#prompt: imperfect

[gregorovitch-adler]

Messy

John turned off the microphone and sighed. He placed it on the side table beside his armchair and sat back in an almost dark room.

Sherlock, John and Mariana had been working on another case.

It was quite late, so Mariana had gone to bed in 221 A. John had been in the sitting room of 221 B, ruminating about his podcasting skills to himself.

John looked at Sherlock - who was sitting in his armchair across the room with his eyes closed - and inevitably began to think the differences between the two of them.

Must be different, being so perfect at almost everything, John thought, continuing to gaze at Sherlock.

Perfect analytical and observational skills needed to solve the cases, perfect timbre of the voice, perfect enunciations, and...

John had obviously noticed it a million times before but now he had to admit it.

... Perfect looks.

Not that John was jealous of all that (okay, maybe a little, but not too much), but now and then he would think that he made a wrong career choice as a podcaster after having served as an army doctor.

Oftentimes he would think that maybe he was better off as a general practitioner now that he was a civillian himself.

A comparatively ordinary job, without anyone else to work for or with.

Would that life suit him better?

John furrowed his brow at those thoughts.

"I won't be able to sleep if you keep your eyes on me the whole night," said Sherlock with his eyes still closed.

John parted his lips and got up from his chair, feeling heated around his face. "Oh, sorry. I'll, er, I'll just go upstairs. You should go to bed too, mate. Aren't you - aren't you uncomfortable here?"

John mentally kicked himself for stuttering yet again.

"No, stop. I could hear you thinking from across the room, just now." Sherlock finally opened his eyes and sat straight on his chair, looking at John intensely. "There is something on your mind, Watson. I need to know what."

John was taken aback by the kind of intensity he saw in Sherlock's eyes. He gave in. "Well, it's just that..." he trailed off.

A brief silence fell in the room as Sherlock and John locked their eyes together. Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to John so he could be close to him.

"What is it?" Sherlock prompted.

"Am I doing this right?" John finally spoke, taking in irregular breaths.

"Doing what right?" Sherlock was looking at him with confusion.

"This whole podcast thing. I mean, I make it so awkward for our listeners sometimes. And half of the time my jokes don't even seem to land well." John gesticulated widely. "And, um, even after all that editing and cutting out the extra bits, the end result isn't flawless. It's so messy and imperfect."

Sherlock stared at John blankly for a moment. He then opened his arms wide looking at him with an awkward face. "Is it okay if we..."

John caught on. "Uh, yeah, sure," he said with his brow knitted.

They both wrapped their arms around each other. John's one arm was around his waist, and he ran his other arm over Sherlock's back. Sherlock's arms were around his shoulders.

John managed to place his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed.

"The end result is not what we listen to," Sherlock began in a calm voice in John's ear. "The end result is the response of our listeners. How is it?"

John smiled. "Really good, so far, overall."

"There you go."

John felt Sherlock smile against his right shoulder.

They let each other go, but they were still holding hands, looking at each other deeply in the eye.

"Even if that weren't the case, I would not have cared."

"And why is that?" John asked, still looking at his friend with a smile.

"Because I like you as you are."

John chuckled, followed by Sherlock.

John turned around to make his way to his bedroom, already feeling loads better than before.

*

Prompt: Imperfect by @calaisreno

Tags: @helloliriels , @jamielovesjam , @topsyturvy-turtely , @keirgreeneyes , @totallysilvergirl , @lisbeth-kk , @peanitbear , @gaylilsherlock , @friday411 etc.

[ronzombie]

This is your sign to write wedding vows for you and your F/O.

Would they be goofy or intimate? How is their vocabulary? Think of all the moments that have led up to this point. Would they cry or smile the whole time?

[jolieblack]

Something finally came to me! (I usually can’t write to prompts to save my life.)

May Prompts 2024 by @calaisreno

May 24th: Imperfect

We've always done things the wrong way round.

We moved in together at a time when we knew no more than four or five facts about each other. Significant facts, granted, such as John being a war veteran and me having no patience with idiots, but neither of us could have claimed to have had anything even close to the full picture at the time. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if either of us had. Only on my really bad days, though.

I don’t have all that many of those any more, luckily. And when I do, I have plenty of good memories to help me pull myself up again. Take the ones of how we confessed our love to each other to a beautifully decorated room full of people in festive dress and in even more festive spirit, to much applause and cheering and well-wishing. Yes, you heard that plural right. Those are two separate memories, years apart and in two different places. I got to go first, and it wasn’t even me who was getting married at the time. That’s another thing that most couples would do differently. Coordinate it a bit better, at least.

The second time around, as a lot of you will remember well, it was John's turn to talk, and I‘d been told in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth shut and say nothing, not even to correct his grammar, till he was done. I can now attest that it is true that the groom never gets to have a say in anything at his own wedding. Someone got his late revenge there. And believe me, that doesn’t depend on whether it’s one groom or two. Yes, and I know there are still people out there even in this day and age who feel that it’s not normal to have two grooms at all. They can all go away and never show their ugly faces again where I can see them, or smell the foul breath of the bigoted filth they’re spouting. That’s not the wrong way around, that couldn’t be more right for both of us.

But we did other things the wrong way around, too. In most romantic stories, killing someone to save the person you love is usually the culmination of long mutual trust and dedication. It‘s supposed to be the crowning glory, the final sealing of a bond that has long been in the making. It’s not supposed to be the starting point. And John is usually the more patient of the two of us, but when it came to this, he could barely contain himself for 36 hours after our very first meeting before he did it. Ever heard of timing and pacing, Doctor, I hear you people wonder? And he’s supposed to be the one with the talent for good storytelling. The timing was good, though. The timing was excellent. There’s another 'what if' for you that is no fun to contemplate at all.

