#poppys

[ilovetreesreal]

red poppy ❤️‍🩹🎀

[pangeen]

" Bed of Poppy Flower " //© Zetong Li

[alighierisdante]

Never posted this. Really proud of it. Killer on my wrist though. Flowers be tough sometimes. Poem's from a book called "Brightspots".

[helloliriels]

Remember Me

For @flashfictionfridayofficial & inspired by this image.

Mummy was walking too fast. Sherlock tugged on her sleeve. Once. Twice. Three times, then stopped and stomped his little foot, with a huff.

"Sherl!" She spun around to catch him, scowling.

His little scowl was far less intimidating at all of four years of age, and barely three feet in height ... but the resemblance was uncanny.

"I wanna say 'hi' to the 'member-me man!"

"The who??" Mummy stood perplexed. Her eyes landed on the full-size knitted statue of a WWI soldier, placed in honour of Remembrance Day ... and she sighed. "Alright, be quick!"

Sherlock squealed with delight.

"Hi 'member-me-man!!" He waved.

The soldier stood stiff and still.

Sherlock splashed in a puddle to get his attention, "I came back! See??! D'you 'member me??"

"Come, we have to go, " Mummy tugged.

"No!" Sherlock pouted, "why won't he say hullo?"

"He doesn't speak, Sheryl. He isn't real," she replied impatiently.

Sherlock fought rising tears, stomping again, "he is real!"

Mummy scooped him up and walked on, "just like your father ... too much imagination!"

Ignoring his small protests that suddenly ceased ... as the soldier looked back at him, at last!!! and winked!

( more continued beneath cut)

"Where are you going Sherlock?"

Mycroft was in a mood today. Sherlock couldn't wait to get a minute to himself. He had nearly escaped his brothers watchful eyes three times since their arrival in London ... The next was bound to succeed!

Sure enough, a polite exchange turned into a full-on political discussion and Sherlock seized his moment ... making his way out of the crushing crowds to see his knight in knitted armour.

***

The figure was there. Just as he remembered it! Only ...

Now that he himself stood a grown man's height, he realised ... the soldier was shorter than he?

He grinned. Stepping around to better see the face when it came to life ...

The soldiers face broke into a smile as Sherlock introduced himself and apologized for his long absence ... several years now, he'd missed it ... and always felt guilty about it.

He'd often dreamt that the soldier's day had been unmarked by a friendly face ... but he hoped, however, that was not true ... ?

He was about to ask the all-important question, burning his tongue ... when he heard the sound he had been dreading ...

Heavy footsteps.

"Sherlock!"

.

He rolled his eyes as the face became wool again, and spun around to see Mycroft's angry scowl. He was winded and leaning heavily on his umbrella.

"What in the name of all that is-" he began.

"Holy f-," Sherlock laughed. Too delightful.

He leaned in to describe everything he was seeing to the stiff soldier.

"Are you talking to the ... to the ... to-what is that THING?!?" Mycroft sneered.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock explained. As if Mycroft was dense. "Well ... I say friend." He winked at the figure. "Now if you don't mind?"

Sherlock went back to saying his peace. Even reaching a hand out at one point to touch the soldiers lapel. As Mycroft stood by ... dumbfounded.

.

"There!"

Sherlock brushed passed Mycroft, head held high ... "he says 'hello', and his name is John by the way."

Mycroft sputtered and followed. As Sherlock waved their farewells.

***

The rain was pelting down on him, but he did not mind it. Could not mind it. Could not care.

His mind ... a racing engine ... was tearing itself apart ...

A small dose. 7%. A light touch. Brilliant clarity. That's all he wanted.

All he wanted.

Not this crushing despair ...

.

Sherlock curled up against the wrought iron fencing. The rungs dug into his bony back. Far too gaunt; from lack of food ... lack of sleep ... lack of hope ...

He didn't care.

. Not anymore.

.

He would be forgotten here. Trampled and tossed aside. It was only a matter of time.

.

Meretricious

.

Hugging himself against his wool coat, he desperately gathered it closer. Defying the damp, to retain any warmth still left in his bones ...

.

Why couldn't he be more like his father?

Blithely happy in his ignorance?

Why couldn't he be more like his mother?

Brilliantly impersonal, clinical against all alike.

.

But no. He cared.

He cared too much.

And it hurt.

.

He no longer had the will to fight it. He wanted to give up. Give in. Blissful oblivion, he was promised ... but it wasn't, ever ... was it?

It was hell.

.

Sherlock had crawled and clawed his way across London to reach the one spot left, where he held a happy memory.

It was Remembrance Day, after all.

His soldier would be there. Waiting.

.

. Only, he wasn't.

.

Sherlock felt the disappointment like a kick in the stomach. And found himself collapsing where the woollen man should be??

Remember Me.

. Remember me?

.

A wink.

. A smile.

Anything.

Could have saved him today ...

.

But not now.

He crumbled. The sky thundered and poured harder to match his falling tears.

He fought those too.

Foolish. Stubborn. Stupid, for having hoped in a fantasy ... rudderless and lost now. Just one more in a faceless sea.

He curled up and tried to sleep.

Remember Me.

.

The chill lifted from his body. Like steam. Rising. Escaping. He felt himself going with it ... untethered ...

He smiled and looked up to greet the warmth ...

Saw the hand.

Knitted gloves. Green.

Reaching out.

. "I remember you."

.

John was lifting him up like a ragdoll. Carrying him in his arms.

"Let's go home?" He asked.

.

Sherlock nodded, eyes already closing, held in such trusted arms ...

"Baker Street."

.

He said, and was fast asleep.

..........................................

@johnlocky @totallysilvergirl @fluffbyday-smutbynight

[sn4pp]

[i-like-cats-and-stars49]

Redraw of an old piece of mine

The original:

The new version:

(The girl in the piece is my OC Amrei.)

[wein-bitte]

Who wants a hug?

[msbellucci]

[the-overanalyst]

it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.

[elenaivanpapadopoulou]

[laetu-s]

april in northern california, 2024

[hapalopus]

Kinda surprised how many different animals can be black and tan

[feliville]

eye contact

[rennybu]

something unknown but very powerful came over me. retro spirk kyaa❣️❣️❣️

[pokefan1241]

hitting and smacking you moodboard