#guard me sherlock james

[love-ly-ships]

Just felt right

[venomvalley]

MOUNTAIN MAN — WEEK 2

summary:

Genesis 6:17 Behold, I, even I am bringing the flood of water upon the earth, to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life, from under heaven; everything that is on the earth shall perish.

tags: detailed descriptions of dead animals, grief, more pining

notes: i wrote the post-flood scene before any other scene in this story actually. it means a lot to me.

here's how you can help appalachian hurricane helene victims

-> READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

Chris hates you. An opinion you almost guarantee as fact. He hates sitting with you, hates talking to you, hates even looking at you sometimes.

You understand, to an extent. He’s been burdened with caring for you, and he doesn’t seem the kind of man who appreciates his boat being rocked. A lone wolf cursed to an un-life of solitude.

He's mean, but not cruel. Barks at you while changing your bandages. Huffs in annoyance when you step into a room yet hands you NSAIDs every six hours (on the fucking dot) to stifle your pain. Asks about the depth of your stupidity as he picks you up from your fall.

The fall.

He stands outside the cracked-open bathroom door like a guard dog while you wash up your hands. Said something about taking chances the other day, how close you were to hitting your head on the very sink you lean over. So he stands outside and listens for your call, like a good man would.

The rain pitters light on the roof today. A blessing sent from a god you aren't sure you believe in anymore. But if there's any miracle to be witnessed in your life, it was falling into the man's arms that await you just across the thick pane of wood that separates you.

You open the door and the sight of him greets you, brawny arms crossed over his chest, scowl a permanent fixture on his face. He’s a big man. Broad-shouldered, thick around the waist. A full beard, a mop of dark hair. His stature makes you nervous, but not as nervous as it should. If he wanted to hurt you, he very well could, but he hasn't. A bad man wouldn't pass up the opportunity to pounce on an injured hiker squatting in his house. He should've done it the moment you walked through the front door.

But he's fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head to shield you from the rain. Things a good man does.

So you accept his mean words and his scowls and his huffing for a man with a heavy chip on his shoulder. It must hurt a whole lot to carry.

You shuffle past him on the way out of the bedroom, and his heavy footsteps trail behind you.

Upon the small, worn coffee table sits a stack of books, each cover swathed with a layer of thick dust.

“What's this?” you ask, taking a seat on the couch to reach them.

“Something for you to do.”

You grab the book on top and turn it over to read the blurb. The word Detective jumps out. “A mystery?”

He shrugs before plopping down on the seat next to you. “Everyone likes a good mystery.”

“That’s true.” You point to the rest of the stack. “Have you read all these?”

“More times than I can count.”

“Which is your favorite?”

He sits forward with a huff, tilts his head to read each book’s spine. You stare at him as discreetly as you can manage given your proximity. This close, you spot the salt-and-pepper whiskers at his chin. He trimmed his beard some time between last night and this morning, still full and thick, but less lengthy than you remember—not like you’ve been keeping track. You’re just observant by design.

And you have eyes. Eyes that always find him the most interesting thing in the room.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Really?”

“Is that surprising?”

“You look like a James Patterson kinda feller.”

He shrugs, reclining against the back of the couch. “I appreciate the classics.”

“No, I respect it. When I was in middle school, I used to read Shakespeare in my free time.”

The glare he gives you is flat as a board, same as his tone when he says, “Bullshit.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, and you throw your head back from the force of it. “I’m serious, it’s all we had in the house to read.”

It feels good to laugh again, to bond over something besides suffering. You think he might need the distraction too, given his angsty fidgeting beside the radio all morning. He kept the volume low while you limped around the house to stretch out your muscles, passing by his hunched-over form on each revolution.

“How did you even understand it?”

“Oh, I didn’t.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile looming in the hollow of his cheeks. “Not that I’m complaining, but you give me too much credit sometimes. Unfortunately, I perpetuate the uneducated Appalachian stereotype.”

“Yet you use the word perpetuate.”

“Saw it online once and thought it sounded pretty.”

With a shake of his head, he turns back to his collection. Starts reaching you various titles as he reads through each blurb on the back and sorts them out, setting aside the ones he thinks you might like. You notice a common, on-the-nose theme with each setting.

“They all take place in the mountains? How’s about the desert or something?”

“You would never read one of those.”

“And how do you know?”

He's completely right. Nothing scarier than murder coming to town, or a killer hiding in miles of untouched wilderness. You grew up with the mythos surrounding what lurks in these woods, find familiarity in the macabre.

At the sight of his glare, you offer a tight-lipped smile. “Ya know what, never mind. Thank you for the books.”

.

.

.

“The death toll has now risen to twelve.”

The statement from the radio sits in your stomach like curdled milk.

It happens every few years, the same exact way. The hollers fill up like cups of water, people die, nothing is done about the situation. You fend for yourselves. Twelve people dead and counting, thousands homeless, dozens more missing—and by next week, the national news will be discussing a politician’s choice in tie.

You don’t cry. The people here have always been expendable to the rest of the country. Toothless fools living off methamphetamine and welfare. Harbingers of their own destruction. Good riddance.

You don’t cry. There’s enough water filling these valleys for a lifetime.

Chris doesn't get it. He’s an outsider—the mountains his escape, not his home.

Still, he sits with you. Absorbs your grief, shares in it. Says that he’s lost people, too, but you can’t help, selfish as it is, to think that his loss and your loss are different. Two opposing pinpoints on a radar. Disconnected.

He brings you outside to sit on the porch, huffing about fresh air doing you some good, and extends his hand, cigarette held between thumb and forefinger. You haven’t smoked in years. Quit after your daddy died of lung cancer from working in the mines. When he was on his death bed, he said I don’t want this to be you one day.

Now he’s dead, and you might not even have a home to come back to, so one smoke won’t hurt.

And still, Chris sits with you, chair pulled up right alongside yours, ashtray balanced on the armrest of his chair.

You think he might know a thing or two about disaster. About death and mortality. So you ask him.

“Earlier, you said you lost people. What’d you mean by that?”

He blows the smoke from his mouth at the same time you do, turning the air between you opaque, like one of them fancy glass windows from the nice church in town. That church was for the rich people, with their fancy clothes and sturdy pews and in-house architecture. Folks like you—straight from the holler—were confined to single rooms with no air conditioning and red carpet floors.

And yet everybody dies all the same. When the water starts rising, stained-glass windows don’t seem to matter much anymore. You wonder if the church in town still stands, and if you look too hard, you see your daddy in the smoke.

“I can’t tell you. For your own safety.”

You nod your head. “I get it.”

A beat of silence, another inhale, before he speaks again. “I wish I could.”

It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said, and yet you haven't felt this small in a long time. Fragile. Maybe if you step out into the rain you’ll dissolve like sugar.

At least the rain stopped.

You finish your cigarette then head back inside. Chris runs you a bath and settles into bed with a book from the coffee table stack he left you, remaining within earshot should you need the help.

A bath will help the same way a warm hug would. The way curling up beside him beneath the covers would help the grief that settles an ache in your bones. As if you’d ever ask. Maybe you just wanna feel his big hands on you again. The rough of his palms, weathered by years of guns and training. No doubt he’s killed before—you saw the way he held that knife. More hunter than you or your daddy could ever be.

Once reclined beneath the steaming water, you close your eyes, and you dream in abstracts. Ideals. Suffocation, cold. The softness of a belly, the shade of blood, forest canopy darkness.

The thudding of a fist against the door wakes you same as the water that burns up your nose. You sputter and cough as your elbow hooks on the lip of the tub, pulling you over the side and onto the floor.

No, wait. Those are hands dragging you out. Hands that don’t belong to you.

“Do you have a goddamn death wish?” He kneels over your starfished body, fingers spread along your side where your lungs heave for breath. Face bathed in shadow, eyes hollow pits.

You turn your head to the side and expel a cough, dislodging the leftover water built up in your throat. “I fell asleep.”

“You almost killed yourself.”

“Thanks. I wasn't aware.”

For a split second, you think he might slap you upside the head, and you wouldn't blame him. You've always been trouble.

But he sits you up. Heads for the cabinet beneath the sink.

“I'm sorry,” you say as he throws a towel over your naked shoulders. “Again.”

He doesn't respond. Instead, he dries you off by scrubbing your skin raw. Your back then arms then legs. Fully avoids your chest and belly, the apex of your thighs, and you get why, but a part of you wishes that he would brave the uncharted waters. (The very selfish part of you that just wants to feel good.)

