were leaned against a pale yellow doorway. Nausea, which had been overridden by the adrenaline before, was now all that collected in the pit of your stomach. Truth be told, you had no idea why Sherlock Holmes had ever become your friend. You were scared of the dark, you froze when haste is vital, and lastly… you become queasy around your own blood. The source of your nausea came from a very specific distressing detail: it needed to be your own blood.

You regularly helped John with patients at the clinic and hovered as Sherlock observed crime scenes and dead bodies. You had no problem with blood when it wasn’t your own.

Woozy, your eyes were sealed. You inhaled slowly, failing miserably to dispel the sick feeling. You were required to look at the wound to address it, but you couldn’t without nausea boiling in your gut. Your imagination was too wild and the thoughts that sprung at you were not welcomed. Peeling your eyelids open, you stared at your battered stomach.

The wound was leaking blood that bubbled with miniature streams of crimson that trickled downward. Red soaked your cotton shirt, causing wet warmth to pool up to your neck. It reeked of copper. Half of your stomach was skinned, the belly button spared, while the excess skin hung wetly. You could definitely see tendons, possibly bone; you weren’t a doctor.

At the last observation, you felt sick. An acidic rumble twisted within your stomach, forcing you to stumble onto your shaky feet. Fortunately, there was a bin nearby. Your knees buckled as you retched with your hands clutched at the plastic siding. You heaved, your stomach rolling and contracting.

Once it was safe to open your mouth without projectile vomiting your dinner, you bellowed hoarsely for your friends and roommates. “Sherlock! John!” You cried out in panic, throat raw. You held your stomach, thankfully out of view from your eyes. It’s only a graze, you attempted to convince yourself. John will help. Sherlock will know what to do. Butwilltheybutwilltheybutwillthey-

“Hey!”

Your arms were numb; a fading receptivity of nerves causing you to feel unbalanced. Your knees wobbled, barely able to support themselves. You tumbled backward, cradling your chest while you swallowed bile. The shock was affecting your mobility and reaction time. Your judgment was cloudy with fear. By now, your vision was unfocused. You blinked, yet the two people racing toward you had taken the shape of fuzzy silhouettes.

“Oh my god.” John’s voice was concerned and disbelieving. He crouched, instantly examining your injury with a doctor's determination. He noted the wound wasn’t clotting.

Sherlock, clueless as ever, was fascinated by your work. “Remarkable. The murderer has a concussion from such a blow to the head. Consider me impressed. Where did you earn such an accuracy and brute force? Surely your physique-”

“Sherlock, forget the bloody body! She’s bleeding out!” John tugged your jacket off your sluggish self, wrapping it tightly against the open wound. John perfectly understood your state of delirium, so he pinned you as you protested. He had seen many soldiers die in a state of shock from struggling against medical help. He wouldn’t let that happen to you.

You squirmed against his firm hold, trying to escape the throbbing pain. “No- that hurts that hurts-” You whined while breathing heavily to prevent nausea from rising. You squeezed your eyes as burning tears pooled behind them. “That hurts. John, stop.” You pleaded miserably.

Sherlock, having already observed the vomit in the bin a few steps away, was curious as ever. “I never pinned you as squeamish.” His tone was low and comforting, despite the blunt comment.

You exhaled in a pained breath, “Not.” You inhaled through your teeth. “Just… my own. Can’t- handle my own… blood.” You wheezed.

“Strange. There must be a reason for it. Anxiety? Are you sensitive? Maybe shock is affecting-”

“Sherlock, focus!” John snapped, putting pressure on the wound. “Call an ambulance for heaven's sake!”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “There’s no signal. We’d have to go outside for service. Is it serious?” Finally, Sherlock inquiries had sobered into silent hovering.

“No. It’s a shallow cut, but we can’t just leave her here. It’s enough to kill in about two hours without attention. Sherlock, you’re the only one who knows the way around. See the issue? I can’t fend off an assassin and put pressure on her wound at the same time while you run off.” John growled in frustration, impelling him to press harder to the wound. You whimpered.

“Then we’ll bring her with us. We’re currently on the fifth floor, and there should be seven other murderers within this building.” Sherlock studied the poorly lit hallway and spewed out his opinion.

John looked horrified for you, doing the math. “Five floors? How are we going to get her across five floors and avoid seven killers?”

Sherlock seemed disappointed of John’s lack of observation. “With the bed, John.” He pointed to the narrow cot with a faded blue fitted-sheet sprinkled in polka dots. The fabric was wrinkled and scrunched. Sherlock tugged at it and the wheels creaked.

John gritted his teeth. “That will totally give us away.”

Sherlock scowled, glancing nervously at you. “But wasting time will do us no good. We don’t have that long.” He rolled the cot to John. The wheels shrieked at the jerky movement. “There should be seven assassins within the building. Some of which may have already left. There are eight floors, allowing us at least one floor with nobody on it. However they could all be on one floor-" He gripped his forehead. “There are too many variables. We need to take the most precautions while escaping the building as quickly as possible.”

“Can’t we just shatter a window for service? We don’t have time for escape, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Bulletproof and tinted.”

Defeated, John sighed. “Nothing’s simple when it comes to you, is it?”

“Unfortunately.”

In the silence, they observed you. Your posture was deflated. You resembled a dying spider with your limbs curled inward. Exhaustion weighed down your eyelids while they drooped.

“Hey!” Sherlock whisper-shouted as much as he could whilst murderers roamed the building. He was quickly at your side and clasped your face in his hands, shaking it. “You mustn’t go to sleep yet. It seriously declines your chance of survival.”

You groaned as your ribs panged. Your stomach felt like slippery marbles were sloshing around, causing you to feel ill. “So... t’red." You slurred lethargically. “Hurts.” You squinted up at their distorted faces above you. “John… ‘m going to die, aren’ I?” A headache, only intensifying with nausea, throbbed behind your eyes.

John’s face pinched in worry. “We’re going to get you out of here.” He licked his lips anxiously, “Sherlock,” His attention moved to the consulting detective. “We are in a hospital, abandoned or not. There’s got to be an old med kit somewhere. It won’t fix the problem, but it may keep her fighting for longer than a couple hours.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’ll stay in the area.” And with that, Sherlock’s nimble silhouette blended with the darkness, his long coat flapping behind him.

You twisted as the wound shook against the jacket. It was rubbing it raw; the scratchy fiber brushing against open flesh. Your pained grunting didn’t cease as you eyed the wound. “It looks like a fish gill.” You sobbed in agony. “I look like a fish.”

John fidgeted at your graphic and perturbing comparison. He fussed, gingerly searching for other abrasions and bruises. “Try to calm down. Panicking won’t help you.” He soothed, brushing the sweaty hair from your face.

“John, ‘m going to die in here.” Your anxiety had always been one of your inferior qualities. In moments of weakness, you blubbered in fear. It was your worst enemy; it installed fright and based your actions off of it. It compelled you to falter and cower in the face of danger. Being a friend of an unpredictable detective, that wasn’t favorable.

“We won’t let that happen.” Sherlock had already appeared out of the dark while clutching several medical kits of varying sizes. Sherlock extended his arm to John, who reached for the kits and took them gratefully.

John leaned in carefully, pressing a damp towel across your wound. You stiffened and gasped spasmodically. A crippling sting flared and you smacked John’s shoulder repetitively while kicking and twisting. It felt like acid was pouring onto your broken skin. You stifled a wail, clamping your jaw with a sharp clack.

Sherlock kneeled beside you, patting at your hair and resting a hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you. “John needs to clean the wound. We don’t want an infection.”

You went slack against the cold flooring, the pain now dissolving into a simmering static. Your vision swam and your ears vibrated when you turned your head. You managed to pant, “What... was that?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Rubbing alcohol.” He pivoted, his fingertips resting on your shoulder in consideration. His attention was now veered toward John. “We’ve wasted enough time tending to her. If we don’t start moving now we’ll have wasted it.”