There is killing out of love, and - I have to say it, I can’t not, I‘d be lying by omission if I didn't - there's also dying out of love. I doubt, however, that there’s anyone out there who has ever put a more elaborate effort into pretending to die out of love than I have. As far as I‘m aware, that’s not really a romantic convention, either, and I sincerely hope I haven’t started a trend. I honestly can’t recommend it. Effort is well and good, and I dare say the execution in my case was flawless, but I can’t deny there was a certain lack of forethought as to the emotional impact on both parties concerned. Don‘t try this at home, folks.

People also usually date first, then start cohabiting, then get married, then raise children together. Please don’t ask me to define at what time in our lives exactly John and I were dating and when we weren’t yet. To this day we have never been able to agree on a definition for this mysterious activity that emphatically, according to John, for whatever reason, does not encompass two people who like each other going out together and having fun. But it is an undisputed fact that we had been raising a child together for a good while before we got married. And we have been going out together and having fun for years uncounted now. Crime scenes never fail to work that particular magic on us. Oh wait, no, that was another example I had on my list for what most other couples do differently. Hang on, do I see a certain Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard raise his hand in objection? Raising both hands, actually, showing us… what, seven fingers? Is that the number of couples working for the Metropolitan Police that you know personally who have met at crime scenes? Or are you reminding us of the number of times John and I were actually kicked off a crime scene because we were enjoying ourselves entirely too much, and were told not to come back till we could behave like adults? I could have sworn those were more than seven occasions, but I‘ll take your word for it.

Talking of raising a child together, I‘m sure Rosie will say a word or three about that herself later, but I have never understood why most of you had doubts about the practicability of that particular endeavour. Let me just tell you that a baby carrier is entirely compatible with a cashmere scarf, or didn’t you know cashmere can absorb up to a third of its own dry weight in liquid? And it got only easier from there when Rosie grew older and stopped affectionately drooling on whoever enjoyed the happy privilege of holding her and carrying her around. She hasn’t demanded being carried around in a good while now, and I don’t know what our poor old backs would say to that these days. But we were talking about happy memories, weren’t we, so there’s another. And at least in the metaphorical sense, I hope you know, Rosie, that you’ll be held and carried for as long as you want and need, as long as we both live. You were my daughter even before I was your father’s husband, and that has been one of the greatest honours bestowed on me in my life.

Because this is who we are, isn’t it, our crazy little family, where nothing is as you’d expect it to be. But we still wouldn’t have it any other way, topsy-turvy, weird, flawed and utterly imperfect, but also utterly us, unique, one of a kind. I don’t know if it was fate that threw us together, or if it really was just a whim on the part of the comfortable, corpulent, bespectacled gentleman sitting at this table over here, smirking with his trademark benevolence. But there’s a debt of gratitude to be paid there, and today is a good day to do it. In this at least, we’re doing the conventional thing, but who’s to say we’re not allowed to do that at least once in a quarter-century.

So, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends and family from far and wide, I give you: John Watson, the man of my life, the man at my side for over thirty years, and for exactly twenty-five years in the legal sense on this very day. Please raise your glasses with us to the next twenty-five. And for God’s sake stop snivelling like that, Mycroft. You’re embarrassing the whole room.

[raina-at]

Apology/Imperfection

How do you apologise for something unforgivable? 

How do you look the person you love most in the world in the eyes and apologise for two years of lying and deceit, for turning them into a perpetual victim of the game you played because you were bored?

The thing is, even at his best, Sherlock doesn’t do apologies. 

If he regrets a course of action, which has happened in the past, he makes amends otherwise. He and Mycroft communicate regret through gifts of expensive alcohol. Lestrade gets a text with hints about his current case, however mundane it might be. Molly gets coffee, Mrs Hudson gets the sherry truffles she likes a bit too much.

John… back in the day, he’d apologise to John by buying milk. Doing laundry. Making tea. 

He suspects that won’t quite cut it this time. 

He tries to write an apology, on the way to the Landmark. But everything he jots down on a British Airways napkin he still had in his pocket seems… trite. Empty. Imperfect.

John deserves a perfect apology. Sherlock is incapable of delivering one that’s even marginally acceptable.

So he skips it altogether.

It turns out that might not have been the best course of action.

At the end of the night, he crumples up the napkin and throws it out of his bedroom window, watching as it floats down onto Mr Chatterjee’s bins. 

It's a fitting end for a thoroughly shit evening.

*-*

During the following months, Sherlock tries to compensate for his lack of appropriate words by doing everything he can to help John. He plans the wedding, he broods over seating charts, he teaches John how to walz—pure torture, that one, and not only because John is a lousy dancer—, picks out his suit, arranges a stag night. He studiously ignores all the parts of him that want to curl up into a corner and die, ignores the pain in his heart and the regrets welling up in his throat like bile every time he opens his mouth and lies by omission. He never says what he’s thinking anymore, because what he thinks is always a litany of all the things he did wrong, all the moments he wasted, all the regrets he will take to his early grave at this rate. 

John said he forgives Sherlock. But he still feels like there’s something missing. Something absolutely essential has been extracted out of the very marrow of their relationship, leaving them hollowed out, brittle and fragile, easy to shatter.

And yet he still feels the magnetic pull between them, still feels the sizzle and pop, the connection between them, more addictive than any drug and possibly more destructive now that the guardrails of mutual trust and understanding are gone.

John is wary of him. Sherlock can’t blame him.

Maybe, just maybe, an imperfect apology would have been better than none at all.

*-*

It’s stuffy in the vestry. The sun shines in through a small window, and Sherlock watches the dust motes. John fidgets with his cufflinks. 

Sherlock feels like he’s been standing on ever-shifting sand during the last few months, as the time he had left with John slowly ran out. Now he’s on the last kernels, and he can already feel the glass beneath his feet, slippery and dragging him down the rabbit hole of self-destruction.

He reaches into his pocket to check the time on his phone when his fingers find something else entirely.

He takes it out. It’s the napkin he scrawled all of his imperfect, stuttering words onto, words he couldn’t say, words that still stick in his throat like a bone he was never able to swallow.