He passes the towel to you then stands. Turns toward the sink as you finish drying yourself off.

“From now on, you're getting sponge baths.”

Each swallow you take likens to razorblades, but your near-death experience has lit a fire within you. The stubborn kind.

“Why? I was doing fine ‘til you pounded on the door.”

“Because I knew you would do something stupid like this.”

You fall silent, humiliation burning at the nape of your neck. All that work you put into bonding, snuffed out by your incompetence and his responding temper. Your personalities clash like water and oil on a good day, and you’re starting to believe that this situation was never meant to work out.

When the tide recedes, you need to leave. A best case scenario for both parties.

He drops a pile of clothes in your lap, and you’re sure you look pitiful from where he stands. Towel wrapped around your shoulders, the corner fisted in the hand shielding your mouth. A protective barrier between your thinning psyche and the harsh world.

Suffering is a long-time friend, and you’re old enough to shy away from more pain. Two things can be true at once, after all.

Chris leaves the bathroom to let you dress in peace. The faded flannel is soft and comfortable and stereotypically red, if not a bit warm for the weather. He gives you another pair of boxers, the seam of the waistband frayed. Hand-me-downs.

You’re grateful.

When you enter the living room, Chris is nowhere to be found. Most likely cooling off on the front porch, and you know when you tread the line of biting the hand that feeds you, so you settle in on the couch and pick up the closest book to read.

Beside the stack sits a glass of water and a bowl of seeded grapes still interwoven by their stems—smaller, more bitter than their store-bought counterparts, but a welcome treat after the day (week) you’ve had. Maybe that was the point.

For some reason wholly unknown to you, the gesture pools saltwater on your lower lash line.

He’s a mean man, not a cruel one.

Biting into each grape reminds you of the forest. Of foraging with your gran on the trail behind her house, and catching crawdads in the creek out back, and fighting the bugs off your bare legs with two hands and a quick prayer.

You wonder where Chris grew up, what kinda stories his inner child has to tell. If he had a good upbringing or a big family. You’d never ask him outright, but the privacy of your mind allows the comfort of exploration. He was probably some latchkey kid raised in a suburb out west. An only child, too, given his familiarity with solitude.

Or maybe he’s none of those things—a purgatory between fact and fiction that you’ve gotten real used to at this point.

When the sun begins to set, as you light the big candle on the end table, Chris walks in. Says, “I listened to the radio. No more rain for the rest of the week.”

When he passes by the coffee table, he snatches up your bowl full of grape seeds, stained purple from their skin.

“Thank you,” you say, voice small and weary. Pitiful. You just hope he understands what you mean.

Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for the reassurance. Thank you for giving a shit.

In return, you receive only silence.

That’s okay. You don’t mind.

.

.

.

For some godforsaken reason, Chris stands out in the yard and chops wood for two hours. The ding of metal splitting a solid object wakes you from a deep sleep, the sun not nearly bright enough through the curtains for this type of manual labor.

You watch him through the kitchen window, perched on the counter. The broad span of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the thick curls of his chest hair that tapers off into his jeans—

He’s deliciously shirtless, and you need to be sedated. Immediately. Just stir-crazy from all the time spent inside. That’s all this is.

But then he meets your eye and approaches the back porch and panic pounds against your ribs. It was a bad idea to stare.

He stumbles inside, dripping sweat and huffing. “I need water.”

You swing your legs off the counter and limp over to the fridge where a pitcher of filtered water sits. “Hot out?”

“You could say that,” he replies, tone a flat grumble that shows he hasn’t moved on from last night’s incident.

He snatches a stained towel from the kitchen table that he uses to wipe down his face and neck, reaching for the glass of cold water you offer.

The air stagnates, bloated and heavy. Unspoken words settle on your tongue like broken glass—daring you to interrupt the silence with empty words that would only serve to sever the already-frayed thread of your relationship.

His aloofness stings, and yet you can’t even be angry. He owes you nothing, yet has given you more than you deserved. Even worse, he’s a glorified stranger.

You sit on the couch just as he heads toward the bedroom. The pipes creak within the walls as he readies a bath, and you listen for the thump of his footsteps as they move back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom.

And then silence.

The morning wanes on and Chris confines himself to the four corners of his sanctuary, where you never dare to cross the threshold. You lose yourself in page after page of the novel you’ve been reading, and just before the final reveal—

“Alright,” the squeak of his door jolts you from your concentration, and he steps out with a first aid kit in hand.

You dog-ear the page in your book, frustration simmering beneath your skin at the interruption, and set it on the coffee table. “You know I could do this myself, right?”

“Really?” There’s a hint of apprehension in his voice that makes the stubborn part of you bear its teeth.

“You think I’m helpless?”

He looks you over, as if the consequences of your fall might answer your own question. Then he scoots out the coffee table to take a seat, and from the way it groans, you think the poor thing might break under his weight.

“I got shit luck. There’s a difference.”

“Sure.” His beard twitches with the threat of a grin, and your muscles relax on your next exhale.

“You’re an asshole.”

Once your wounds are clean and the bandages are finally left off, Chris shares with you the good news: your ankle isn’t actually broken. A pretty bad sprain, yes, but you’ll take lingering tenderness over the threat of surgery any day. Pop two ibuprofen every six hours and you should be good to go out and explore again.

Perfect timing, given his want to survey the wreckage.

Of course, he presses back against the idea. And then you remember that you’re an adult with free will who knows a hell of a lot more about these hills than he does. You’ve been coming out this way since you were tall as his knees.

As if you’d let him leave you here.

So you stand at the door and wait for him, already dressed in your hiking clothes (thankfully washed now), shoes on, foot wrapped exactly how he showed you. He walks out of the bedroom and spots you with a heavy sigh, but says nothing. Just throws open the door and waves a hand for you to go first.

Outside, the storm displays its aftermath. The thick mud and felled trees. A wheelbarrow that used to sit nearby, missing. The damage is minor, but still, your heart sinks. Chris’s land has the advantage of elevation—the areas down the mountain do not.

It takes half a mile of following the trail toward town for the extent of the flood to rear its ugly head.

You stand over the body of a dead goat and stare.

When the water receded, mortem swarmed in, engulfing the forest floor in a snare of rotted flesh and maggots.

The aftermath is devastating.

Animals from a farm nearby, decomposing on the riverbank. Broken-off fencing, wooden siding from a home (who knows how far away that home once stood), a child's twisted bike. A baby blanket caught on a low-hanging branch. Pieces of lives now devastated, unlikely to be fully rebuilt.

But you can't stop staring at the goat. Body bloated to bursting, fur swathed in a layer of dried mud, swollen tongue hanging from its open mouth, a wriggling beneath its skin.

The goat will be gone by morning, feasted upon by the surviving creatures that live in the woods. Nothing more than crisp white bone by sunrise. A small offering to the Appalachian wilderness. Give and take, a flat circle.

Nature is no respecter of persons. You learned this at an early age when you ventured too far into the creek, the water a bit too deep and a bit too angry for your little legs to outswim. You woulda drowned if not for your mammaw dragging you out of there. It was the first time you ever had to pick a switch for a whooping, and it was the only time you ever had to learn your lesson about respecting the nature that surrounds you.

Chris doesn't. He bullies his way through the trees, leaves forage to rot, never watches his step. A lifetime ago, maybe he owned the world. Maybe the life he used to lead bowed to him. Maybe he never knew the weight of consequence.

You can question his motives until the river runs dry and still, you'll never be able to figure him out. The past he runs away from, so devastating it left him a hermit squatting in bumfuck nowhere.

His presence approaches at your back, the weight of a dying star. (If his light dims any more you fear him collapsing the universe.) He rests a hand on the curve of your shoulder, thumb a burning brand against the side of your neck.

“Are you alright?” he asks, more gentle than you’ve ever heard him.

Grief is your closest friend, isn’t it?

You blink and you’re ten again, riding a shiny new bike around the grassy bottom of your uncle’s farm. He treated his animals better than he ever did his family, and your daddy always joked that his brother was raised by wolves. He hated kids but had three. When awake, he spent all his time in the barn, grooming the horses and cleaning their pens and talking to them into the late hours of the night. Your aunt said one time that she wished she could be a horse so her husband might love her again.

You blink and half a foot of mud swallows up the livestock.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Really?” Skeptical, as he should be. The remnants of your town washed twenty miles down the river and you can’t even shed a tear.

“I’ll get over it.”