John nodded in doleful understanding, “Of course.” He was swift to apply thick bandages around your middle, wrapping them tight and thoroughly. “Should we move her to the bed, then?”

“Please do.” You murmured, shivering on the frigid tile.

Sherlock grasped your upper body with his palm supporting your head and spine, while John scooped up your legs and lower back. It was an effort not to yelp as they positioned you on the creaky mattress. The cushion sank under your weight like a soggy pancake.

John rotated toward the pits of the corridor. “I suppose this is it then. You think this will go smoothly?”

Sherlock’s mouth was thin and pinched in distaste. “Likely not.”

John glared at Sherlock, annoyed by his low spirits. “Can you never be optimistic?”

“Would you like me to lie?”

John stared at Sherlock a moment. “No.”

“Good. I had the impression that wouldn’t be of use.”

This moment was the tip of an iceberg, just above the surface. Sherlock and John had halted all morals to beam a glare, the silence telling of their progressing irritation. Neither man enjoyed conflict, yet here they were. Two friends unable to express to the other their logic, for the other would only counter it. They would stare, and then return to a temporary harmony. Except for this time, the contest between two contrasting minds ended without conclusion.

Sherlock’s constantly active watch for danger was a significant advantage. Within the abyss behind the doctor, a flash of a glossy shank and predator-like eyes caught into Sherlock’s peripheral vision. He dove, knocking John’s build out of harm. His martial arts kicked in, and soon he was ducking and landing blows on the snake-like assassin.

John scrambled to his toes in bewilderment, scarcely regarding the tussle between Sherlock and the nimble assassin. He wasn’t much for martial arts, but he was a soldier. Thank god he’d brought a gun.

The fighting style of the killer a far cry Sherlock’s. His moves were clean and witty, while the murderer was scrappy and feral. Sherlock had to dodge and avoid teeth from sinking into his arm. Finally, Sherlock had gotten them into a vulnerable spot. Behind him, John’s arm held his Browning steadily.

The assassin’s body shape hinted toward female, despite the thick leather jacket hugging her frame. A ski mask hid her facial features. A simple dagger was loosely gripped in her left hand, the blade glistening and sharpened. However, the assassin no longer seemed interested in stabbing the detective.

Sherlock’s frown was grim. “Lower your gun, John.”

John’s aim wavered, “Why?”

Sherlock glowered at the assassin, disapproval clear. “Mary has some explaining to do.”

An adept hand slipped the knife in their pocket as if it were a casual thing to do. “I didn’t mean it to involve you,” Mary said gently, removing the ski mask, revealing her lying face.

John was torn. It was maddening. He would have demanded answers, yet he held back his rage like a trained soldier. He grabbed the metal of bed and began forcing it to roll with a shrill scrape.

“John-"

The doctor marched on. “I really don’t want to hear it right now,” John growled, his teeth bared.

“John, it’s not what you think-"

“Then what is it?! What in God’s name, are you doing here?” John boomed. It’s livid temper echoed along the concrete walls.

Mary took a step forward, not hindered by his outburst. “If you don’t want to attract dozens of serial killers, I suggest you lower your voice.” Mary bit out evenly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Dozens?” He inquired.

Mary spoke earnestly, “Yes.” Her eyes were mournful. “I came here to warn you and help disassemble them.” He shoulders dropped, “It’s too dark; otherwise I wouldn’t have fought you. I swear it, John.”

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. Mary’s genuine explanation met truthful human behavior. Mary was an expert liar, but even she couldn’t have cooked such a confession on the spot. A lie would not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“H’llo?” You mumbled, faintly aware of the conversation. You felt faint and on the verge of passing out.

Sherlock popped up onto the balls of his feet. “We must get going. We’ve wasted the maximum amount of time possible for her survival. She needs medical attention.” He was uncharacteristically anxious.

When the squealing of wheels first sounded throughout the hospital like a rusty shopping cart, John had winced. Now, his irritation was at a tipping point, and a suspected serial killer would do just fine as an outlet. His fists itched for something to pummel.

“John, I’m assigning you full responsibility over her,” Sherlock announced, striding alongside him.

John did not accept his role. “And what will you be doing? Watching?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied seriously. “Mary and I will take to disarming the serial killers along our path. You will protect her. You’re the doctor, John.”

John’s stubbornness had always been a fault of his. He hid his darkest emotions and trusted those he’d barely met. John was a doctor, yes, but he was also a soldier. He was addicted to the adrenaline. Although he ached for a fight, Sherlock’s statement put him in his place.

“Alright.” He said finally.

At his clipped and vague answer, Sherlock observed him. “You disagree.”

John pondered it. “No.”

Sherlock was unconvinced. “You’re tense. Lying.”

John bit his cheek.

“You’re hesitating, John.”

Sherlock had a knack of not knowing what good timing was, and this was one of those times. John was definitely not in a good enough mood to deal with this. John remained silent.

“...not good?” There was a pause. “Ah.”

Sherlock stayed quiet after that, looking similar to a dejected puppy. They all stepped along, dispirited and mopish, while Mary trailed behind. The ghostly halls and disfigured shadows didn’t discourage them any longer. They marched along the tile, determined to reach the stairs of the lonely hospital.

Sherlock and his long legs took the front, his sharp eyes soaking in every visible detail. Then, abruptly halted. He held a hand out from behind him, motioning to quit walking.

Sherlock’s ‘detective mode’ wasn’t like a switch. He was constantly thinking, watching, seeing- and this was a moment John was glad Sherlock was an expert in his job field. Sherlock’s head was poised, a hound on the trail of a raccoon. His metallic eyes skimmed darkly over the scene. A couple of paper plates sat on the floor, a gnawed bones from a chicken rested on the plates. “Two of them have been here.” He poked the meat of the poultry. “Still warm.”

John frowned. “Are you sure it’s only two?”

Sherlock cast his eyes about, trying to locate clues. “Two plates. It’s enough to satisfy two large men.”

Mary was behind John, dagger in hand. She was cautious, straining to detect the movements of a nearby killer. In low voice, she breathed, “John, I need your gun.” There was a rustle of a coat, and a tense hand held a gun behind his back. She took it in anticipation, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She paused, exerting her sensitive ears for the crackle of leather or the patter of an untrained foot.

Sherlock was doing the same, calculating the hospital architecture and formation of the walls. He judged the best angles for a precise bash to a head. He constructed a strategy in a mere two seconds before becoming very aware of where the men were hidden, despite his lack of vision in the murky light of the hall. They all held their breath when they heard a faint click of the tile floor against a well disciplined foot.

When Mary extended her weapon, the silence broke.

From opposite directions, two solid masses of black emerged, slamming into the trio. The largest man had taken to Sherlock’s end, muscles visible against his tight leather jacket. A slimmer man, although extensively livelier and additionally more punctual with attacks, chose Mary. They were enhanced in their talents, for they nearly matched the cleverness of Sherlock and Mary.

John had taken to you, rolling the bed with a deep screech of grinding metal. Fortunately, the hallway was broad and spacious. It allowed John to slip by, and defend the weak link.

To add to John’s growing headache, you were unconscious and the bandage he’d applied was now a damp pink. John huffed. Ditching the bed, he began dragging your limp form into a narrow hospital room doorway. He was swift, laying you across the timeworn mattress. It’s springs rattled at the new weight. He barricaded the doorway with heavy cabinets so that only a few inches of the door’s window was visible.

There was a gunshot that vibrated through the floor. Mary never misplaced her aim. She towered over the body, his bullet-blown head staring up at the ceiling. She huffed for breath, swiveling to analyze Sherlock’s work.