It shouldn’t be here. He remembers throwing it out.  How did it get into the inner pocket of his wedding suit? 

“What’s that?” John asks. He’s leaning against the vicar’s desk, not at all the picture of the happy bridegroom, uncomfortable in his suit, nervous, ill at ease in this church he didn’t pick.

Sherlock looks down at the napkin. He swallows. “Nothing,” he says, quietly, addressing his hands. Too little, too late. No use opening up old wounds now.

John gives him a long look that clearly states he doesn’t believe a word out of Sherlock’s mouth. Then he shrugs, looks away, obviously disappointed. “Fine. Fine,” he mutters, apparently more to himself than to Sherlock. He checks his watch, a nervous, impatient gesture. “Ten minutes to showtime. Better check on the guests.”

He walks to the door, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of the expression on his face in the mirror over the desk. Disappointment, pain. Regret.

And he suddenly realises that reopening old wounds assumes that they’ve healed. And that there is no such thing as too little when the alternative is nothing, and that he’s actually, really, truly, on the cusp of too late.

“John.”

John turns, looks at him, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“There’s something I should say,” Sherlock begins, hating the way his voice sounds, unsure, unsteady, like he’s chewing on broken glass.

John makes a ‘go on then’ gesture with his hand, leaning against the wall next to the door. Visibly bracing himself.

“I- it occurs to me,” Sherlock says, hesitant, feeling a bit like he’s fighting against his better judgement with every word out of his mouth, “that I never- I never apologised. For. You know.”

“Making me watch you die and lying to me for two years?” John fills in the blanks. He gives Sherlock a small, humourless smile, and there’s a world of bitterness in his voice, a poison they never lanced out of that wound. “No. You didn’t, did you? You said please forgive me, but that’s not actually an apology, is it.”

“No.”

Silence falls, and Sherlock can’t. He can’t. He feels like flaying himself open and trusting John not to destroy him by telling him whatever Sherlock has to offer isn’t good enough, isn’t, quite simply, enough, is as beyond him as it was that night at the Landmark.

John huffs a laugh that’s more annoyance than humour. “Well. Glad we had that conversation,” he mutters, pressing his lips together, clearly trying to hold some powerful emotion in.

You’re hurting him again, Sherlock thinks. If you stop now, you bloody fucking coward, how will you ever look at yourself in the mirror again? 

He looks down at the napkin, at the words he never said. The words that needed saying. Well, as they say, there’s no time like now.  “I- I should start by saying that I did what I thought was necessary when I jumped. And that you weren’t supposed to be there. I planned for this contingency, and I should have told you, but at the time, I thought it was necessary for your survival to deceive you. But you being there was neither part of the plan nor what I would have wanted to happen.” He looks up, meets John’s eyes, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. “So. Number one. I’m sorry I made you watch.”

John is silent, but his eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s face, and he’s clearly paying close attention to every word that comes out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues,“I went after Moriarty’s network because I felt it was my responsibility to clean up my own mess, and nobody else’s. It seemed selfish of me to risk your life for my hubris. I nearly reached out to you so many times, and I didn’t because if you had known I was alive, you would have wanted to join me, and I wouldn’t have had the strength of character to turn you down. If you’d died, it would have killed me. So. Two. I’m sorry I wasn’t willing to endure what I put you through.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Go away!” John yells, without turning. 

“But-”

John makes a frustrated noise, takes the two steps to the door and turns the key in the lock. “I said,” he growls at the vicar at the other side of the door,  “Go. The fuck. Away!” 

Then John turns around and makes an inviting gesture in Sherlock’s direction. “Continue.”

Sherlock gestures to the door. “Are you sure you-”

John huffs a frustrated sigh. “Yes, thank you for pointing out that I’m getting married in five minutes, you utter prat, and congrats for choosing the worst possible time for this, but fucking hell, Sherlock, don’t you think we’ve waited for this long enough?”

Sherlock acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. “Best get on with it, then.” He takes a deep breath, because this is the difficult one. He holds up the napkin. “I wrote this when I came back. On my way to the Landmark. You deserved to hear it then. But I was too much of a coward to face the consequences of my actious. So. Number three. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

“Why now?” John asks, softly, his face still unreadable, his eyes riveted to Sherlock’s face. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because there’s a number four,” Sherlock says, quietly, holding John’s eyes. He gets up, slowly, approaches John, giving him plenty of time to back away, to stop him, to leave.

But John stays. John holds his eyes, holds his ground. Waits.

Sherlock moves closer, invades his space, traces his fingers along the lapels of John’s beautiful suit. 

“Number four,” Sherlock murmurs, inching closer to John with every word, “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care about you. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I never said thank you, for your trust, for your companionship, for the very best of times. I’m sorry it took me this long to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never asked you to come back. And I’m sorry for this,” he says, as he leans in and presses his lips to John’s.

John’s breath hitches as he pulls Sherlock closer and kisses back, fierce and courageous and like he’s been waiting for this just as long as Sherlock has. 

There’s loud voices and pounding on the door, and both their phones are vibrating with missed calls and texts, and neither of them notices as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. John’s arms have snaked around Sherlock and he’s holding on like he never intends to let go, and Sherlock feels the knot in his stomach and the dread in his heart dissolve under the onslaught of John’s passion, and his kisses, and his love.

They finally break apart, and Sherlock knows he’ll remember the exact curve of John’s smile and the exact shade of his eyes in that moment for the rest of his life. “I forgive you,” John whispers, and it sounds like a vow. “I forgive you.”

And this time, Sherlock believes him. 

---

If anyone wants to venture a heacanon how a certain item found its way into a certain pocket, I won't stop you. I personally have my suspicions ;-)

If there are any embarrassing mistakes in there, please forgive me. It's Friday evening, and it's been a WEEK.

Also, if you want to read a similar scenario a bit less seriously, might I recommend my fic Speak Now, where Sherlock gives new meaning to the phrase 'last minute'.