“Don’t do that.” His response is immediate, fingers tightening around your shoulder. “Trust me, it doesn’t help.”

You wonder what he’s thinking. What memory popped into his head to lead him to such a conclusion, because getting over it is the only way you’ve managed to survive this long.

He leads you away from the scene with a hand on the back of your neck, much like an owner scruffing an unruly dog, but he’s gentle in how he handles you. A shepherd guiding his flock back to the safety of their barn.

The goat will be gone by morning.

There's no getting into town on foot, and you don't think Chris would let you go anyway. Better to wait it out (you might die before then from your own anxiety) than risk getting stranded.

Ambivalence drives you back to Chris’s cabin beneath a blue, cloudless sky. Not even a bird chirps for the whole half-mile. No rustling in the bushes from a fleeing rabbit. The storm left and took all life with it.

When you get home, you take off your shoes and find your mourning place on the soft cushion of his couch. He sits next to you, a quiet comfort. A bright orange buoy for you to cling to—so you cling to him with arms tightened around his waist. You shiver like you’ve caught a fever, like your whole world has been wracked by disease.

“I’m sorry. I just—“

He shuts you up with an arm slowly wrapped around your shoulders.

It feels right, and something thick and warm swirls in the pit of your belly. The comfort you've been craving. The first time he's ever seriously touched you.

You curl into his chest, his shirt smelling like tree bark and petrichor and long-gone decay. A piece of you never wants to leave the safety of his arms. They’ve been far less cruel than the outside world.

“I’m real scared, Chris.”

A beat of silence. “I know.”

“And sad.”

An intake of breath. “I know.”

“What do I do?”

A sigh. “There’s nothing you can do. Not right now.”

You press yourself harder against him, halfway in his lap, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. You need the sensation, the touch of another—anything to pull yourself from the flood waters.

He must understand, because he wraps you up in a hug, a hand searing the skin of your lower back through your shirt.

You can't ask for more than this, no matter how badly you want to. You have roots settled elsewhere, a home to rebuild, a family to go back to—

Do you? Could you afford to entertain the idea, even a little?

He holds you until your pulse slows. Until the numbness fades from your hands. Until the water drains from your lungs.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper against the side of his neck.

“Why?”

“It ain't like me to be like this. I just…” you inhale a breath, tasting him at the back of your throat. “I don't know.”

How to explain what you feel when you don't even know yourself.

But you've been lonely a long time, and it's taken you disaster to realize it. Forced proximity. Kindness from another for once in your life.

From an outsider, no less. Funny how life works, ain't it?

A wickedness unfurls in your gut. The acid-burn of temptation. He hates you, hates you, hates you—no matter how many times you tell yourself, the belief never sticks. Things would be easier that way. You could have a place to lay your guilt about wanting a man who's been nothing but kind to you.

But lord, this loneliness.

“Can I ask you something?” you mutter, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He hums his agreement. “You ever get lonely all the way out here?”

He swallows. “I'm sure you know the answer.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

A long, stagnant silence. The air grows thick as if holding its breath. He doesn't have to answer, and you'd never force him, but you need to know and you aren't sure why that is.

“Of course I do.”

“Is loneliness what you want?”

“I thought it was, but…” He trails off as if he changed his mind, the thought left unfinished.

“And now?”

His beard rasps against your temple, chest expanding from the weight of his breath. “I haven't figured that part out yet.”

You exhale a shuddering laugh and relax against his bulk. “Yeah. I get it.”

Chris lets you hold him for a long while. Long after the sun has set, and the both of you begin to yawn, and your bellies cry out for food. He cradles you like a baby bird cupped in his palm long after he needs to, and you stay in his lap long after your head clears.

Neither of you say a word when you follow him to bed, or when he makes room for you beneath the sheets. When he cups the nape of your neck as you nuzzle at his cheek, holding you steady against him—neither pushing you away or pulling you close, unsure of which action to take.

“Stop thinking so much,” you whisper.

He turns his head, nose ghosting over your cheekbone, the bristles of his beard rough against your skin. Butterflies furl and flutter in your stomach, his mouth so close that your teeth itch. Your muscles coil in anticipation.

And then he turns away. Disappointment drenches you in ice cold water, all the blood draining from your face in one swift motion.

“We should sleep,” he says, dark lashes fluttering over his cheeks.

Humiliation.

‘Is loneliness what you want?’

You have your answer.

But maybe you misread the situation. Correlated his kindness with attraction. It's not his fault. A piece of you actually finds relief in his rejection. Evidence of his self-control, of loyalty to his beliefs (however stubborn they make him).

You're spiraling. The you from twelve hours ago would never have made advances toward him to begin with. Tomorrow, you might have woken up and regretted it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as your gran used to say.

But grief does crazy things to a person, and when was the last time you had been held like this?

He cradles you as you fall asleep, thumb following the curve of your spine, still nourishing your comfort. A sweetness that incites an ache deep in your marrow. More than you deserve right now.

But you'll worry about it all in the morning, when the dust has settled and the events of today finally transition to memory. You’ll grovel at his feet and beg him to let you stay.

[joanquill]

"Hey, wanna take advantage of the couple's discount today?" + "Wanna go fake-propose at every restaurant we can find to get free dessert?"

William and Little Sister Holmes Fluff Romantic Prompts 6 & 7 (and could you also make it so that during all of this, little sister holmes is trying to get info on the lord of crimes a.k.a. william)

William James Moriarty

A/N: The reader is Sherlock and Mycroft's younger sister. Tag/s: Holmes!Fem!Reader, Fluff

You sighed for the nth time of the day, kicking a small pebble as you walked along the street.

You glanced over to the shops and saw your reflection on one's display and the reflections of Mycroft's men, whom he graciously gave you as your bodyguards after seeing your suitors who visited you this Valentine's Day.

What surprised you was Sherlock agreeing with Mycroft.

You clicked your tongue as you kicked the pebble stronger, making it skip a few feet away.

You looked around the streets for an escape, hoping to avoid the eyes of your elder brothers until...

'Huh?' you questioned as you spotted a familiar blond with scarlet eyes entering a stationery store.

'William James Moriarty?' you recognized, seeing him look intently at the different kinds of pen and paper.

You gasped and smiled to yourself as a plan formulated in your mind, an opportunity to mess with your brothers.

And now, seeing the growing crowd coming out of the department store nearby, you have found your chance.

You swiftly crossed the street, hastening your pace as you merged with the crowd.

You snickered as you saw your guards stumble and get pushed back, frantically looking around for you.

You triumphly hummed to yourself as you walked over to William, tapping his shoulder.

"Lord Moriarty," you politely greeted, "It's been a while," you smiled at his surprised expression, slowly turning into a smile.

"Miss Holmes," he took off his top hat with a smile, "It truly has been ages," he added, making you smile.

"What brings you here?"

"Just felt like it," you shrugged, a mischievous smile still on your face, " Say... You don't happen to be courting anybody, do you?"

William raised his brow with a smile.

"Quite direct. Aren't we, my lady?"

"Just making sure no one would be upset or get hurt with my proposition for you," you grinned, making William smirk.

"And that would be...?"

"Be my Valentine's date?"

.

.

.

William blinked twice at your question, making you laugh.

"I beg your pardon?" William asked as you continued to laugh.

"For pretend, of course," you reassured, still chuckling, "My brothers have been really annoying with giving me bodyguards after seeing my suitors, so I want to teach them a lesson," you explained, making him lightly laugh.

"And so you want me to pretend to be one of them?"

"A fake proposal also wouldn't hurt," you shrugged, "Besides, I heard there's been quite the sale for couples this Valentine's Day," you coerced, making him chuckle.

'And with his title and how much Sherlock praises his intelligence, maybe he has some ideas on the lord of crime,' you thought, looking at William.

"...I don't see why not," William answered, making you beam.

"So you agree?" William nodded in response, making you internally cheer.

"Yes. It might be quite interesting," William answered, a dangerous gleam shining in his eyes as he gave you his hand.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, making you scoff.

'Ahh... Now I see...' you grinned, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.