Sherlock had easily managed to take down the brawny man. While the man was double Sherlock’s size, Sherlock was dexterous and deft on his toes. To his perspective, it was child’s play to outwit the flying fists. Albeit capable of damage, the assassin’s aim was off by a mile. Sherlock judged that his hand-eye coordination was poor. All it took was an elbow to the throat and the killer’s trachea broke.

Now with the two murderers defeated, Sherlock exposed John’s hideout and knocked at the door. “John. They’re gone now.” He peeked in the visible window, a bush of raven hair and criticizing silver eyes sprouting up into John’s view. “If you don’t open the door, the sheep nostrils in the fridge will find their way to the microwave.”

John trusted Sherlock’s threat. He shoved at the bulky cabinets. He forced a grunt, “It’ll be open in a second-"

Sherlock propped the door open. His eyes landed on John, offering silent empathy for his troubles. John resembled a shell of a man, exhaustion clouding his eyes. Sherlock’s eyebrows dipped in concern for his flatmate, “Why don’t you sit down, John? You look rather pale.”

John did so.

Sherlock assessed his situation and judged the best plan for action. Looking out the window, a spark of hope lit him. “We need to get her out of the building.”

John was cradling his pounding headache within his palms. “We don’t have enough time. We might be able to get her out of the building, but how long will it take for people to arrive? It’s too late. If she loses enough blood, she’ll go into hypovolemic shock. I would cauterize the wound, but there’s nothing I can use except bandages right now. We’re in such an old hospital; the equipment looks like torture weapons. There was a saw in the drawers for amputation.”

Sherlock crouched down so he was eye-level to John’s slumped form. “There’s no need. We’ll get her out in time.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock pointed out the tinted window, grinning wildly. “My brother’s here.” It was true. A hazy light glowed against the chalky window as flashlights were swung about. A sleek black helicopter and armed men had invaded the grounds, already searching and barking instructions and orders. Sherlock whipped his head away from the window and glanced to John and Mary. “She will make it.”

Sherlock leapt up. His posture was confident, as if he'd already constructed a cunning scheme. He cast his eyes to Mary. “Mary, firing John's gun has brought Mycroft here, yet it has likely drawn a majority of murderers our direction. Going down the stairs, we would run into them. Barricade the doorway.” He turned to his roommate. “Now, do you have a flashlight, John?”

John did have a flashlight. In fact, he always did. It was with him constantly, as often as the gun was. However, he did not see how this had anything to do with their predicament, except for making John feel like an idiot for stumbling among the dark halls without thinking of the source of light he had in his pocket. This is why he wasn't a detective. “...yes.” He said simply, allowing the detective to explain.

“Brilliant, John. I need you to flash a message to my brother in Morse Code: ‘Room 502’. My brother's surveillance men will likely see it.”

“But you said the windows are tinted.”

“Yes, they are, but they still allow light through. What would be the purpose of a window if you couldn't see through it?” Sherlock explained, “While they cannot see us, I assure you they will see our message.”

John stood a bit unevenly and fetched his flashlight, stamping it against the window. He recalled his Morse Code lessons back in the military. He flashed, ‘.-. --- --- -- ’ and ‘..... ----- ..---’ just as Sherlock had instructed. ‘Room 502’. After waiting a few seconds, his paranoia caused him to flash the message repeatedly in fear no one was watching.

John's hope and anxiety washed away when he received a message back. ‘... .- ..-. . ..--..’ which John read as ‘Safe?’.

John gave a relieved sigh. ‘.----’ and ‘.. -. .--- ..- .-. . -..’, he tapped at the flashlight's button, ‘1 injured.’.

Sherlock calculated the trail to their room. “My brother is doubtlessly impatient. I have faith his search team will effortlessly ambush our petty, fellow serial killers. If I know of my stalking brother's habits, I expect a knock at this door in seven minutes.”

John had plastered himself to the window in a new fascination and inspiration. He continued to flash messages, satisfying his hungry curiosity. John chortled, “Count on six.”

///

Mycroft was more than impatient. He was demanding to see his brother and his condition, as John had never specified who was injured. Imaginably to encourage their rescue. And it did. He was in constant communication with his men; he commanded them to hurry and reach the fifth floor.

His men plundered and swarmed the area, arresting the serial killer gang members Sherlock had been after. They lashed out like frightened animals and they fought like barbarians. They reminded Mycroft of savage rats that ran over your toes in a bad part of the cities.

He nearly leaped out of his guarded helicopter when he recognized the humble figures of Sherlock and his friends. His security team advised him not to, however, and he was escorted over.

Oddly enough, there was no quarrel. He met Sherlock's gaze and they shared an equivalent look of fulfillment. It was a courteous appreciation of each brother. No words were expressed, just the serene murmur of silence as a thank you. That was sufficient enough for Mycroft.

Mycroft was only convinced of their safety once he’d witnessed everyone go under the hands of his personal medical team. While most of them remained unscathed, you had required transportation to the hospital, so Mycroft assigned a limo for your friends' travel.

Sherlock, John, and Mary sat awkwardly, each uncertain as of how to fill the silence and initiate conversation within the luxurious ride. Feet scuffed and tongues clicked until John cleared his throat. He seemed uncertain, peering out the window as his stomach thundered viciously. He was hesitant, “Would anyone like Thai food tonight?”

[dailymolliarty]

The Mouse and the Spider by I’m Over There: Jim Moriarty gets bored. Molly Hooper gets lonely. They’re just two planets revolving around the brilliant sun that is Sherlock Holmes, drawn in by his gravity. And his light. But everybody needs distractions… 

Song as Old as Rhyme by @wherestoriescomefrom:  Hush, the wind is blowing hard. Be quiet, child, sleep soundly - Or the Dark One will steal your heart. [Beauty and the Beast AU]

Nameless by @wherestoriescomefrom: The first name was expected - even welcomed. The second, on the other hand, left much to be desired. And Jim would never understand what it was about it that was compelling. [Soulmate AU: On one hand, the name of your soulmate, on the other - your enemy. Molliarty.]

The Rose Point Manor:  A young woman struggling in an unjust society takes a break from the theatrics of pretending to be her male counterpart, Mark Hooper, and decides to relax at the quiet but foreboding Rose Point Manor. There she comes to a realization that something far more sinister lurks there than at her morgue back home - Victorian AU

We’re Ancient History:  When Molly Hooper had begun her scientific expedition, she never knew her time on the dig sites would unearth more than the dead.

Forget Me Not:  “This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.” What happens when two lost souls find each other? Are they still forgotten? - Amnesia!AU

Capture My Good Side: “Photography is all about secrets. The secrets we all have and will never tell.”

Deus Mortis: "You can hide from the devil, but he’ll always find you.“ - Victorian AU

Face Value: “I’m not sure how to describe this nonsense, basically Molly looks good in a moustache and Jim notices.”

Not a Body Farm: Molly really should’ve known better than to download FarmVille on a criminal mastermind’s cell phone, even if it had been a hilarious joke at the time. Since one day she wakes up in a bed in some random farm in the middle of nowhere, and the deed to the property in her name.

Oh God, Not the Westwood!:  In which timid Molly Hooper must hide a heinous crime from a man who likes to watch a murder take place while drinking his morning coffee.

Life Preserver: “Missing you comes in waves and tonight I am drowning.”

Midnight Edition: The Bittersweet: Pop-rocks can be unpredictable. In an instance, a delight to the senses, or startling painful the next - smut

The Bittersweet:  Even delicious things can be sour, at another glance.

Third Date Syndrome: Long bouts of silence and awkwardness on first dates are inevitable, and for the hundredth time Molly wished she was exempted from it.