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

Thank you all for a wonderful fandom time, all the writers and all the commenters and re-bloggers, and especially @calaisreno for keeping us going. Love you all.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (24) Imperfect

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 24)

Summary: Rosie meets a young man in Paris. Love is in the air but one thing gnaws on Rosie's nerves. She need to warn Timothy of her protective relatives without making him run for the hills.

Twenty-Four Years Old

When my first year in Paris was coming to an end, I went with a group from my school to a party. It was held in a big apartment that apparently belonged to some ridiculously rich aunt. The amount of red wine I’d drunk before we arrived, made sure I didn’t remember the details of the family tree.

What I do remember was the young man reading French poems with a British accent, and afterwards, the beginning of an interesting story about two men finding each other in a dream, and later apparently meeting in real life. I desperately wanted to hear more, but when I got him talking, he said that he wasn’t sure the idea was good enough to pursue.

“You wrote this?” I asked baffled. “I thought it was brilliant!”

“That’s probably the Pinot talking,” he retorted with a lopsided grin. “People normally say that it’s utter bullshit.”

I huffed at this ludicrous statement.

“So, why read it out loud, then?” I challenged him.

“Dunno. Perhaps I hoped that someone like you may turn up and like it” he quipped.

“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” I muttered and rolled my eyes.

***

Timothy and I were thick as thieves after that evening, and it soon evolved into more than friendship. He was studying literature and creative writing at Sorbonne Nouvelle, which was located quite close to Marguerite’s building. After our first official date, I pondered bringing him to my place, but uncle’s surveillance made me reconsider. Dad and Papa planned on visiting soon, and I knew it was futile trying to hide anything from Papa.

You’d better prepare the poor sod, before meeting the British Inquisition, I thought with a grimace.

After David, Papa wouldn’t make the same mistake of failing to observe even the tiniest flaw.

We hadn’t talked about our families at all, because there were so many other topics that were interesting, but I knew time was running out. I decided that after a good meal with some wine, it would be the perfect time to tell him about my fiercely protective family.

Rinsing and eating mussels, is a sticky and quite down-to-earth affair, and a better opportunity would be hard to find, so I plunged in with both feet so to speak.

“I…um…think it’s time to tell you about my…family,” I started.

“All of them, or just your fathers?” Timothy said while dipping a bite of bread in the creamy sauce.

I almost dropped my spoon in surprise. Had I told him that I was raised by two men and no mother? Not to my knowledge. Perhaps some of my other friends…

“Rosie?” Timothy said softly.

“Do you know who they are? Have you…”

Timothy lifted his hands, motioning me to calm down.

“Sorry, I assumed you knew,” he murmured. 

“Knew what?” I snapped. “You’re worse than…”

“I know who you are, Rosamund Watson-Holmes. A dossier, I think will suffice as a description, was delivered to me by a courier after our first coffee date. Four “letters” from each of your watchdogs. I didn’t know there were so many ways to threaten a person…”

“Damn, them!” I exclaimed. “Always, they have to meddle just because I had one bad boyfriend. Jesus, they’re incorrigible.”

“No matter how imperfect you find them, they love you dearly, or should I say fiercely,” Timothy chuckled. “After the initial shock, I must say I found it quite amusing and adorable. Four grown men, with the careers they have, your dad even an ex-military, and they’re all softies. Your police uncle was probably the scariest, come to think of it. Not that he doesn’t love you to bits, but he was the only one who stayed somewhat professional. He certainly didn’t bring any medieval torture methods or mafia tendencies into the equation if I hurt you purposefully or otherwise.”

“Oh, God,” I growled utterly devasted of my protective relatives.

Timothy chose to call them The Fab Four, which still earns him stern looks, but I know the four protectors are quite proud of themselves.

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #23 and 24 apology and imperfect

Two prompts today because I could not write anything yesterday.

White Pony Tattoo - Part Four (apology and imperfect)

One and a half day later, John once again found himself in front of White Pony Tattoo. He was brimmig with anticipation.

John had been able to swap today’s shift at the clinic to follow Sherlock’s order to be here at 2 PM sharp. John had been extra careful to arrive in time, taking an early bus and then loitering the spare seventeen minutes in the vicinity, looking at shop windows that did not really interest him.

Somehow, John did not want to come across as eager as he actually was to attend his appointment with Sherlock and would not like to be seen oscillating on the pavement before the front door. Although - thinking about this - it would likely be futile anyway trying to hide something from Sherlock’s uncanny habit of x-raying people with his colour changing eyes, of seeing right into John’s brain.

John had been wondering how Sherlock had known (deduced as the mesmerizing tattooist had called it) about the cover-up he had been about to request. John also was still a bit annoyed about Sherlock calling the desired design of an army soldier in full combat gear boring. When John had served in the army, nothing had been boring and he fondly remembered his time in the RAMC whenever he looked at photographs taken at this time.

++++

“I knew you’d come back.” Sherlock stood behind the counter, waiting in a relaxed posture.

Sherlock said it in a cool voice, matter-of-factly, not in a know-it-all or haughty diction. Yet, it rankled John. Feeling transparent.

“I actually think you owe me an apology.” John blurted.

“Do you now. Interesting. What for?” Sherlock stepped around the counter.

“An army soldier in combat is not boring.” There, I’ve said it, John thought. It felt good.

Sherlock raised a quizzical eye brow that reminded John of a parent chiding their child for uttering an unreasonable wish and it irked him even more.

“I don’t deal in apologies, John. Even if there had been something I should have apologized for, I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t like unapologetic people.” Mary was anapologetic, too.

Sherlock shrugged, totally uncaring about John’s confrontational stance. “Well, it was you who returned here, apparently about to accept my offer of tattooing a rising phoenix on your arm.” Sherlock pointed his index finger at the shop’s sign where the demands no arguing and no boring designs had been written.