"Then, it's a deal. Lord Moriarty,"

[rifulofthewest]

It always catches me off guard when in Moriarty the Patriot fanfiction William is characterized as someone who is afraid of change or gets visibly angry/scared when things don't go according to his plan

He is all about adaptation to circumstances

A little boy with his brother, one year younger: live in an abandoned old library, and are constantly quitting orphanages. Staying steadily in one orphanage only when Louis begins to have a heart condition, because Will realizes that he will need help of adults with this

He agrees to Albert's invitation, which was neither expected nor anticipated + we know Will and Louis had their own money (we saw them in the courtroom chapters). So in the orphanage, they most likely tried to find people with contacts of doctors who could perform the necessary surgery. Because we also know that they ended up in THIS orphanage AFTER they were caught by the security guards of the largest library in London, where they were - I guess - looking for medical books to compare them to Louis' symptoms and give a name to what was happening to him

And the final plan for the destruction of the class system, which included only crime and Will's death at the end (or the three brothers going to jail, as everyone was told), and Will still being able in the process to: 1) made Sherlock the protagonist - when the three of them were supposed to be the protagonists of everything; 2) rescued Irene Adler/Bond from the British government, which was very risky; 3) went up against the Blackmailing King and lost, but still used it to his advantage.

Like... William James Moriarty should be considered as synonym to ”adaptation„. It is literally EVERYTHING he was doing all his life.

[educatedinyellow]

Getting to know you meme, tagged by @beastlyanachronism, thank you! Your answers to these same questions were so fun to read <3

Three ships I like: I like so many. But a few recent ones I've liked enough to write for myself include Dean/Castiel (Supernatural), Kara/Lee (Battlestar Galactica), and Holmes/Watson (Arthur Conan Doyle). And honorable mentions to Vimes/Vetinari -- which I like so well that I keep intimidating myself out of writing it, lol -- and Peter Wimsey/Harriet Vane, they are too smart for me :)

First ship ever: I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'ship.' If you mean the first canonically romantic relationship that I loved and got invested in, it might have been Peaceable Drummond Sherwood/Barbara Grahame (The Sherwood Ring), or Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester, or David Addison/Maddie Hayes (Moonlighting). All those I encountered quite early in life; they got in on the ground floor with me, one might say. If you mean the first slash relationship I ever read, then it was Louis/Lestat (and Armand/Marius) from The Vampire Chronicles. And -- like many in fandom I suspect -- there were fictional relationships I treasured and/or was fascinated by in the source material but didn't learn to ship until much later, like Holmes/Watson or Valjean/Javert. There are still other beloved duos from my childhood and teenage years that I absolutely see the slashiness of, but still prefer to imagine as the most devoted of friends, like Illya & Napoleon (Man From UNCLE) or the Star Trek triumvirate. The heart is a funny thing and unpredictable as to where it yearns for romance versus where it says: you know what, I actually just want the most beautiful camaraderie forever, no kisses needed.

Last song I listened to: It was Come On Get Higher by Matt Nathanson. There's something about the rhythm of the chorus I find so catchy. Also, it's such an Endverse!Cas song, it makes me think of Hth's funny, sharp, haunting, bittersweet (but with more sweetness after all in the end) fic: And Watch What Happens.

Favorite childhood book: The first book I remember passionately declaring as my favorite was Wait Till Helen Comes, the coming-of-age ghost story by Mary Downing Hahn (I would have been in about 3rd grade at the time). Very atypical of me, I must say, as I've never been a horror fan, but I suppose ghost stories are about as tame as horror gets. Some childhood books I still consider favorites today include the Mary Poppins books by PL Travers, Jane Eyre, the Sherlock Holmes stories, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Timothy Zahn Thrawn Trilogy (Star Wars), some of Dave Barry's humor anthologies, Pride and Prejudice, and Les Miserables. Those were some of the big ones I remember reading before I started high school.

Currently reading: Not a blessed thing at the moment, although I have a collection of James Thurber essays, the history of a 1940s coast guard rescue mission, and a massive overview of the Reconstruction/Gilded Age period checked out from the library. Will they be read before they need to be returned? Only time will tell.

Currently watching: The first season of Foyle's War. Unfortunately, I have finished the season and not fallen in love with it, despite everyone I know having loved it. I think...I'm just not that captivated by mysteries in general, and I need a little more eccentricity in my detectives in order to have a really good time? Not to knock the performances -- especially the lead, Michael Kitchen, who is understated and excellent in the role. But I miss Wimsey's patter and Holmes's flair for the dramatic :)

Currently craving: So, I am pre-diabetic and my son's doctor has recently informed us he is insulin-resistant, so we are doing our best to cut down on carbs and especially sugars around the house. I've been working on this for years, and actually have lost about 70 pounds over the last five years due to changes in diet, a routine of walking, and metformin (a blood-sugar control prescription). But over the last six months I've been taking care of my dad, and I've spent a lot of time taking him out to eat or to fast food places, and let us say I am wavering on my path to wellness, LOL. I need to recommit to more things like vegetables, but what I tend to crave most is the convenience of grabbing something warm and tasty from a restaurant. I'm working on it :)

Thankfully, there are some nice somewhat-healthier alternatives to old-fashioned desserts that we can stock our shelves with here to snack on. There's a "carb balance" pita that's delicious with guacamole or hummus. There's a keto-friendly mint-chocolate ice cream bar that's low carb and still delicious, and little coconut-chocolate cookies that are low-sugar with a bit of fiber and protein built in. So, I think I'll have one now with a cup of my favorite french vanilla black decaf tea & remind myself that eating healthier still leaves plenty of room for all kinds of things I genuinely delight in :)

Currently consuming: I am heating the tea water!

Pets: None. My dad had a dog that I was caring for, but she was elderly and passed away several months ago. I've never had any pets as an adult. When I was a kid, my mom gave us hamsters and eventually a giant passel of chihuahuas.

I will tag @thetimemoves, @sanguinarysanguinity, and anyone else who'd like to play!

[pinazee]

Lights camera homicidio

Hola! Me llamo pinazee! Me gusta queso!

Okay im just going to be honest here, when i first watched this (being part latina myself) it made me feel a lil’ icky because it was a knee jerk reaction of it feeling like a white guy doing a bad impression of a mexican; but once i learned James is half and that his dad enjoyed hearing him speak spanish on his show im perfectly fine enjoying all the over the top spanish bits. And listen, i understand that james wasn’t doing an impression of a mexican and it was really more an impression of the soap opera acting, it still felt like a degree of the culture was at play too. But again, its totally fine, and honestly even if he was a full blooded german i probably would have given it a pass, simply for the reasons stated above.

Anyways, I, surprisingly, don’t have a whole lotta notes for this one. So this might just be a set of gifs ;) i mean, look how much fun he’s having!

I love that rothstein and Jorge were almost instantly bff’s with shawn, to the point that the show called it out- which was great! He has this infectious quality of bringing people into his world and making them feel valued and listened to. The more i watch this show, the more im grateful that Shawn was the subversion of the “genius”trope we had at the time in the sense that he was actually great with people. Mid 00’s you had the mentalist (prick), house (prick), sherlock (prick), monk (awkward), charlie (awkward, p.s adorable), uh that lie to me guy (prick)- you get the gist. Shawns a lovable guy. I dare anyone to say otherwise.

Hahahhahaha get it? His sister is ugly! She looks like a guy! Hahahahahha -_-

*sigh* Look how deflated shawn gets because he’s so used to the criticisms at this point. Ugh, henry is really pissing me off this time around. But, i will say, this does add a little bit more to henry as a character. Like the whole bubble bath and tanning thing, we see henry is not the stereotypical manly man but instead feels he has to hide this more feminine side of himself, enough to the point that Shawn doesn’t really know the real him. Henry’s imposed this image of what he thinks a man should be while secretly hiding he doesn’t live up to that ideal himself. Henry’s a really guarded individual and i can’t help but wonder if there is a trauma there that built that wall, or if it was simply how it was growing up in his time. Idk, maybe a little of both. But, again, i don’t think it was ever really explored which is a shame. I would have liked to see henrys origin story. Could you imagine movie 4 opens with kid Henry and papa Spencer? That could be cool :)

The juliet B story- im so confused by what they were trying to say. It was naive of juliet to try to make friends? She shouldn’t come on too strong? Chief Vick is the only friend she needs?? I like the scene she has with the chief, and i honestly don’t even mind that lady being an asshole (cause feminism). I’m just confused by the plot really. I wish they would’ve given us some hope that she could’ve made a friend in the department. Like a passing lady says hi to her, and juliet smiles. Or had karen give her advice that was more than “be careful, these women are guarded.”

That scene juliet had with her did break my heart a little at this part. Juliet needs a friend okay.