We’ll Always Have St. Barts: “I wish I didn’t love you so much.” - Casablanca AU

Apex: Molly Hooper thinks fondly of Jim from IT, but can’t get enough of Jim Moriarty - contains smut~

The Parting Glass: After Reichenbach, Molly Hooper is drowning. She receives a package, request and tradition from a very dead Jim Moriarty. She receives nothing but burdens from a very alive Sherlock Holmes.

Rust and Stardust: “The last long lap is the hardest. I shall be dumped where the weed decays, and the rest is rust and stardust.” - Jim is a ghost, and wouldn’t it just figure that he haunts Molly Hooper.

Wild and Precious: “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” - How Molly fell in love with a ghost, and tried not to waste her life beside him. She failed. - settled in the same universe of Rust and Stardust

Release: Written for the prompt “Jim fucking Molly so hard and so good that she can’t even get a full word out, only moans and half-uttered curses “: In which Jim surprises Molly after work - contains smut~

A Love Outside of Time: There’s a lot of strange happenings at 2945 S Willow Street, shrieks and screams and moans that have terrorized the neighbors and left the house unsold for generations. Can the great paranormal investigator, Sherlock Holmes, exorcise the spirits living there?

Gifts Given and Received: Sherlock ruined Molly’s Christmas gift and Jim is determined to make her holiday better. - ASIB AU, contains smut~

Cabernet Sauvignon: Written for the prompt “Jim’s ready to propose, but wants the event to be special, and so he hides the ring in Molly’s wine. Molly drinks it down too fast and chokes on the ring”: A fluffy slice of life, where Molly makes Jim’s life just a little less lonely.

Power Dynamic: Molly can’t help trying to control the insanity that is Jim Moriarty. A framework for his mind to lean on, a collar to hold him together, a mistress to keep him mostly sane.

Asphodel: “When you need slightly-less-than-legal magic substances, you seek out ‘Moriarty’s Special Imports and Fineries’. A new branch of Necromancy, pathologist-in-training Molly Hooper returns a set of counterfeit goods and receives a job offer in return.” - Fantasy AU

Her beast feature: “As he studied her from afar, Jim thought Molly’s best feature was her neck. He really didn’t anticipate her reaction to Sherlock beating a dead man with a riding crop.” - Molly x Jim, PWP, set at the beginning of A Study in Pink

Junior: So what’s a beleaguered pathologist to do when the UK’s Most Wanted turns up to visit her cat?

Mr Sex: Jim doesn’t ask her what she likes or what she needs; it’s not necessary. But he asks her what she wants - contains smut

Sunday Afternoon: Sleep with Molly Hooper:  Molly canceled their date at the last minute, but no one messes with Jim’s precisely organized calendar and gets away with it.

Why Don’t You Do Right?:  Seb arranges for Molly to get an extra special, early birthday present. Jim gets to learn something new about Molly. And Molly discovers one of Jim’s deepest secrets.

Club Calavera: Downing five zombies doesn’t give Jim the liquid courage he needs to ask Molly a very important question. It only makes him forget that he and Molly are already together.

Happy Birthday, Jimmy Boy: Jim’s never had a good birthday. Molly’s determined to buck the trend. - contains smut

It’s A Nice Day For a [White Wedding]: The wedding of James Moriarty to Molly Hooper can be nothing less than a momentous occasion. In his speech, their best man recounts some of the juicier bits of Jim and Molly’s journey into matrimony.

Cold War: She had to admit Jim was creative. Who else would think to kill three ice cream salesmen from different towns and attach a one-worded note to each corpse, forming the sentence, “Ready to concede?”

My Persuasion Can Build a Nation: In a world where Eurus had a best friend growing up, she doesn’t go to Sherrinford, nor does she turn out as unhinged as she did in canon. However, she’s still Eurus, and her brothers absolutely forbid her from meeting Jim Moriarty. She’ll just have to fix that, won’t she? Also: Matchmaker!Eurus ftw.

What Sober Couldn’t Say: “(11:23 pm) Drinking again(11:24 pm) And since it makes me too sad to go on my blog anymore thanks to you, I figured it’s only fair you become my new place to vent(11:25 pm) You’re probably not receiving these messages anyway so no harm no foul(11:25 pm) Right?” - Molly drunk-texts Jim over the course of several months.

I Wanna Feel Like I Am Floating: “Now the question is…" He vamp-flipped them over so she was lying down and his body was pinning hers. “Should I tie you up and make you take it, or are you going to be a good little vampire and let Daddy have his way with you?” Jim & Molly’s journey: blood-sharing edition.- Vampire!Molliarty AU, s-m-u-t.

Coffin Shopping: Sebastian could only imagine what the other, mostly ancient customers perusing the store must be thinking of the couple in their thirties, bubbling with laughter and fooling around as they ran about in search of the perfect coffin.

Come To Daddy: Jim failed to see how Molly’s physicality could ever not be arousing. The size of her lips did nothing to detract from how amazing she was at sucking cock. The size of her breasts made it no less fun for Jim to cup them in his hands, tease her nipples into hard peaks, suck on them until she squirmed and made those delightful little sounds. - smuttish ;)

Intention: A take on how the brief but unforgettable office romance between Jim from IT and Molly from Pathology began and how it just might become more than just a simple office romance.

An Exchange: Jim Moriarty comes across a familiar face and realises, from just one exchange, that it is not merely Sherlock Holmes that connects them, but a connection of their own.

A Beginning: Jim Moriarty tries to make sense of new waves of sentiment as his office romance with Molly Hooper transits to become something more.

Interruptions: Molly Hooper is made to face a stunning revelation about Jim Moriarty, but it is her reaction that stuns him most.

An Enemy’s Gift: In the pursuit of his greatest enemy, Jim Moriarty makes an unexpected discovery.

On Fanfiction.net:

Life: James Moriarty is in trouble, so much trouble that he fears for his life. He soon learns, however, he has absolutely nothing to fear, not with Molly Hooper around.

Spiders: Molly and Jim have a casual chat laced with hints of their plans, revealing a side to Molly that both surprises and seduces Jim.

(Re)kindle: Jim Moriarty is perplexed at the lasting impression a certain Molly Hooper has left on him. When his rekindled fascination with her meets an unexpected obstacle, an animosity is ignited.

Other fics:

- The Demon I cling to

- The Anatomist

- What Slinks Unseen (one-shot)

- Safety in Small Numbers (one-shot)

- Heart Shaped Buttons  (one-shot)

- I.O.U (in progress, Season 4 AU)

- A change of clothes (one-shot, smut)

- The Uninvited House Guest

- Home is where (one-shot)

- Danse Macabre (one-shot) mine

- Lay your body next to mine (one-shot, mine, smut, dark themes)

- Symmetry (one-shot)

- Kisses for the Devil (one-shot)

- Descend (one-shot)

- Death and the Maiden

- The Number Is (one-shot)

- The Devil’s Own (warning: dark themes)

- Reality of Innocence (warning:smut)

- Gifts (one-shot)

- Thanaptosis (warning: dark themes)

- Pulse (one-shot)

- Yorick’s grin

- Hades (one-shot)

- Gay (warning:smut)

- Oaths, affidavits and Other Lies

- Brain Drain (one-shot)

- Counting Days (one-shot)

- A conversation starter (one-shot)

- Spinning Tornadoes (one-shot)

- Secret Veins and Arteries (warning:dark themes)

- Watching the world burn (one-shot, smut)

- Death and the Maiden

- Unloveable

- Sweet Dreams (one-shot)

- Frozen Feelings

- Forever and Always

- I will burn the heart out of you

- Choke  (one-shot)

- His Dark Mistress (one-shot)

- He saved the last dance for me

- Exsanguination (one-shot, very kinky smut)

- Almost Anyone  (one-shot)

- No Space between Us  (one-shot, smut)

- Brain Drain  (one-shot)

- Between the bars  (one-shot, smut)

- Troubleshooting  (one-shot, smut)

- Falling  (one-shot, smut)

- Knots in this noose of mine  (one-shot)

- Glass shatters softly  (one-shot)

- Victor, meet spoils (one-shot)

- He kindly stopped me  (one-shot)

- Blow the House Down (one-shot)

- The answer is one  (one-shot)

- Strings  (one-shot)

- Heartbeats in the Dark

- The Fox (one-shot, smut)

- Bad Romance

- Lion and the Lamb (one-shot)

- Red Song in the Night

- The Rules Are (one-shot)

- Molly Mine (one-shot, smut)

- Restless Things (warning: very dark themes + Johnlock)

- Intention (one-shot)

- At the End of it all (one-shot, smuttish)

- An Incorrect Deduction

[onaperduamedee]

For the WIP meme, I would be intrigued to hear about A Study In Blue and/or Carnage, and/or Nothing new on our skin (because I either never knew or had forgotten that you’d been into AoS and I just lurked your tag and omg we should talk/cry about the show sometime)

Hello, thank you very much for asking!