“You have to accept the whole package which includes me, obviously. If you can’t deal with it, you may leave any time. It’s your decision.”

Sherlock leant his back casually against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest which showed off today’s bespoke dress shirt he wore. Its classy dove grey colour made Sherlock’s eyes gleam like multifaceted gemstones.

Of course, John did not want to leave which Sherlock must already know and since there was no other way, John swallowed the wave of recalcitrant pride that washed over him.

“Yes, okay, I accept.” John couldn’t avoid a tiny bit of teeth-gnashing, havinf to give in like this. Fuck you he mouthed under his breath.

“No, maybe later.” Sherlock deadpanned.

John’s face turned beet-red. As so often when felt cornered and embarrassed about something avoidable he had done, John attacked.

“I didn’t say that out loud now, did I?” But I feel tempted right now, dammit, John thought, hoping that his face would not give this away, as well. If it did, Sherlock mercifully did not mention it.

“No,” Sherlock said instead, chuckling, “but I can lip-read fuck you easily enough.”

Oh great, mind-reader and lip-reader. “Is there nothing I can hide from you?”

“Little. But don’t mind, practically everybody can’t.”

“That’s not a solace at all.”

“Come on, take a seat,” Sherlock motioned to a small coffee table with two armchairs, “let’s talk about your tattoo. Can I offer you some tea?”

Sitting down with a huff, John nodded. “With pleasure.”

Sherlock vanished behind the purple curtain and returned with a tea tray, laden with an expensive-looking porcelain tea set and a small plate with fresh scones. John’s mood immediately brightened upon the delicacies.

“Oh, this looks delicious. Thank you.” John took one scone.

“You have to thank Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She prepared all of this.”

Sherlock started to pour the tea and John was struck by the realization that Sherlock had to be of upper-class origin given the way he dressed, spoke and handled the tea. Transfixed, John watched Sherlock’s hands moving, like performing a dance of their own. There was a silver ring on every finger of Sherlock’s right hand. John identified a tattoo gun, a violin and one ring was made of tiny human skulls, like beads on a string.

Odd, how such a posh boy became a tattoo artist. Even a very famous one.

Taking a bite, John stated. “You’re doing great as an artist. I saw some of your works on the internet, lots of famous people that you have inked.”

“Yes, well, I don’t care about their fame. I’m interested in creating the perfect tattoo for my clients, ones that express what they feel or care about. Who they are. An image of their inner self, captured in ink on their outer skin, forever.”

John hummed. “This is very poetic!”

“Yes, yes! Excatly, John!” Sherlock jumped up and paced the room, gesticulating wildly.

“This is what I do! My ink is art, the poetry of lines, the flowing rhymes of colour, a whole story in shades of black. Everybody who is half-way talented can learn the perfect tattooing technique. But without the right design, without the firm connection to my client’s history and personality, or if you believe in the concept of a soul, then any tattoo will always be imperfect. Do you understand?”

“Yes, indeed, I do!” John exclaimed excitedly. “When I was performing surgery, of course, it was about saving lives and limbs.  But I always strived for more. I wanted them to heal perfectly. Like you said, everyone can learn to do sutures that hold the skin together. But sutures that don’t leave scars are very difficult. The desire to achieve perfection is not alien to me.”

Sherlock had calmed down enough to sit down.

“And this is why I rejected the soldier design your wanted. I never said that a soldier in army gear is boring per se, but it would be boring on your skin because you are so much more than this. You’ve fought in the army, saved lives, you’ve survived being shot and nearly dying from the infection. Therefore, the perfect design for you is the phoenix rising from the flames. You have been reborn in the blazing heat of Ahghanistan. Or was it Iraq?”

The sudden question startled John. “Aghanistan.” He answered automatically. “But please, Sherlock, allow me one thing, one question.”

“Which is?”

“How the everlasting fuck have you know, erm, deduced all of this about me?”

Sherlock laughed, full of delight.

tagging some people @totallysilvergirl @peageetibbs @lisbeth-kk  @raina-at

tagging some more @ghostofnuggetspast @friday411 @bs2sjh @weeesi @br-nz

tagging some more again @keirgreeneyes @jrow @thegildedbee @thalialunacy @gaylilsherlock

[hurtfortea]

AI Whump

An AI whumpee who feels things differently/thinks differently from the way humans do and so the things that traumatize them or hurt their feelings are different. Maybe things that humans would see as a negative experience, they enjoy.

(I.e. they don’t mind complete isolation, it will never leave negative affects, but not being able to work constantly does stress them out, so being unused would cause trauma.)

The typical: whumper says and does whatever they want to AI whumpee, because they “can’t feel.” I.e. taking their anger out on whumpee.

Whumper simply misuses whumpee, perhaps they don't know how to properly clean or handle them.

Whumper locks them away because they fear AI whumpee.

Caretaker being the kind of person who gives personalities to most unalive things and so is kind to whumpee just because.

Caretaker who is kind because they fear AI whumpee, even though whumpee could never do anything to them.

Caretaker who is a collector and treats AI whumpee not like a person, but still with respect and care, as one might any unalive thing they cared about.

[ghostreblogging]

GODDAMNIT UNHOLY inspiration STRIKES ME AGAAIN

Tim had just met Danny but it was like they were meant for one another . Well they are soulmates, but it was like he knew him for decades much less few months.

Danny was kind and affectionate. Albiet ever fretful and worrywart. He often tried to protect him from the smallest of things. And when he asks he just gets a sad chuckle and Danny says " you may never know"Y̶o̷u̸ ̴m̴a̸y̷ ̴n̵e̵v̶e̴r̵ ̶k̴n̷o̶w̷.̸ ̸W̶h̵a̸t̸ ̶h̸a̸p̵p̷e̶n̷s̸

Tim walks with Danny by his side. Danny is going to meet his family now. He can't help but be nervous. B̵l̷o̶o̵d̸?̴ ̴T̵h̶e̷r̵e̶ ̵s̶h̴o̸u̵l̷d̴n̸'̶t̵ ̸b̸e̷-̵

Danny smiles at him reassuringly, it feels like it happened before.