Also, i think Ms. pascoretti thought juliet was hittting on her and thats why she filed a complaint, so she’s just a homophobic asshole who should be fired, and im going to assume she was as we never see her again so good riddance.

P.S TOO HARD!

[adrowsypirate]

The Whitechapel File Chapter Three {Pov Sherlock Holmes}

The Whitechapel File Chapter Three {Pov Sherlock Holmes}

Before heading to The Ten Bells, they had spoken with the landlord, gathering what little information he was willing to share. The Ten Bells public house came into view as Sherlock and Watson approached.

"When you said we had to catch a train, I thought you meant—" Watson began, only to be cut off.

"It took twenty minutes to walk here on foot," Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly.

They stepped inside. The dimly lit pub carried the scent of stale ale and pipe smoke. At the bar, James Thomas Sadler sat slumped over his drink—a disheveled man with an unkempt beard.

Sherlock strode up to him without hesitation.

"Mr. Sadler," he began, his voice crisp, "you returned to the guest house close to three o'clock in the morning, looking even more battered than before. Profuse blood stains covered your clothes, and you appeared visibly distressed. You told the landlord that ruffians had assaulted you, stripped you of your gold watch, and subjected you to a severe beating. You then asked to spend the night, but the landlord found your story suspicious and refused you lodging. Instead, he advised you to seek treatment at the London Hospital in Whitechapel."

Sherlock's piercing gaze locked onto Sadler, studying every twitch and flicker of emotion.

"Now, Mr. Sadler," he continued, lowering his voice, "would you care to tell us the truth?"

"I did not kill Frances Coles, Mr. Holmes," Sadler said, his tone sharp as he fixed Sherlock with a wary glare.

"And yet, you returned with your clothes covered in bloodstains," Sherlock countered smoothly.

Sadler slammed his hands onto the bar and shot to his feet. "I was attacked!" he growled, his eyes flashing with anger.

Sherlock remained unfazed, his keen gaze dissecting every detail of the man’s face—flushed red with frustration, his eyes twitching, his breathing uneven.

Watson tensed beside Holmes, ready to intervene if needed. The other patrons in the pub turned their heads at the commotion, a few muttering under their breath.

"Attacked, were you?" Sherlock mused, tilting his head. "By whom? Surely a man bloodied and beaten so severely would have no trouble recalling his assailants."

Sadler clenched his jaw. "I told the landlord what happened. A gang of ruffians jumped me near Royal Mint Street. They took my watch, beat me, and left me for dead."

Sherlock steepled his fingers.

 "And yet, you failed to report this alleged assault to the police. Curious, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

"Quite," Watson replied, crossing his arms. "Most men would seek aid or justice."

Sadler exhaled sharply, glancing between them. "What are you implying?"

"I'm implying, Mr. Sadler," Sherlock said, his voice quiet but cutting, "that there is more to your story than you are letting on. And I intend to find out exactly what."

Sadler’s hand twitched toward his pocket. Instantly, Watson stiffened, his fingers hovering near his coat where he kept his revolver.

Sherlock, however, simply smirked. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

Sadler let out a heavy sigh before sneering, “Fuck you, Holmes.”

Watson departed for home as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving Sherlock to make his own way back. Upon arriving at Baker Street, he found his elder brother waiting for him.

Mycroft Holmes was a man of heavier build, with thinning black hair that had begun to betray the weight of stress and responsibility. 

The strain of fatherhood had aged him prematurely,  deepening the bags beneath his piercing gray eyes.

Dressed in a fine black silk suit and polished brown leather shoes, Mycroft greeted him coolly. “Brother, Mrs. Hudson let me in.”

Sherlock lowered himself into his armchair, studying his brother with curiosity. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“Jack the Ripper.” Mycroft's voice carried an uncharacteristic weariness, a hint of exhaustion that caught Sherlock off guard. “The rumors?” Sherlock prompted, his keen eyes narrowing.

Mycroft exhaled sharply. “Yes, these damn rumors. They claim that Sir Cameron Gull, son of Sir William Gull, is Jack the Ripper.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “They suspected his father as well?”

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “His father was a seventy-one-year-old man in poor health. Cameron, on the other hand, is a thirty-one-year-old member of Parliament. If the public believes we have a murderer lurking in Westminster—a man who preys on ‘ladies of the night’—it would be disastrous.” He paused, then fixed Sherlock with a pointed look. “So, prove that he is not the killer, brother.”

Sherlock studied him for a long moment. “And if he is?”

Mycroft’s expression darkened. “Then it will be even worse.” He straightened his coat. “I will pay for your services.”

Sherlock, for once, looked genuinely surprised. “I will find the killer.”

Without another word, Mycroft turned and strode out, leaving Sherlock alone with the weight of the case ahead.

[lilolilyr]

♡ pls reblog my fic posts ♡

This is my new fandom masterlist!

In alphabetical order, everything I write for:

Gen F/F F/M M/M

• Dracula

• Goncharov (Katfia)

•••• Good Omens (ineffable spouses)

• Gunpowder Milkshake, (Floreleine, ScarletMay, Librarywives ot3, Killercule) also on @floreleine

• Hacks HBO (Avorah)

• Hawaii 5-0 (McDanno)

• Holby City (Berena)

• Humans are Weird // Humans are Space Orcs

• James Bond (00Q)

••• Leverage

•• Lie to Me (Callian, Zoe/Gillian)

• Lord of the Rings // The Hobbit

• MCU (mainly ClintCoulson, Stucky)

•• Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries (MacPhrack)

• Ocean's 8 (HeistWives aka Loubbie)

• Pirates of the Caribbean

• Pitch Perfect (Becommissar)

•• Sherlock (Johnlock, Shirene aka Adlock)

••• Star Trek

• ST Discovery (Milippa -prime, -mirror, -poly, -kat)

•• ST DS9 (Kiradax, Kahndax, Kiradaxkahn)

• ST Picard (Saffi)

•• ST TOS (Spirk)

••• ST Voyager (J7, Chakotey/Tuvok)

•• Star Wars

• The Devil Wears Prada (Mirandy)

• The Hunger Games

• The Old Guard (Andromaquynh, Andronilynh)

• The Witcher (mostly Geraskier)

• Venom

• Warehouse 13 (Bering and Wells), also on @hgwellsmykabering

•• Yoko Tsuno

& more :)

A bunch of my fics are unfinished and Up for Adoption!

I don't just write but also make podfics, art, edits/manips, moodboards rec lists and memes sometimes :D

If you want to be put on any of my fandom tag lists to be notified when I post something, let me know!

I'm always taking prompts, though much more likely to write for people who also support me by reblogging stuff and/or commenting on Ao3 of course ;) the ones in bold are my active fandoms that I'm mainly taking prompts for! You can also send other ideas though :)

I'm open to transformative works - podfic, fanart, continuations, AUs etc of my works - just click 'inspired by' on Ao3 / link to my work on tumblr!

My favs • Ask me things! • behind the scenes • discord • Ao3

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (16-22 Mar 2025)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

🥰 Royal Pain (Penny00Dreadful) - 59K steddie fantasy feudalism arranged marriage fic, absolute fun read, really enjoyed the characters and how they were fitted into the setting

🥰 The Art Of Cooking For Two (littleblackfox) - 92K, Stucky, a nice GBBO AU, almost as relaxing as an actual ep of GBBO. A few side characters are a bit ooc to make the story work which was actually fine (always makes me laugh when poor Pepper gets character assassinated by being turned into her actress) [reread but the last time was over 6 years ago so it felt really new]

💖💖 +177K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

You'd Look Sweet in Lavender (SquadOfCats) - MCU: becca barnes & steve, 10K - [forgot to add this last week bc i had the wrong date on my spreadsheet!] - "The night before he leaves on the Captain America USO tour, Steve stops in to say farewell to the Barnes family. Becca shares her brilliant plan for their future." Incredible becca barnes characterization; short, sweet vignette of steve & becca's friendship

Patience (ama) - Society of Gentlemen (KJ Charles): ash/francis, 24K - the lead up to Ash & Francis' book, excellently done

Poetry of the Senses (sharkie335) - The Old Guard: kaysanova, 27K - very enjoyable sentinel AU

Blue Moon (what_alchemy) - MCU: stucky, 15K - hot, hot, hot! Love every iteration of a stucky roadtrip! (#5 of the Timestamp series but also works as 100% standalone)

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Shardlake - s1, e1

Home Town Takeover - s3, e2

Doctor Odyssey - s1, e11

Death in Paradise - s14, e5

Harley Quinn - s5, e9

QI - series O, e1-5; 7-9, 11

No Taste Like Home - "Awkwafina's Korean Homecoming" (s1, e2)

No Taste Like Home - "Justin Theroux's Italian Quest" (s1, e3)

No Taste Like Home - "James Marsden's German Dish-Up" (s1, e4)

Ghosts (US) - s4, e10-16

D20: The Ravening War - "The Seeds of Conflict" (s17, e1)

D20: Adventuring Party - "That's War, Baby" (s12, e1)

D20: The Ravening War - "Bloody Harvest" (s17, e2)

D20: Adventuring Party - "A Fun Dark Seed" (s12, e2)

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Pop Pantheon - What is the Pop Pantheon?

Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Adventure of Silver Blaze

Welcome to Night Vale #264 - Duet

The Curious History of Your Home - Home Security

The Curious History of Your Home- Windows

The Curious History of Your Home - Dinner Parties

Short Wave - Could 'Severance' Become Our Reality?

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Ayo Edebiri's New Movie Opus

⭐ It's Been a Minute - Goodbye, church… Hello, Wellness Industrial Complex!

The Sporkful - Is A $1 Slice Of Pizza A Snack? (with Katie Nolan)

Vibe Check - Hey, Sis: featuring Imani Perry

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Sunken Pirate City at Port Royal

⭐ Switched on Pop - Lady Gaga's Monster Return

⭐ 99% Invisible - Beautiful West Oakland, California

David Tennant Does a Podcast With…Stanley Tucci

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Novocaine

Vibe Check - Elbows Up

Shedunnit - Oxford vs Cambridge

Off Menu - Ep 283: Antoni Porowski

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Real Office Space Behind Apple TV’s Severance

Twenty Thousand Hertz+ - “In a World…” The epic evolution of movie trailers

Imaginary Worlds - Bonus: Superstar Stuntwoman of Silent Cinema

⭐ Throughline Plus - Sesame Street

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Snow White And What's Making Us Happy

It's Been a Minute - Poppers, the FDA, & a crackdown decades in the making

You're Dead to Me - Cuneiform: the world’s first writing system

Endless Thread - Adrián and the Whale

Sherlock Holmes Short Stories - The Musgrave Ritual

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Slate's Hit Parade: Insert Lyrics Here Edition playlist

Iron Maiden

MAYHEM [Lady Gaga] {2025}

Dolly Parton Radio • Upbeat

"I Know A Place" [Petula Clark] radio

The Struts Radio • Pump-up

Fleetwood Mac

[siena-sevenwits]

February 2025 Reads

I continue to rise, slowly but surely, out of the slump. My list is smaller than what some people read in a month, but it's encouraging progress for me.

Complete: How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse by K. Eason (2019, YA space opera, fairy-tale inspired) - A strong first third, and probably a strong conclusion, but it lost me in a muddy middle. I think the author fell into that trap where they know what they're setting up for, so everything seems compelling to them, but to the reader who doesn't have a clear sense where it's going, there's less draw. Or maybe I just wasn't in the right mood during the mid part. I liked the creative setting with the house plants that mirror moods, and Rory's little household on the space station, and I did like the way Eason used Rory's fairy gift to get insight on the unspoken thoughts behind others' words. The whole cryostasis thing was intriguing, and I wish we had made even more of it, given the whole "Rory is a descendant of Sleeping Beauty" thing - I was wondering if Ivar being frozen would tie into this aspect. There's a lot of humour and cleverness along the way, and l loved Rory's vizier and guards. But I did get a little annoyed with all the moments where Rory felt embarrassed by her clothes being a bit skimpier than she would like, because every time I was like, "Nobody made you wear those, girl, and there would be literally no consequences if you wore something you were more comfortable in!" I think I enjoyed it enough that I'd be willing to check out the second book of the duology sometime when I'm in the mood, but at this point, a mix of feelings.

Complete: "Sir Orfeo" translated by JRR Tolkien (Medieval narrative poetry) If you saw that one afternoon when my dash was all Sir Orfeo, you'll know how I enjoyed it. Very good stuff worth thinking about, and a fine Medieval take on the Orpheus myth.

Complete: Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster (1912, classic epistolary novel) Delightful narrative voice, masterful command of how to make a all-correspondence story flow. Webster really uses the one-sidedness of the letters to advantage in telling the story. Judy is a likeable protagonist, and it was neat to see her develop beyond her insecurities regarding her asylum childhood and flourish as an independent young woman. But I'm still a bit taken aback that her only reaction to finding out the truth about Jervis was bliss. It's possible to imagine explanations for his not explaining to her that he, Jervis, the man who has gotten to know her in person and proposed to her, is also the man who's been receiving her letters, whom she imagines like a kind father or uncle. It's the dishonesty of it that should have horrified her at least a bit - even if we assume the best intentions on his part, it's creepy. Much to enjoy, but because I could see the ending coming from so far off, it cast a bit of an uncomfortable shadow over the rest.

Complete: The Thinking Engine by James Lovegrove (2015, serious Sherlock Holmes pastiche.) I do find it funny that the word pastiche is often used to mean parody these days, but in the case of Holmes stories, we still use it in its original sense of a homage. I've enjoyed some of Lovegrove's Sherlock Holmes stories in the past, mainly because he actually does quite a good imitation of Watson's writing style in the original Holmes novels. The stories themselves don't feel perfectly authentic - he does things that don't feel in the same vein as Doyle - but he does such a good job keeping them in voice that I can overlook it. I enjoyed the Oxford setting (having visited is a gift that keeps on giving. I have the rest of my life to keep loving everything set in Oxford with the pleasure of being able to picture many of the locations mentioned from memory.) The mystery was not a "fair" mystery - a reader could not have worked out every detail alone - but it was unfair in the same way the Doyle originals are often unfair. Lovegrove isn't above some of the common indulgences of pastiche writers - name dropping all kinds of historical and popular culture people, introducing Houdini into the story briefly, and [spoilers:] doing the old "Moriarty survived the Reichenbach Falls" thing, although in this case he kills him off for good almost as soon as he reveals him. I had a pleasant enough time with this book. I will never be utterly wild about Sherlock Holmes, but I enjoy the great detective and his assistant enough to visit them in some way every year.

Complete: W.ind and T.ruth by B.randon S.anderson (2024, S.tormlight Archive #5, epic fantasy) I may change my mind about this review, as i only finished last night, but here are my thoughts in the moment. SO many mixed feelings about this book. Much that I loved - A.dolin and the defence of Azimir was a standout, but also things like S.hallan's wedding, D.alinar righting his mistakes, some enjoyable dialogues, and dear old characters, and plot moments. S.anderson's imagination is strong, and his scenes are tremendously fun to read out loud. Also much that didn't land for me. Some scenes I skipped because I was uncomfortable with them. Some storylines were bloated and repetitive, and needed a more ruthless editor. Some previously compelling characters were flattened (I realized, by the end of the book, that I had stopped caring about K.aladin, for example.) Some passages were clumsy or just too heavy handed. I thought S.anderson did some wonderful bold things with the ending which will no doubt set up some very neat story dynamics when he gets around to writing the second arc. I would, however, have liked to see more resolution to this books in addition to the door opening for the second arc. It had less resolution for the book itself than any of the previous entries - though that may be more about my expectations than anything else. I really enjoyed reading it aloud, but I also think I might possibly be the weakest book in the series. So yeah, mixed reaction.