Carnage: here.

Disco — A study in blue

It’s asimple modern Sherlock Holmes AU, with Michael as Sherlock, bunking up withformer field medic Dr. Philippa Georgiou, banned from flying back home after open-heart surgery. The joy of genre AU is to adapt the canon and quotes to the newsetting and I think I’ve got quite a few interesting translations out of thisone, even if I never wrote past the introduction. The idea was to follow themthrough the first months together, the investigations Philippa kept beingdragged into, discovering who is Michael and what is exactly her job, themgrowing closer, testing boundaries and realizing they are friends, etc. Likethe original. AUs of this kind are fairly technical and I lost steam when camethe time to figure out backstory translation and murder plotting.

It’s stillquite fun, but I need the time and patience to dive back, when I am finishedwith more creative, ambitious projects.

“If she’s a client, I’ve already told you tocall me Sherlock.”

“I am not a client. I am here for the positionas nurse.”

“Respect is earned. As is friendliness.”

“Yet diplomatic niceties must be observed.”

“This is hardly a negotiation.”

“First contact, then? I am Philippa Georgiou.”

“Michael…”

Michael took one look and turned her back toher.

“She’s overqualified and as much of aconvalescent as I am. It is not an acceptable arrangement.”

“Michael!”

“I beg your pardon.”

AoS — nothing new on our skin

A mourning fic. Or notexactly mourning; the aftermath, when mourning hasn’t come yet and you arejust too exhausted by pain and shock to start anything. It’s just after theshowdown at the Playground in Emancipationwhile May and a few others have to be checked in at a civilian hospital of allplaces because the base isn’t safe. So this small group of very concussed, verylost agents stumble in the world of the living and Daisy reflects oneverything that happened and her relationship with her people (here, May, Mack,Piper, Yo-yo and Andrew). It was supposed to evacuate a lot of my anger towardthe show’s treatment of some of its characters, Andrew and Lash particularly,but I also just needed comfort and my favourite characters caring for each other. Sleeping in the waiting room. Joking about how absurdthe situation was. Reluctant cuddling and crying. Usual found family stuff. Never gotvery far because the show lost me after that and my love never reallyrecovered. I feel like when I will finish this (short) one, I will haveproperly said my goodbyes to a show that once really mattered to me.

(I don’t think you could know about AoS: I have stopped watching a couple of seasons ago. I have a complicatedrelationship with AoS, as you can see. But I am always happy to cry about itscharacters, May and Daisy especially)

Agent Piper, recoiled on anexamination sheet, a trail of blood that was obviously not hers down the neck,was unresponsive. Survival had meant in her case bashing open the skull of herbrothers in arms. Not brothers anymore.

Theaftermath of war is an endless rehashing of the events, as things are put backtogether, as plans are made, as dead are counted.

May’sproper examination was an excuse. Coulson didn’t want her to be at the basewhen they would cut Lash open.

Jemma’sright to know, Fitz’ purpose and Coulson’s duty of care.

Daisypressed her lips together.

So theysent May away, with Piper as protection, although Daisy suspected it wasanother mercy from Coulson, to put some distance between Piper and theirgraveyard.

WIP game

[thebroodyelf]

Arcana

Being new to the fandom I enjoyed all of this very shady, funny, clever and smutty fanfictions & art pieces over here and on AO3 way too much. And of course I couldn´t hold back, the need to contribute something was too strong to resist ;´)

So... there´s going to be a fanfiction. Betareading´s still in progress, but anyways... Here is the first chapter.

1 What is this fiction?

It starts off with a retelling of Julian´s book VI, Gift and Curse/Laying low, BUT behold! It´s certainly not a mere written version of the events, no, as the story gets eely the plot is more and more altered, because Julian is Julian.

The apprentice in my version is called Octavia and yes, she has hit Julian´s head with the bottle in book I (in case you were wondering). And then there is a certain palace guard / Sherlock Holmes wannabe called Iuno. Things will get messy, I promise ^^

As I have played through book I to V and Julian´s book VII The Chariot only, you can witness my playing progress, for I´m going to weave it into this fiction. Have fun, hope you like it! 1

Portia: “Eh, yes, well here we are and you want to hear the story, right? It all started one night. Pepi and me, we were home. The palace gardens are nice and welcoming in the hot summer. All the birds chirping, telling their goodbyes to the sinking sun. Well. Guess you want to hear more about the palace´s secrets another time. But now, I´ll stick to Ilja´s story. Back then, he had just returned to Vesuvia. After the red plague he had been gone for quite a while... As far as I know, he intended to seek out Asra, a mighty magician of the city and a former lover of his. Hem. That particular night it all started, Ilja spent brooding about the past, standing at one of the aqueducts in the outskirts of the city…”

Gift and Curse

“Octavia?”

Surprise spreading over his face, Julian Devorak steps out of the dimness of their shady surroundings. He now stands at the edge of the aqueduct, a dark silhouette framed by the light of the moon. Behind him, the city towers like a behemoth, a chaotic sprawl of building stacked atop each other. In his hands is a mask with a long, curved red beak that he turns slowly, like he´s contemplating what to do with it.

“Octavia. Fancy seeing you here, hm? Out for a night walk?”

He sighs, gaze dropping to the reservoir pool below. The red of his coat reflects and refracts in the water, splashes of crimson dancing against each other.

“Me, I was just… thinking. Funny, fickle thing, life, isn´t it?”

Octavia looks up at the lanky doctor. “Should you be standing so close to the water?”

Her dark brown hair resembles molten chocolate in the strange light, her green eyes clearly show her worry.

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Julian responds, lips twisted into one of his famous lopsided grins: “What, this water? It´s harmless, Octavia, or as harmless as it can be. It won´t do anything to me. Or anything to anyone, anymore. Sure, a few people might get sick if they go for a swim, but…”

He trails off, as his former trail of thoughts resurfaces. “Isn´t it a miracle? They went and figured it out. Or outlasted it. Wonder how they did it?”

A short pause follows, then he continues: “It´s no matter, I suppose. Life finds a way, doesn´t it? The plague is over. Ahhh. And so is my career, just like that.”

With a dramatic gesture Julian lifts the mask to examine it on eye level one last time. “Who needs a plague doctor if there´s no plague?”

Not far away, hidden behind a broken cart, a figure lurks in the dark, listening to the hushed voices. She had been waiting for a sign, apparently, for now she lifts her head with a small smile.

“Today is my lucky day… That is the killer, Countess Satrinava wants to be found.”

Iuno Aurelia gets up without making any noise. She is a palace guard and tonight, despite her usual, boring duties as such, she is on the hunt. It´s actually not her task. Being new in Vesuvia she had wanted to apply for the job, solve the mystery of Count Lucio´s death, become the greatest detective of all times, but somebody – a witch apprentice with a high reputation – had literally snatched it away right under Iuno´s nose. So much for interesting labour.