And everything went well. He dropped off Danny at his apartment. And he went on patrol, everything was good.

I̴̹͛t̷̝̓ ̷͈͐͛ẅ̵͙͙͝a̸̘͎̋š̵̲̟͝ ̵͇͙̀̃ā̶̭̞̉ ̴̡̮̀s̸͇̽ù̸̗̽r̵̼̍p̴̖̜̐̋r̷̫̯͊͗i̶̝̩͋̈s̶̞̾e̴̗̞͗͘ ̸̘̇́ă̸̢̺͐t̷̞̀̈́ͅt̸̞͋̇a̴̜̓͜c̷̹͜͝k̷̪̺̈́ ̸̤̉́b̵̟̎͝y̵͓͛́ ̵͙̽̆Ä̷̠́͐ň̴͚͝ ̸̡̃u̷̻̾̊ň̴̬̦̎k̶̭̄̎ṅ̷̨o̵̘͈͂w̶̖͓͆̽n̵͒̍ͅV̸̜̲̏į̴̝̑͊l̷̥̝͋l̴̰͑a̶̞͂i̸̝̱̅̊ṇ̸͝ NJ.̵̲͗ ̸̯̀N̸̪̦͛̓ȍ̶͔̓b̸͉͎̿̚o̵͔̅d̷̬͚͋̑ỳ̷̡̩̎ ̶̬͙͑e̷̮̤͝x̸͙̉͝p̷͕͇͋ë̸̹c̵̦͛ț̸͠e̵̝̿͘ͅd̴̤̳̾͝ ̷̡͘͝ì̶̗̭̑ţ̶̱͊͠ ̷͇̤̋̔B̶̢̺̏u̸̜͛͛t̵̠̓̑ ̷̧͕͗h̶͚͘ḙ̸̭̉̀ ̶̼̰̃̐s̶̭͐h̴̞̊̉o̸͎̥̿u̶̙̓l̵̦̝̂d̷̺̳͝ ̴̠̪̿h̷̘̠͌ą̶̳̃͝v̸͚̑ę̴̋̿ ̸̼͍́̌ś̸̞u̷̪͒̚r̶͙͌v̶̱͉̿i̵͓̓v̶̻̿̕e̵̺͂̚d̶̟̞̒́ ̷̭̰̅̌i̵̡̲̋f̷̦͉̋̐ ̴͒ͅį̴̍t̸̟͋ ̴̞̐w̵̖͙̉̉e̵̡͖͒̆r̴̍ͅe̴̜͚̓́n̸̤̄'̷̫̥́́ṯ̵̋̐ ̶̼́͘f̴̠̈o̴̪͐̋r̷̖̙͋ ̴̙̆̈t̸͇̺̚h̵̫̓e̴̜͉̎ ̴͉̳̑̀c̴͉̈́͋ĺ̵̡͚ö̴̢́̆w̴̧̰̄n̶̺̈́

E̴̠͈̚v̶̟̼͋́e̵̞͛n̴͔͚̉͌ ̷̬̈́i̷̡̥̐̕n̵̼̘̐d̸̢̉i̷̜̳̔̌r̶̡̛͚͝è̵̼̩̈́c̵̩̹͝ť̸͇̕ ̷̖̈́.À̴̳̱͌ ̷͎̓̕s̸̙̫̈́̂e̷̻̫̍̋c̷̛͇̘o̸͙͉̊̐ǹ̷̬d̶̤͖̓̓ ̵̼̓̉k̵̮͒͠ī̷͜͝l̷̺̥̓͑l̷̲̓̾ẻ̶̠͍d̷͉̟̂ ̸̦̓̍b̷̜͎̄ÿ̵̖́̽ ̵̳̀͂t̷̛̲̖ḧ̸̞̕å̶̛̜̪t̶̠̽ ̶̛͕͘c̷̹̯͑͘l̴͓͝ó̵͉̭͌w̶̞̣̐͝n̶̥͍͒ ̸͙̻̇w̷̘̣͑̊o̸̲̲͌u̴͚̔̉l̷͖̟̃ḏ̷͠ ̶̘̀͝t̷̢̙̾̀h̵̙͐e̶̲͐̃ŕ̶̰̼e̴̞̽ ̶͓͒ḃ̸̘̋e̸̥͕͑̇ ̸̬̏́ą̸̛̀ ̵͎͕̌̑t̵̝̉h̴͚̏͂i̸̩̹͠r̶̢̃d̴̤̤̍͝?̶̪͗̚

His body filled with terror. And he was able to dodge the swing. She had eyes Green like the Lazarus. She looked gaunt her face pale and inhuman.

He knew it happened before . He saw this before . But he didn't anticipate the second strike.

He was now trapped under concrete. The new villain had deemed it appropriate for him to die in a burning building.

He choked on his own blood.

And Danny sat by him. Wait Danny? No he shouldn't be here. He should be safe-

Danny picked him up. "W̵͚͚͌e̶̱̯̍ ̴̼̌d̵̢̾̅ḭ̷̎͋ḏ̸̇̑ ̶̠̏t̴͙̗̔h̸̬̘̒͌ȉ̵͓͎̀s̸͓̏ ̴͈̈́̚s̵̠̒̾o̴̡̙̾n̴̬̗͌͆g̸̩̺̋ ̷͇͇̋̀á̴͇̳ṅ̸̬͎̏d̴̮̕ ̶̧̀̇d̵̘̾ǎ̵̯̬n̶͕͈͆c̴̰̆ë̴̩͎́̊ ̴̫͓̚à̵̺̙̏ ̵̛̺̘̌ḩ̴͆̔ụ̴̄n̴̢̖̒̓d̷̡̦̈́̿r̴̻̩͆̀ȇ̷̩̑d̷͙̟̐ ̷̻̃t̴̓͑ͅi̸̬͌̈́m̵̯̔̓ͅē̸͙s̴̤͓̏̀ ̷͙̆a̷̜͒̽r̶͉͈͐̔l̵̗͛ę̶̟̂͝ầ̷̰d̷̛͙ȳ̸̟̰͝ ̷̪͔̓͠ and n̵̖͐o̴̠̅̓t̶̠̂h̶̘̘̓͑ḯ̶̧n̸̖̥̋͠g̴̞̑͊ ̶̗̎w̶̜͓͂͛o̸̯͎̚r̸̼̫̊͌ḱ̶͇͙͝s̶͕͌͝" a tear ran down Danny's cheek.