[mundrakan]

Masterlist Rare Fandom Kinktober

I think only ONE person was interested, but I have a certain idea who this person is and so I'll do it just for them. In hopes they see it and know that they are important to me :)

2023

Which one? - Witcher treesome

The dubious joy of worship - Castlevania

A story of love - Addams Family

The Knight's order - Don Quixote

Love thy enemy - Arthurian legend (and one of my favourites)

Blushing virgin - Beauty and the beast

Bat in a cave - Batman

Getting Sneaky - Sex Education

Special treatment - Glass Onion (and if you ever want to see a hillarious, perfect, wonderfun gay man, go watch it)

Training - NCIS

Professional medical opinion - Firefly

Canon - Peter Pan (and it is bizarre)

Losers - Futurama

Snow Crow - Game of Thrones

Fear and love - Spartacus - Blood and Sand

If it is like that - Sherlock (BBC)

Old stacks get mouldy - Altered Carbon

Honey trap - Lucifer

Acquisition - We are the night (if you can watch the German original)

Embarrassing urges - Zootopia

Unlucky - Shadow over Innsmouth

In between friends - Ghost in a Shell

More than words - Captain America

Tryst - Downton Abbey

Business - Gattaca

Creative Solutions - Matrix

Purgatory or Heaven - The Old Guard

Deep inside - Original (Dragon Rider Verse)

Mischief - Thor

Expections - X-Men

Half awake - Taboo

2024

Guilty pleasure - Van Helsing (Netflix)

Having a husband - Addams Family

The Risk - Dune

To make a Garou Child - World of Darkness RPG

At knife's edge - Hannibal

A win-win situation - Deep Space Nine

Walking in your shoes - Firefly

In his own cave - Illiad

If only... - V as Vendetta

Travelling - The Old Guard

The seed of success - Altered Carbon

Anxiety relief - NCIS

What I see - Sherlock (BBC)

The Tigress of Oldtown - Sin City

Horizontal Tango - Attempted vertically - X-Men

Sex on the Beach - Cast away (Crack)

Small Amends - Les Miserables

Unsolicited Interruptions - James Bond

Initiate - Frontier

A thief - Goncharov

British Education - Red, White and Royal Blue

Instead of Chocolate Icecream - Dead Boy Detectives

After the job - Witcher

Public relations - The Rookie

On the watch - Dungeon Meshi

Temptress - Gladiator

Object Teaching - Zone Blanche/Black Spot

Hide the Hide - Rings of Power

Female solutions - Dracula

Beneath the surface - Original work (Dragon Rider Verse)

If a link doesn't work, please let me know. Otherwise... enjoy, I appreciate ever read, kudos and comment you grant me.

[thefisherqueen]

All right, reading The Bruce-Partington Plans this evening! Two more stories after this and I've caught up with Letters from Watson :)

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. It blows my mind how normal this kind of heavy, extremely unhealthy smog was in this time. Makes me wonder what in another 100 years people will have going like "You lived like that?!" (I hope it's parking lots and highways and office buildings)

But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction. Bored Sherlock Holmes, oddly cute

“Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.” Oh my, Doyle was really in his tiger fangirl fase when writing these last few stories

Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming round.” “Why not?” I asked. “Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. We'll get to meet Mycroft again! :) Also, quite a funny image, Mycroft running on rails

You told me that he had some small office under the British government.” Holmes chuckled. “I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in thinking that he under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government.” And this was me thinking that the BBC series had sucked Mycroft being this whole goverment mastermind out of their thumb. So that's canon?:O

“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. Nice parallel between the brothers here!

“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good many fresh facts have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a curious case.” “Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a most extraordinary one.” He snuggled down in his armchair. “Now, Watson, let us have the facts.” I just love this interaction. Holmes being all excited and trusting Watson to tell the important things to him :)

So the case is about a dead clerk that was found - murdered, in all likelihood - carrying some seriously important papers. Which he himself had stolen. And some of which were again stolen of him. Intriguing.

I'm hoping for some fun investigations in tunnels and along train tracks (I hope our men are careful)

If the papers were guarded with the same 'super secure' protective measures as the secret papers we've seen so far, they couldn't have been hard to steal

The actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. I already don't trust him. At least it's not a colonel?

“Has the fact been verified?” “Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.” But his brother is! Very suspicious

“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “Come, Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour or two? Off they go!

It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was impatient with less alert intelligences than his own. Savage, Watson

Watson, we have done all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our investigations must now carry us to Woolwich.” No don't leave the creepy tunnels and train tracks yet :( I want more adventure

No theories yet. I can't figure out what Holmes means by points and curves and not wanting to investigate the train's carriages

“That should be helpful, Watson,” he remarked as we took our seats in the Woolwich train. “We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable case.” It's 'we' and 'us'. They are so Together

“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a carriage.” That explains a lot: why there was a loud thud, why the clerk hadn't a ticket, and also why there was no blood on or near the tracks

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered our ring. “Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this morning.” Oh! There's a second murder victim?

“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an affair. It broke his heart." Ah, of course, no murder but the mysterious victorian Death by Sadness disease. If he really is dead. Btw, I don't trust the brother

I have a theory: mr. colonel learns of the top secret papers because likely his scientist brother can't keep his mouth shut, either convices his brother to take the papers home, or he steals his key and takes them himself. Anyway, Cadogan West catches them being all suspicious and impulsively (he was hot-headed) follows them to try to stop them. Which doesn't end well, he knows too much so he's murdered, and they place 7 of the papers upon his body so he can take the blame. Of course the brothers cover for each other

Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.” Always trust the opinion of his fiancee. This young clerk was innocent

My friend's face grew graver still. “Anything else?” “He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.” Poor security. Why am I not surprised

“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.” “Without a word?” “He gave an exclamation; that was all. Clearly no planned theft then.

“I'm afraid,” said Holmes, smiling, “that all the queen's horses and all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter.” He had spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. Holmes is a map nerd! Same, Holmes, same. Now the question: what clue did he find from the map?

All the long November evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a messenger with a note: Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. Danger date! Love it. No clue what a dark lantern is

Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less poisonous than one would expect. That is not reassuring at all, Holmes

When I found that the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity.” So the colonel was innocent this time? Or did he still steal the papers, and then sell them to this agent?

We must bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make.” “Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?” “Hardly on the evidence.” They are going to break in! Exciting!

He sprang up and shook me by the hand. “I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more. Awww :) Be gay, do crime, boys!

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet. Colonel! I haven't given up on my theory yet

I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day's work to a conclusion.” I guess that Holmes wants to lure the other accomplice out by placing a new message

But some of these days you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend in trouble.” “For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Holmes you flirt

“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we've got him!” “That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.” We're nearing the conclusion :)

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition. This is a wonderful bit of insight into their characters. Watson is anxiety-inclined. Holmes is able to switch that off to a perhaphs unsafe level - anxiety helps keeps you alive, after all, not good to not have it at all.

The man glared round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped sown from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter. The colonel again. I fucking knew it. Careful, Watson, if you can find more words for his beauty you might faint yourself

I did not murder him! I'm innocent! I only did nothing to prevent it and then did not call for help and then helped get rid of the body!

Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence be returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. Cadogan West's fiancee gave Holmes a present? That is so sweet

Another fun read. I couldn't care too much about the fate of those papers, but it was a good case. The yellow smog and trains and tunnels added a lot of atmosphere. And Holmes and Watson interacted very cute in this story

[joanquill]

Confession time

I like this for Louis and the Little sister of holmes + date

Louis James Moriarty

A/N: The reader is Sherlock and Mycroft's youngest sister. AND I'M DONE WITH VALENTINE'S FINALLY! Tag/s: Holmes!Fem!Reader

"How dreadfully boring..." you sighed, leaning to the wall as you took another sip of wine, your eyes scanning the ballroom for something interesting.

Suddenly, a familiar shade of blond and glasses walked in, and your eyes lit up in interest.

"No way...!" you breathed out with a smile, stepping through the crowd and straight to the man.

"Mister Moriarty," you called out, making the man turn to you.

"Such a pleasure seeing you again," you courteously bowed with a smile while the man had a permanent scowl.

"Miss Holmes..." he greeted back, doing a short bow.

"I never thought I'd see you in a social event like this," you mused, a playful smile on your lips.

"Yes, well... My brothers wanted me to attend," he sighed, his eyes averting from you.

You raised a brow, "Are they here?" you questioned, not remembering spotting any of the two.

"No. Both of them are busy, but this is still an important social event," Louis answered, fixing his suit.

"So, I will bid you a good day," he smiled, venom seeping through as he excused himself.

"Aww, come on, Lou!" you giggled, following the man,

"Don't be so cold!"

For the rest of the night, you followed Louis, trying to start a conversation while he avoided you the best he could.

"You're really not much of a talker, are you, Lou?" you mused, following Louis as you looked around the floor.

"Miss Holmes," he muttered, sharply turning to you.

"May I ask why you follow me like a lost puppy?" he questioned, an aura of fire surrounding him.

"Surely there's something for you to do this evening,"

"Nope," you shook your head, "Like you, I'm just here for appearances." you shrugged, looking at the dance floor.

"This evening would have been an absolute snoozefest if you didn't arrive," you admitted, making him pause.

"What are you saying...?" he narrowed his eyes at you, making you smile.

"I'm saying..." you stepped closer to him, and he stepped back, "...that I'm glad you're in this dance with me," you genuinely answered, making him stumble.