“Yet I am here, right in time.” Iuno makes a move and glides next to the cart. “And all it took were a stroll through the neighbourhood and my intuitioaaahrgh!!!”

Her foot rolls over a broken jug and she falls over. Above her head a raven lets out a ragged screech. “Shit!”

“Guards afoot, Octavia. Look lively! We´d best make tracks!”

Both leap into action at the same time, running further down the aqueduct to reach the street. The doctor gets there first, turning back to Octavia as she runs. Her foot slips on a wet stone, tumbling her backwards into the reservoir below.

“Octavia!!!”

With a loud splash the woman sinks like a stone. The doctor, shock painted all over his pale face, dashes back and grabs Octavia´s wrist in the last moment. With one strong pull he tugs her out of the water, a translucent creature attached to her belly. 

“A vampire eel?!!”

Iuno has still some distance to cover, before she can reach the two criminals. She cannot yet make out their faces in the dim light, but the sight of the undulating creature, translucent and now filling with a red shimmering fluid, causes her to hesitate in the chase.

“Vampire eel. Damn. That girl´s dead.”

If she concentrates, she can eavesdrop on the doctor, who gets a hold on the elusive creature´s head with quick, skilful moves.

“On the count of three”, he barks in his strange accent and then after counting “One. Two!” he pulls the eel off and tosses it back into the water. “Three. Up you go, then. Easy now. I´ve got you.”

A loud gasp for air is to be heard. The doctor half drags the sopping wet woman, as they run, leaving blood puddles behind. Iuno spins back into motion.

“I have to follow them! Catch the killer!”

The killer, who is just disappearing behind a gloomy street corner. When Iuno reaches the strange couple, the doctor is busy, seeing to the steadily oozing wound of the woman.

“The bleeding won´t stop. Damn”, he mumbles. He draws back with a look of displeasure and starts peeling off his gloves.

Iuno is torn between interrupting the hopeless attempt and witnessing the infamous arts of the doctor.

“Hold still.”

They don´t even notice their stunned observer.

“Deep breaths. This will only take a minute or two.

”Why are you helping me?”, the woman whispers. A pained groan follows. 

“She will live?!”, Iuno marvels. “How has he done it? Witchcraft?!”

“Shouldn´t I? You´re injured. Surely you don´t think I´ll let you bleed out on the street.”

“Ha! A noble murderer! How fascinating!”

Fascinating indeed. While the soft chatting continues, Iuno can make out a sudden glow radiating from under the skin of his throat. “A magical mark…”

Iuno is not familiar with that sort of magic.

“What in the Count´s name is going on?!” Time to intervene.

“Freeze!”, Iuno exclaims and sprints towards her prey. 

“Go, Octavia. You must leave me behind. It´s me they are looking for, not you.” With a weak gesture the doctor waves the woman off. 

Iuno decides to stay with the murderer. When the fleeing woman throws one last look over her shoulder, their eyes meet. “I will not forget you!”, Iuno shouts. Then she turns towards the doctor.

“As for you, doctor Devorak, I shall arrest you for the murder of… the murder…” For the first time the palace guard has a clear view on her target. Dumbstruck Iuno watches, as fresh blood blossoms under his clothing, his face a grimace of pain.

“A parting gift… Curse, to be more precise”, he explains with an exasperated sigh.

“You… How… Why?” The palace guard finds herself stuttering. She is not only confused by the expanding red glistering on the black and white cloths of the man before her. 

“I´m able to take away bodily wounds, as you can see.” Still not looking up, doctor Devorak directs his obvious self-disgust at his blood covered hands and clenches them into fists.

“And in return, I get to experience them for myself… ugh.”

Slender figure. Wild red locks. No eyepatch though, but there is no doubt. An almost forgotten memory overpowers the palace guard. Her fingers begin to tremble. That man. The wanted murderer of Count Lucio. She has met him before. 

“Damn!”, she curses under her breath.

The doctor sways forward, as blood is running freely down his torso now. “It won´t last. It never does”, he says more to himself than to the guard. “A curse from a witch that fears commitment.”

His face lightens up with a strange kind of bitter joy. “Then again, I´ve never been bitten by a vampire eel. This might be interesting.”

“Shut it, I´m not listening to such nonsense!”, Iuno orders. “What can we do against… this?”

She rushes to his side and helplessly presses her hands against the wound. The doctor blinks owlishly at Iuno.

“Eh…?”

“We need to stop the bleeding, right?”

With frantic moves, she fumbles a fine embroidered handkerchief out of her belt pocket.

“Here. I´m sorry. That´s all I´ve got.”

The doctor throws a slightly embarrassed side glance to the blood puddle forming under him on the cobble stones. “You´ve changed your tune. Don´t you want to arrest me anymore?”

The palace guard rolls her eyes. “Just tell me how to help!”

Iuno hears them coming a moment after he does. The Countess´s guards, doing rounds of the outer walls. Swiftly she ushers the wounded doctor into an ally nearby. They press against the wall to seek cover, involuntarily getting into each other´s personal space.

“This is ridiculous!”, hisses Iuno.

The moment the guards pass, they hold their breaths, hoping the well-trained eyes will slide over them in the darkness. This close, Iuno can see the pain painted on doctor Devorak´s face. His eye is fixed behind her, but as if he senses the gaze it moves to Iuno´s. For a moment they stare at each other.

“I… A-apologies…”

Just as he is about to say something else, they hear a thud from the entrance of the alley. “Not the time. Let´s go.”

Now it is the doctor, grabbing Iuno´s hand and tugging her out of the alley. They break into a run. The city passes them by in a blur as they evade capture, weaving around buildings with ease. They are moving so fast, Iuno almost misses it. There, nestled between two tall buildings… a garden. 

[rainbow--letters]

One Year On

"In saving my life she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend." - Sherlock Holmes 

He feels the burning flames lick his skin, his eyes shoot open.

The flames are roaring, wood crackling and popping as it crumbles around him in the shell of his childhood home.

There is no escape but he can hear whispering all around him, it sends shivers down his spine.

"I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you."

He spins on the spot, his gaze affixes to the ceiling where the voice came from. Nobody is there.

"It's your fault she is dead. It should have been you." He turns again and John is standing there. His legs restrained by shackles and his clothes soaking wet. His finger points accusingly at him.

"John, I didn't know. You have to believe me." Sherlock pleads to his best friend.

"It's your fault she is dead. It should have been you." John repeats himself with a look that cuts Sherlock in two.

"John, please-" Sherlock is on his knees.

"It's your fault she is dead. It should have been you." Sherlock goes to shout but his words are lost when a wooden beam eventually weakens and drops. John is crushed beneath it and a plume of burning smoke and ash ghost over Sherlock's face, his arms raise to shield himself from the unforgiven heat.  

By the time he brings them back down, John is nowhere to be found.  

A laugh taunts him from behind. He turns to find Eurus, standing in her white clinical robe.  

"Naughty Sherlock, it's your fault she's dead."

In a blink she is pressing into his side her lips almost touch his ear.

"It should have been you, nobody cares about the wonderful Sherlock Holmes."

He moves to swat her like a fly but she is already gone. Suddenly she manifests in another corner of the room.  

She is not alone.  

Red Beard and a young Victor Trevor are sat by her feet.

"It's your fault, Sherlock. You weren't smart enough. You killed them both." Her voice sings songs in a sinister tune.

"N-o." His voice cracks and when her hands touch the top of their heads, they turn to bone.

He lurches forward to reach for them, but the fire blocks his path and just like John they disappear into thin air.  

Suddenly, he hears something call him towards the back wall. As he walks towards it he feels something cool ghost across his face, despite the towering flames.