"H̶̦͑o̷̟̖̊͠w̴͔̩͒ ̷̤͌͜m̷͉͎͐ú̴̞̮c̵̯̊͗h̵͇͂ ̸̡̯̎̅l̷͔͊͐ȯ̸͈͚n̸̰͐g̵̲͙̈̇e̶̯̓r̶̤̭͛̄ ̶̻̀d̴͎̋o̵̧̤͛ ̴͎̽̀y̴͕͓̕o̷͙͊͋ṳ̵͔͑ ̶̡̂p̴͙̃͑l̵̨̍͐a̷̱͛n̴͉̟̒ ̷͕̘͛̾t̴̨͓̿ò̶͙̰ ̵͔̑̿t̶̝̩͐o̷̮̕r̸͎̎̚ṱ̵̌û̷̦̳r̸͖̊ē̵͎̭̂ ̵͖́m̶̢͠é̵͇̓!̷̺̝͋͝"

"E̵v̷e̶r̶y̶t̵h̶i̶n̷g̷ ̸I̷ do y̸o̵u̷ ̶f̷i̵n̶d̶ ̵a̴ ̶w̷a̵y̶ ̴t̵o̶ ̴r̵u̴i̸n̶ ̴a̵n̶d̷ ̵y̷o̵u̵ ̵k̶i̴l̴l̶ ̸h̴i̵m̷ ̷a̶g̸a̸i̶n̷ ̷a̵n̶d̴ ̷a̸g̸a̴i̸n̴" Danny screams. Danny protected him and his family before, many times.

"I̸t̶'̸s̶ ̷b̸e̸c̴a̶u̸s̵e̴ ̵y̴o̶u̶ ̷m̷y̵ ̵h̵i̷g̴h̴n̵e̸s̶s̸ ̵k̶e̴e̸p̷ ̶o̷n̴ ̷i̶n̷s̷i̸s̷t̵i̸n̸g̷ ̵t̴h̶i̵s̷ ̴m̵o̸r̸t̴a̸l̵ ̶b̵e̵ ̵y̸o̸u̸r̸ ̵b̶e̷l̷o̵v̵e̸d̸.̷ ̸I̶ ̸w̸o̸u̶l̶d̵ ̸b̸e̵ ̶g̸l̸a̶d̷ ̵t̸o̴ ̶l̵e̶a̶v̸e̸ ̴t̶h̴e̴m̶ ̴b̵e̸ ̷i̴f̷ ̷y̸o̵u̵ j̷u̴s̴t̵ ̷s̷t̴o̶p̷ ̴. t̷h̷e̵i̴r̶ ̸a̷g̵o̵n̸y̵ ̸i̶s̸ ̵i̶n̷ ̸y̷o̶u̷r̶ ̶h̷a̸n̶d̵s̶"

B̶e̸s̷i̶d̴e̷s̷ ̷y̶o̴u̶ ̴a̸r̶e̷ ̸t̶h̷e̸ ̴o̵n̷e̷ ̸c̷o̶n̷t̶r̶o̷l̷l̵i̶n̵g̴ ̸t̷h̶e̷s̷e̶ ̶t̷i̸m̵e̷ ̵l̸o̴o̶p̸s̷

̷ ̸Shall ̸u̶s̵ ̶d̴o̶ ̵t̸h̷i̶s̸ ̶a̴g̴a̷i̶n̵ ̸f̸r̴o̶m̶ ̸t̷h̷e̸ ̶t̴o̸p̵?̴

"Hey! My name is Danny. Could you point me to a coffee shop?"

[avaantares]

Guardian Bonus Bingo: Starlight (Amnesty edition)

<recipe blog intro> Sooo the past month has been one of the months of all time, between yet another bout of COVID (it's still a thing, get your booster!) and the whole workshop reg explosion (I covered that on my main rather than here, but basically it meant two weeks of panic), and then the nonsense happening with the next con I'm booked at (heavy 😒 face) which is o n g o i n g

ANYWAY

All that to say that I've not been on Tumblr regularly since... uh... the second week of July? and the majority of everything posted since then was just my queue running out. While I did remember to look up the @guardianbingo prompts and even managed to produce some content, I wasn't online to actually post said content. Thank goodness for the amnesty period.

I remember writing something for the Frustration prompt, but I... don't exactly remember where that file ended up 😅 so I'm posting Starlight first. </recipe blog>

Like the first two fills, this one is a scene that will slot into my AU YOHE fic Picture Imperfect, which will resume posting just as soon as I have two consecutive minutes free to actually edit the thing (which will not be this month. Fingers crossed for September).

-------------

It was well past sunset when Shen Wei appeared at their usual meeting place at the watchpost. Zhao Yunlan was stretched out on his back in the sparse grass. He’d barely registered the approaching footfalls when he was jolted to awareness by the alarm in Shen Wei’s voice. “Kunlun?”

“What?” Zhao Yunlan half-rolled to his side and craned his neck to look at him—or at least in the direction of his voice. He could just make out a deeper darkness silhouetted against the night sky. “What is it?”

“You—” Shen Wei froze, halfway to a crouch beside him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Shouldn’t I be?” Zhao Yunlan strained his ears for any cries of warning or sounds of battle from below, but the night was still. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought you were… unwell.” Slowly, Shen Wei sank the rest of the way to his level. “Why are you lying on the ground?”