"...What are you playing at, Holmes?" he asked, making you breathe out a smile.

"I'm not playing, Louis," you reassured, chuckling a little.

"Is it that unbelievable that I like spending time with you?" you asked, confusing him even more.

"But if you wish me gone that much, I won't force you to keep me company," you reassured, stepping back.

"Have a good evening, Mister Moriarty," you smiled with a bow, walking away.

"Wait," Louis called out, grabbing your wrist.

You looked back and saw his face completely red, catching you by surprise.

"...I apologize for my sour attitude," he coughed, fixing his glasses, "That is not how you should treat a lady... Even if it's you,"

"Pfft," you quickly held in your mouth and stomach, but your laugh overpowered you.

Louis stared at you in shock as your laugh echoed through the hall, catching everyone's attention.

"Miss Holmes..." Louis warned, calming you down.

"Sorry... I... I wasn't expecting an apology..." you snickered, using your fan to hide your face.

Louis sighed as he waited for you to calm down, letting you fix yourself.

"I knew it," you chuckled, looking up at Louis, "I'm truly glad I met you. Louis James Moriarty," you confessed, smiling at him.

Louis' eyes widened as he stepped back, caught off guard by your genuine smile.

"...How cunning..." Louis muttered under his breath, looking away as he fixed his glasses.

"What?"

"I said that makes one of us,"

[fancyfeathers]

the idea of louis carrying albert's shyer daughter around while doing stuff while she's just quiet is soooo cute also the thought of madeline being john's assisstant is sooooo stupidly adorable like i can't comprehend it. like these two would share the same braincell. plus i wanted to pitch an idea : 🩰 darling meeting john a couple of times when william and sherlock interact. i have this idea that john, to her, is one of those rare people who doesn't want anything from her. he is nice becuase he is. no ulterior motives. it is different from albert's darling since they have the same issues. but john is someone separate from her. he is nice for the sake of being. he is gentle and his eyes reflect no master plan. i can imagine him making small talk and she is silently blushing. better make sure william doesn't see the blush tho-

Ahhhh I know! Just imagining Louis caring her all the time because I honestly picture her probably having chronic fatigue (which fun fact I have and I write so much to help me with it) so I think he would have a very special bond with her since he was very sickly as a child and she is quite similar and just wants to be held all the time. Sorry about the tiny bit of angst lol.

But yes just picturing John and Madeline am trying to keep up with the detective and her elder sister would be like a mirror. Like Watson and her just watching the two of them trying to figure out what the fuck they are thinking.

But the idea of her and John being friends melts my heart. Like she has never had anyone truly kind in her life stick around and when they first meet probably on the train she probably doesn’t trust him at first and it wouldn’t be until their second meeting probably in Bath where the painting gets vandalized where she lets her guard around him. I’m just imagining the two of them looking at the paintings in the gallery and she knows how they are done from her time watching the crew making backdrops for the opera and John just listens, and it’s sweet and kind and reminds her of her dead friends. So just whenever Sherlock and William are talking or working together the two of them just go off with perhaps Sherlock’s darling if she is there and the three of them are actually very good friends.

Now I have the really sad visual of John and Sherlock’s darling reminding her of her two dead best friends when they are visiting, Sherlock and William talking on their own, and she just breaks down crying and the two quickly comfort her, wondering what’s wrong. Then William notices and walks over, pulling her away from John and asks her what’s wrong right when she was about to tell John and Sherlock’s darling what happened and why she was crying…

“I…I don’t remember… sorry.”

The Games We Play of Dust and Ash (Yandere Moriarty the Patriot Masterlist)

Father Like Daughter (Yandere William James Moriarty and his darling having a genius daughter)

[m-y--p-a-s-s-i-o-n-s]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

Thanks for the tag, @lizzy0305 <333

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

162

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

622,263 - surprisingly low for how many fics I have, but a bunch are drabbles so I guess that checks.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

What fandoms don't I write for? XD

Supernatural. Sherlock. Star Trek. Teen Wolf. Marvel. Harry Potter. Merlin. James Bond. Lucifer. House MD. Primeval. Doctor Who. Venom. The Witcher. The Old Guard. Ted Lasso. Detroit Become Human. Good Omens. Our Flag Means Death. Hannibal.

Plus a few others.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Meant To Be - AOS Star Trek

5 Times Jim Forgot About Vulcan Hand Sensitivity & 1 Time He Didn't - AOS Star Trek

Making Love - Venom

Lunch Break - House MD

Truth Or Dare - Supernatural

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to respond to every comment provided its not hate, I ignore hate. I want people to know that their comment is truly appreciated from the bottom of my heart. Comments are food for the writer's soul.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably either The Void (TOS Star Trek) or Forever (SPN) or most of my SPN Endverse fics.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my fics have happy endings, I live for them! Hmmm trying to think of particularly fluffy ones though... The Prince and The Princess - (AOS Star Trek) What No Man Has Done Before - (AOS Star Trek X HP) Good News - (DBH) Afterlife - (TOS Star Trek)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not too much, but it happens every so often. Why people can't just exit a fic or not interact with it if they don't like it is beyond me.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Sure do. Um, explicit and M/M but the specifics vary depending on pairing and fic. Been getting more detailed and more adventurous with it over the years though.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Ohhhh boi have I ever written a crazy crossover XD

Convergence - where I brought many many fandoms (and even more ships) together in a story with an actual plot.

Its not my only crossover, but it's by far the craziest.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of, but I have been asked if some can be translated before, just never heard from them again.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

In a way with @lizzy0305 who started Fragments ages ago and then I finished it because we both knew she wasn't going to finish it.

and also Double Date with weegie8 a long long time ago.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

My OTP of OTPs is Spirk <3

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Theres a johnlock fic that could be the first wip i never go back to.

and an SPN and a Stanner fic that both could stay wips forever, but honestly it just takes one spark in my brain and the right mood and I could finish any of these, so never say never.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Not sure really. My fluff is extra tooth rotting? XD Also once I get used to a character their voice is easy to channel I suppose.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Feels like everything when you're trying to write a damn fic XD um, maybe not putting in enough details into a scene.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I often use Vulcan language in Star Trek fics, I think it adds to it. However I get that it can be annoying to not understand a piece of likely important dialogue cause its in another language. It doesn't bother me though.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Technically HP when I was teen, before I knew what fandom and fanfiction were. But when I was in the know it was Supernatural.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

How can I just pick one? I'll pick a multichapter and a one shot that I love.

The One That Got Away - TOS Star Trek

The Update - DBH

Tagging: @dayspring-askanison @heartshapedvows @doonarose

[denimbex1986]

'Turn on the vibrator, there's NEWS.

Whether big or small, young or old: We can, should and MUST all agree on one thing: Andrew Scott is the Short King of the Century. For us, he is one of the true Sexiest Men Alive .

The Irish actor has been omnipresent ever since his role as the "Hot Priest" in the British dramedy "Fleabag", whether in the cinema, on the red carpet, on horny Tumblr or in the form of quotes tattooed on wrists.

It doesn't seem to matter what Andrew Scott does: he does it fantastically, authentically and exceptionally. That's why we're all the more pleased about the news we've received about him this week. Because...

1. Andrew Scott stars in part 3 of Netflix's "Knives Out"!

The Netflix crime thriller "Knives Out" is entering its third round and alongside lead actor Daniel Craig, Josh O'Connor ("The Crown", "Challengers") and Cailee Spaeny, Andrew Scott will also be seen in it. Details of the plot or Andrew Scott's role are not yet known, but it is said to be Benoit Blanc's (Craig) "most dangerous case".

In any case, director Rian Johnson has landed an experienced supervillain in Andrew Scott, as he has already convinced us of his dark side as the evil genius Moriarty in "Sherlock", as Bond villain C in "James Bond 007: Spectre" and most recently as Ripley in the crime series of the same name. We expect a release at the end of this year.

2. Our prayers have been answered: Andrew Scott voices the lead role in an erotic radio play

It's a mystery to me how our society hasn't collapsed under the news: Andrew Scott has recorded a dirty audiobook for us. Just like that. It's called "The Queen's Guard" and is available on the American audio erotica website Quinn . According to the episode tags, you can look forward to "Grinding," "Teasing," "Begging," and "MDom" in the first two episodes, and from episode 3 onwards, you'll get penetration for your ears. Thank you, Jesus.

3. And last but not least: this GIF. It's not new, but it warms our hearts.

*heavy breathing*'