He presses his body flat against the wall. He can hear something calling from behind, like angels singing. Without a further thought he brings his fist up and starts to pummel the weakened plaster. With each punch the voice grows stronger until his fist breaks through and he feels the flow of water cover his hand.

Eurus appears beside him again, laughing manically in his ear.  

The wall crumbles and within seconds he is met with an almighty force of current as it crashes over him and his sister. But the water does not drown him. It cleanses his skin and bones and when the force slows, he opens his eyes to find Mary standing before him.  

Eurus is gone and the flames are dead.  

Mary moves towards him and she places her hands on his face, his skin feels so alive under her touch.  

"Hope. There is always hope, Sherlock." Her words lull him into a trance and he closes his eyes as he feels a tender kiss to his forehead. It's so vivid he can feel the softness of her lips against his skin.  

He opens his eyes and inhales. 

He is back in Baker Street and realises the kiss against his head wasn't Mary's.

His eyes adjust to see a figure kneeling behind him. His head is in a warm and comforting lap, fingers tentatively caress his sweat stricken scalp.

"Molly." He whispers into the dark of the night.

She responds by lowering her head down to his, their brows touching.  

It's all he needs.

Within moments he drags her down beside him, holding onto her like a life raft. His right arm and leg are strewn over her slim frame, his hand pushes the top of her back closer to him. He absorbs the energy she radiates from her body into his terrorised sole. The shadows ebb away as her light pulses through his veins. He doesn’t realise he is crying until he feels Molly's fingers brush a tear across his sullen cheek bones. She doesn't say anything.

She never does.

Her eyes are level with his own and she is cradling his head in her hands, their noses touching. He embraces the coolness of his skin against where his body is pressing so tightly against her. He knows his skin must be hot and sticky against her own, but she never complains.  

She never does.

It's the height of winter and there is nothing more than a thin sheet on the bed. She knows anything heavier and he will feel suffocated. Especially at this time of year, the demons lurk in the dark and deep forefront of his mind.  

"You're burning up, Sherlock. Let me get you a cool flannel." She whispers as the flat of her palm presses against his forehead.

"No." He grabs her hands in his own before she can move. "I'm fine, just stay here. Please." He is exhausted, but he cannot bare the thought of her leaving him alone right now. Not even for a few seconds. 

She settles beside him once more. He can see she is just as exhausted as he is, but he knows she will not sleep until he is in a peaceful slumber. There is always a chance the demons will reappear, but for as long as he has Molly Hooper by his side it is enough to face the fear night after night if he has to.

They don't wake again until the late morning sun is peaking through the gap in his curtains.

[himbowelsh]

“I… i think I have fangs.” For Speirton, if you will 😊

spooky scary skeleprompts (ACEPTING)

They’re making their way through the fourth of what seems like an endless series of dark, ominous hallways when Ron comes to a sudden stop.

“Wait,” he says, catching Carwood’s arm. “Something isn’t right.”

This is obvious. Carwood realized that around the time the mansion started groaning and shuddering around them, as if the house had caught a terrible cold and intended to take its misery out on all its occupants. The floor shook; the lights flickered; at once, the air felt as if it had been sucked out of the room, before being exhales back in a great gust that nearly took Carwood off his feet.

When everything settled again, the lights flickered back on. That was when he and Ron realized that the rest of their Halloween party disappeared, and it became obvious that everything not right was actually very wrong.

Losing guys as loud as Luz, Guarnere, and Muck is not an easy thing to do. It’s like missing a football stadium, or managing to misplace an entire angry mob. They make themselves so visible that the fact that they’ve managed to lose track of them at all is nothing short of a miracle.

But, well, it’s turning into a weird night.

Ron Speirs, however, never seems shaken unless he has a damned good reason for it. Now, with his eyes wide and posture tense, there’s definitely something that’s got Ron on edge. Carwood feels himself tense up, on guard. If something’s alarming Ron, then it must be something serious.

“Do you —“ Ron starts, then pauses. He licks his lips, as if he’s deep in thought; confused or contemplative, Carwood can’t tell. When he speaks again, there’s a new terseness to his voice. “Do you feel any different?”

“Different?” echoes Carwood. He frowns down at himself. He might not look the way he would on any normal day (in his trenchcoat and hat, he thinks he makes a pretty convincing Sherlock Holmes) but he feels as much himself as ever. “Not really. Why?”

Ron’s lips purse. Slowly, his hand rises to his mouth. Carwood blinks as he slips his finger past his lips to run over the ridges of his teeth. When Ron’s eyes widen, he feels his own stomach drop.

“I... I think I have fangs.”

Ron says this so matter-of-factly, as if he’s informing Carwood of the weather, or the fact that tonight is Halloween. He runs over his teeth again and nods to himself. “I do,” he murmurs. “I’ve got fangs.”

Carwood blinks at the spots of fake blood at the corners of Ron’s mouth. Is it him, or does the paint look more realistic than it did a few minutes ago?

“The plastic ones,” he says automatically. “That must be it.”

“I didn’t wear any plastic fangs,” replies Ron, and Carwood feels his heart sink. When Ron bares his teeth, he catches a flash of distinctive pointed canines. There’s no mistaking it. Ron’s teeth look sharp as needles. They could easily pierce flesh, puncture someone’s neck with as much effort as biting into an apple...

A vampire. Ron’s turned into an actual vampire, just like his costume.

Carwood’s pulse is suddenly racing (a bad thing, considering his present company). His mind flashes back to all the other boys: Luz, with his furry werewolf mask, Webster as an eerie ghost, Skip and Don as zombies, Perconte as a ghoul, Babe as an evil clown. If Ron is turning into his costume, who (or what) else could be running around these halls?

The very idea makes him feel sick. They have to get out of this house.

“Ron,” he says, keeping his voice low. “We need to find the rest of the guys.”

Ron nods. To anyone else, he would not seem shaken by the latest turn of events, but Carwood knows him well enough to recognize the panic lurking beneath the dark surface of his eyes. He’s turned into a monster, of course he’s alarmed. On instinct, Carwood reaches out and rests a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

Something about the human contact seems to drag Ron back to the present. When he swivels to look at Carwood, the gratitude in his expression is unmistakeable.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “There’s no time to waste.”

“Let’s get moving.” Carwood starts to turn his back, and then stops. It’s awful of him, but there is a gnawing paranoia that he cannot totally push out of his mind. “You’re not... feeling a sudden, insatiable bloodlust, by chance?”

Against all odds, Ron seems to find this humorous. The quirks of his lips shouldn’t be reassuring, but not a lot about Ron Speirs is; Carwood takes what he can get. “Not yet,” he replies. “And even if I do, I’ll refrain from chomping on your neck.”

That’s all Carwood needs to hear. He exhales, and offers Ron a small smile. Whatever’s going on, they’ll figure it out together. There’s no way this is as dire as it seems.

[dalilaswork]

Hidden behind the curtain pt. I

Author: Dalila Ship: Sherlock x Reader Word count: 1.820 Summary: Sherlock Holmes isn’t a person to impress easily. And yet, you managed to impress and surprise the famous London detective and through that – you got a chance to entangle your life path with his. Warnings: some cursing. Author’s note: (IMPORTANT) This is an idea that made me start this blog. I’m very happy to present it to you now. I have ideas as to what could happen in following parts, but it’s up to you if they will be written. Make sure to leave your opinion, I’d highly appreciate it

       London is not a welcoming place. It’s a labyrinth of human misdeeds, intrigues and greed. Nobody could enter without being influenced by its toxic atmosphere. Seemingly everyone in their right minds would stay away from that place. Especially young, innocent birds like (Y/N) (L/N)

      The problem was – you had no idea what was about to happen. 