Zhao Yunlan dropped back to his recumbent position. “I was just looking at the sky.”

Shen Wei looked up. “Is there something noteworthy about it?”

“Just how many stars there are. It’s so dark tonight, you can really see them.” Thousands upon thousands of them, sprinkled across the sky, dense as the sand on a beach. Without the moon or artificial light to compete with their soft glimmering, the entire canopy stretching overhead seemed alive. Even the darkest parts were shaded with faint speckles, once you looked closely. “I’ve never seen a sky so full of stars.”

“Dahuangshan has no view of the sky? I thought the mountain air would be clearer.”

“They’re… obscured, where I’m from. Too much haze in the air. The light from people’s lamps bounces off it and makes it hard to see through.”

Shen Wei was silent for a moment. “There used to be more of them. Before the Calamity.”

Zhao Yunlan squinted at his silhouette. “What, the meteor knocked stars out of the sky? That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“The ash and debris thrown into the heavens from the impact blotted out the sunlight and plunged the world into sudden winter. Some of the dust fell back to the surface in the years of black snow, but the researchers say that much of it stayed high in the air, circling Haixing. They can tell somehow, with the sacred machines.”

So apparently the spaceship computer analyzed climate data, too. He really needed to get a proper look at one of those “sacred machines.”

Not tonight, though. Tonight, he was on a date—not that his companion would recognize it as such, or even know what one was. “Do you remember it?” Zhao Yunlan asked. “The sky, before the meteor? Or—no, I suppose you were still in Dixing then, weren’t you?”

“No,” Shen Wei answered quietly. Zhao Yunlan assumed he meant he couldn’t remember until he added, “I didn’t see Dixing until much later. I was born on the surface.”

“You were?” Zhao Yunlan rolled upright and shifted around to face him, though it was too dark to see. His Shen Wei had always been so tight-lipped about his past, he hadn’t expected the younger version to share anything about himself. “Where?”

“West of here.” Apparently that was all he was willing to share, because something rounded and warm was suddenly pushed into Zhao Yunlan’s hand. “I brought food. Eat while it’s hot.”

Zhao Yunlan patted around the edge of the bowl until he found the handle of a spoon poking out of it. “I had supper with the men, you know.”

“I saw what you had for supper. You need to eat more.”

Zhao Yunlan could have protested, but Shen Wei was probably right—and he wasn’t about to discourage the man from feeding him, not when he knew what culinary bliss awaited him in the distant future. He sampled the substance in the bowl. It wasn’t exactly congee, since they’d run out of rice days ago, but the texture was similar. He detected bits of wild onion and a few shreds of meat mixed in with the porridge. “What am I eating?”

“Millet, primarily. Unless you mean the rabbit.”

“We have rabbit?”

“The hunters were fortunate. They discovered a warren and brought back several.”

Rabbit wasn’t his favorite dish, but he was grateful for the additional protein. Except for the occasional smoked fish, his meals lately had been lean portions of grain and a selection of increasingly unpalatable vegetables. Even a small supplement of boiled millet and a few bites of meat might give his body the energy it needed to finish healing, and he wanted his leg back to normal as soon as possible.

When he’d finished eating, he set the bowl on the grass and maneuvered around so he could lean back against one of the boulders. “It’s been over a month,” he murmured, gazing up at the sky again. “We left Jiangyan right before the new moon, remember? That means I’ve been here around five weeks.” Air escaped him in a slow sigh. “I wonder how things are back home.”

[noisyballofvoidmuffin]

Ok, I am going to act like this was a world phenomenon and assume everyone knows the story about The Snail™ and the immortal.

Imagine if Danny somehow became the first immortal to either be his own snail or be merged with it, thereby making it impossible for him to die.

Okay, now, to give a bit more context to this idea before I let it flurry into the wind and hope someone catches it, this hinges on the theory of Danny being 100% alive and 100% dead all the time instead of being half of both. The idea was that his ghost form is the immortal and the human form is the snail, and by some cosmic coincidence they merged in the accident or something.

[aroacettorney]

there is something interesting about how ludger feels much more human whenever he's with casey

[incorrectquotesideas-deactivated]

Person A: How did you come up with this theory?

Person B:

Person A: …B?

Person B: This is one of those times in which you think you want to know, and then I tell you, and you’re like, “oh, you shouldn’t have told me”.

Person A:

[itsmesheep]

*beating you with hammers* SOMETIMES 🔨 THINGS 🔨 THAT 🔨 ARE 🔨 HOMOEROTIC 🔨 ARE 🔨 INTENTIONAL 🔨🔨🔨

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO24 #4: communism among the bees

[cmweller]

Challenge #04273-K255: The Unlikeliest Match

My father's was a faerie who used magic to grow to the size of a human. My mother is the sweet Hellkin who inspired him to do so. -- Anon Guest

[AN: Considering that Hellkin's origins centred around being biological weapons against Faekindred... this is going to be interesting]

Ma and Da aren't what you call a traditional love story. It's not like genetic mortal enemies get together and make a kid. There's like a thousand tawdry romances about a mortal falling in love with any given Faekindred... Elves, Wudzgaad, Brauniin, Gobelliin, even Faeries. There's fewer about Faekindred who falling in love with a mortal.

There's only one story I know about a Faerie falling in love with a Hellkin.

They're literally natural enemies. Nanogh and the Plane of Torment are opposites, and Hellkin exist because Humans needed an edge against Elves and the Faekindred ruling over them. Their story is the kind you might expect, being forced to work together or die. They got over their instincts and then another set of instincts kicked in. By all laws of nature, I should not exist.

[Check the source for the rest of the story]

[shironezuninja]

Perhaps watching the Deadpool and Wolverine movie renewed my faith in finishing anime series that involved the losses of old childhood voice actors. I can’t believe that there were only a total of 48 episodes for Yashahime.