      “The show starts in five minutes, damn it! Move your motherfucking ass to the stage!” you heard someone shout in the back, as you finished placing an old dusty wig on your head which made you look like a man taken straight from 17th century’s drawings. For a moment, you took in your reflection in a broken mirror. It  had been broken for a while now but you still could see yourself clearly, so the theatre didn’t bother getting a new one.

      Theatre was your passion, your inner voice. Despite being born in a wealthy family of scientists, you couldn’t find yourself matching the scheme. Always searching for something that could be your own, something powerful and beautiful. Art was speaking to you ever since you were a child. But your parents wouldn’t allow you to ‘waste your intelligence and legacy of your family’, in a way of compromise you agreed to become a psychologist. It was the last year of studying psychology when you decided that you’re not going to be defined by someone else and dropped out altogether to chase your dreams.

      “Show time…” you sighed, giving one last smirk to your own reflection. Not that chasing your dreams didn’t have it downfalls…

      “Are you taking me to the theatre?” John asked, frowning at the sight of tickets Sherlock just bought. The place didn’t seem like a fancy one, actually it was probably one of the smallest and worst looking theatres in the entire London. But Sherlock didn’t seem to be bothered by this.

      “I’m not taking you. I think this is the place our murderer chooses for his meetings with his boss. I know that he’s going to be there tonight. And if we’re lucky, we’ll have some track to begin with.” Sherlock lifted his head and breathed in the evening air. The wind blew through his curly hair as he observed the way clouds were gathering over his city. 

      After having his moment, Sherlock stepped into the building, giving the tickets to an old woman who could as well be the inspiration for the stereotypical image of a witch. Both men walked past her and entered the audience. “But be prepared that our targets will be the only interesting sight tonight. This indeed is the worst theatre I’ve ever seen. As if the idea of theatre wasn’t repulsive enough.

       “My guess is you must be (Y/N) (L/N).” you heard a deep, somewhat husky voice behind you as you pulled off the wig from your hair. Once again someone came to congratulate you on your performance. It was usually pleasant, knowing your work is appreciated. But there were cases, when men came to mock you or try to lurk into your bed. Downfalls of being the leading actress in one of the least known little theatres in London.

      And this man sure didn’t sound like someone who just wanted to voice their appreciation.

      “Your guess is wrong, mister.” You responded calmly looking in the mirror to get a glimpse of the two men. The deep voice had to belong to the tall man with curly black hair. Very nice cheekbones. And a confused look arising on his face. The shorter man’s features weren’t as sharp. You could only assume that it reflected on their personalities “I might be (Y/N) (L/N). I could as well be Lady Macbeth, Christine Daae, Cleopatra, Anne Boleyn… or Mercutio.”

      “Mercutio was a man, right?” said the other. You couldn’t help but giggle a little as your gaze returned to your own reflection. 

      “Yes, he was. But we don’t have enough talented men to fill all the roles.” You responded, with much more kindness towards the man. He didn’t seem like anything close to a douche, that was all you needed to be polite to him.

      What you didn’t know was that those were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson you were talking to. The famous consulting detective who just found your artistic work… impressive. Never before in his life had he witnessed someone take in their character the way you did. It fascinated him how you managed to truly behave like the character you were playing. Not allowing your own body language to ruin the impression, even for someone as observant as Sherlock.

      You surprised him, something he couldn’t just walk past by.

      But before he had a chance to speak, to voice his thoughts you got up from the chair and looked into his eyes. It was enough for him to lose his track of thought. Normally, that would be the moment he’d discover everything about you. By just looking into your eyes, noticing every small change in your body. But there was nothing. A plain wall, through which he couldn’t get past. You blocked his deducing skills, which left him speechless.

      “Thank you for the kind words, Mister. But I’m afraid that would be the end of your visit. I need to prepare for the next play. It was a pleasure to meet you.” You told John with a kind, genuine smile on your face. Only now Sherlock realized that John had said something, probably the basic phrase that you must have heard a thousand times already.

      Sherlock would find the right words to describe your performance, but you didn’t give him the chance.

      Almost automatically you reached out to unlock the door to the flat you’d been renting for a while now. It wasn’t the best place to live in, but at that point, you appreciated any place that provided you heat and a bed to sleep in. Theatre payment wasn’t enough for you to rent a proper place without dying of starvation. 

      That was the moment when you realized the door wasn’t locked. And the memory of closing it was still fresh in your head. 

      Your thoughts started racing, as you wondered what should you do. Surely the only reasonable answer was to run, as fast as you could. Maybe call the police on your way. Never before had you even thought of someone breaking in, especially in a place like this. There wasn’t much to steal. All you had were some personal belongings, nothing valuable. 

      That was the moment you realized there was something in there you couldn’t leave behind. Something that drew you towards the door, regardless of the danger that could still lurk there. 

      You stepped into the flat with much more confidence than you actually possessed, only to witness a tall man standing in the shadow. Forcing yourself to resist the temptation to scream or show your fear in any way, you took another step forward. “I suggest you leave now, before I call the police.” It took all your strength to keep your voice from quivering. Not once in your life you heard that if you act like a victim, the other person shall act like the predator. That was the time to use that knowledge.

      The dark figure walked towards you, stepping into the light of the hallway. Almost immediately you recognized the man from the theatre.

      “What the… were you following me?” you asked, not even trying to hide your frustration. All of sudden the fear disappeared, leaving you simply… confused. For some reason you didn’t feel scared of that man. There was still a possibility he could be someone extremely dangerous but… he didn’t look like it. He looked puzzled…

      Lost…

      “Of course I weren’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be here first. I was waiting for you. I can see you’re a lonely young woman who just moved in to London. Influential background, but you cut yourself from your family. Or rather they cut you off. Most likely because you’re different than them. Your mind always wandering off to places they’d consider unreachable… am I right?” he seemed rather pleased with himself. And all he’d said was right. Your family cut you off after you dropped out of university, you moved here to finally be able to live your own life. But all that didn’t matter, not at that very moment.

      “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” you asked, not risking coming closer to him. Instead you moved towards the kitchen cupboard, your eyes not leaving his for even one moment. You needed to check if your treasure was safe, if the bracelet was still safe…

      “There’s no need to reach for the knife you want to grab, I’m not here to harm you.” The man said and raised both of his hands in a sign of defeat. For a moment you thought that grabbing the kitchen knife as a defence wasn’t a bad idea, it had to be a logical assumption for him. Little did he know sometimes you valued old sentiments more than your own safety. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

      “Oh… I’ve heard of you actually.” the realization struck you. His face didn’t look familiar, but the name did ring a bell to you. London’s favourite detective, a man granted with intelligence ordinary people couldn’t even imagine. And he was in your flat, for some reason. “But your reputation doesn’t justify you breaking into my flat. What is it that you want?”

      Sherlock narrowed his blue eyes at you. For a moment you stood in silence, observing each other carefully. “I was wondering what made you such a convincing actress. Your portrayal of a character is impressively accurate. I’ve never seen someone disguise themselves so perfectly into being someone else.” His words sounded strange to you, but you could understand his point. His unusual form of appreciation even managed to move something in your heart. You wanted to thank him for his opinion, but the words lost their way to your mouth.

      “Is that it? Is that the reason you violated my privacy by coming here?” the fact remained, this man was an intruder and no matter his intentions he had no right to enter to your flat uninvited. “If so, then get out and better don’t come back.” You moved, so the way to the door was all clear for him. You were tired after a long day at work and you were in no mood to deal with this detective celebrity. Even though his presence touched something deep down in you, played on a lost string of your heart.

      “That isn’t the only reason I came. I see that it’s hard for you to make ends meet. And I do value your skills, so… I might have an interesting proposal for you, (Y/N).” you noticed how sparkles of light danced playfully in his eyes.

      That’s how it started…

         …to be continued…