#the cops ignore and shrug off. sherlock holmes was right all along

[ghostbusterindrag]

Sometimes I really do enjoy media starring cops that tries so hard not to be copaganda but the thing they're missing is that uh. Somebody that good would be an ex cop. I'm sorry but Batman is closer to what you're going for than what you've done and Batman is a rich weirdo with very little self awareness.

[vateacancameos]

Chapters: 1/1 Words:1629 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, vague depictions of domestic abuse, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Tattoos, Healing Series: Part 2 of Tattoo My Name On Your Heart Summary:

Prequel to Secrets Are Mine to Keep. 

Martha Hudson needs to heal after leaving an abusive situation. She stumbles upon a Sherlock at the beginning of his tattooing career. He helps cover more than scars.

This can be read as a stand-alone, but works best when read in conjunction with the previous story in this series. If reading this before Secrets Are Mine to Keep, just know that Sherlock is a tattoo artist instead of a detective.

(CW for mentions of domestic abuse)

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

Martha Hudson married young, but that didn’t make her stupid. She knew the likelihood of Frank being The One was highly unlikely, but she was in love and he had a great car and a gorgeous body.

There might have been a chance at some long-term happiness if they’d stayed in England, but Florida did her husband no favors. It started with a bad crowd and moved to late-night drug deals and a few people being permanently hushed. But Martha liked an exciting life, so she went along with it, if a little uneasily.

Even then, she might have loved Frank until the end, except that he decided that running a drug empire meant he should start testing the product himself, and like Florida, drugs did her husband no favors. The first time he hit her, she passed it off as a one-time thing. He’d been stressed already, and then she’d nagged him about some chore he’d forgot to do. It wouldn’t happen again, though. They loved each other.

Except that it did. Not often, and nothing so bad that a little makeup or a long-sleeved shirt wouldn’t hide it, but a couple of times a year, it did happen. And yet she stayed. Because Frank needed her. Because where could she go? Because their friends would side with Frank. Because she had no formal education and no skills beyond book keeping for a drug lord.

In the end, fate got Martha out of the bad situation she had found herself in. Frank learned about the warrant for his arrest two hours before the cops arrived. It was enough time to accuse Martha of tipping them off. Two hours later, he left in a cop car with blood on his hands. Martha left in an ambulance with blood on her back.

***

read the rest of the story after the cut or on ao3. 

When Martha met Sherlock Holmes five years later, she saw in his eyes the moment he understood what had happened to her. She walked into the shop on a whim because she wanted to cover the scars. Sherlock was finishing his apprenticeship and was given the walk-ins. He’d been stiff in his greeting, and Martha almost walked back out again. But then he’d looked, and he’d seen her, so she stayed.

After his knowing look, he asked only one question, very softly. “What did you wish for?”

A thousand regrets clamored in her head. There were so many moments she could have ended it. But what came out of her mouth was “I wish I’d flown away.” It was a silly, childish wish and not at all what she’d been thinking, but Sherlock only nodded.

“I need to see them.” They were in a private room, but Sherlock was a young man and Martha was from an era where you didn’t just strip off your shirt in mixed company (unless in specific situations involving exotic dancing). But she was doing this to learn to be brave and to forget her past, so she took a breath, turned to face away from him, and lifted her shirt.

Sherlock’s hands were gentle and warm. He was a perfect gentlemen as he measured her and asked a few questions about placement.

“I need time to work on some ideas,” he finally said, and her heart dropped. She didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to do this if it was drawn out. But then he continued. “Come back tomorrow at noon.”

She settled her shirt back in place and turned to face this solemn young artist she’d been assigned. Looking at him, she could tell his past was no rosier than hers. Despite their differences, she felt a kindred spirit, and her courage came back.

“Alright.”

***

The sound of smashing ceramic and an angry shout almost had her bolting back out of the door, but she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked into the shop. The young man behind the counter rolled his eyes. “Ignore the freak,” he said, pointing to the room where Martha had met Sherlock the day before. “He’s a toddler sometimes.”

“Oh. I have an appointment with him …” She fiddled with the strap of her purse and frowned at the man’s words. ‘Freak’ was a little harsh. These creative types were always overemotional. You’d think people working in a tattoo shop would be used to that sort.

The man sighed again just as Sherlock stomped into the front area. His fierce walk stuttered to a stop when he saw Martha. “Ah, yes. Just a minor setback. Let’s … um, go out.” He exited as quickly as he’d entered, but he was back a moment later wearing a dramatic coat and carrying a sketchpad. He nodded for the front door, holding it open for her (such a gentlemen) as they exited.

“I’m afraid I’m having … difficulties visualizing your art,” he explained after they’d found a nearby café and sat with their drink. He frowned down at the cover of his sketchpad. “Normally …” He shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his wild curls.

“Everyone gets … what’s writer’s block but with art? Artist’s block?” She patted his hand. “It’s alright.” Funny that she was the one comforting him. She did that a lot.

Sherlock scowled. “Not to me. I see a person, and then I visualize their tattoo. It’s what I do. My process has never failed me before.”

“Can I help?”

“What? No. How could you help?”

Martha shrugged. “What else do you need to know? Should I tell you my favorite colors or my childhood dreams?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Purple and dancing. That’s no use.”

She sat back, startled. “Oh. Well. That is impressive.”

He raised his eyes from where they’d been focused on his cup. “You’re not scared I’m some sort of stalker?”

She laughed. “Oh pish. No. You’re observant is all. You said so yourself. So. Tell me what you need to know so you can design my tattoo.”

He sighed dramatically. Oh, yes, this boy would be a handful.

She smiled. “Fine. I’ll just start talking until you tell me to shut up.”

And she did. She told him about her childhood best friend, the stray cat she took in right after she got married, how the weather in Florida always felt wrong. She talked about her wedding day, her older sister, the uncle sent to prison for making moonshine during American Prohibition. She talked and talked, and Sherlock never stopped her. She wasn’t sure he was always listening, but she could see that his brain was working, so she figured she was doing something right.

“And then, they ended up arresting Frank on tax fraud, of all things! He shot a man’s head off and there wasn’t a word, but the moment the government wasn’t getting its due, they raised a fuss. Oh, America. Such a strange country.” Odd how she could talk about that without feeling a thing. And it really was funny, when you thought about how it all went down, minus the hospital visit.

Sherlock’s head shot up. “They have the death penalty in Florida, correct?”

“Oh yes, but not for tax fraud.”

“But for shooting a man’s head off, they would.”

She nodded half-heartedly. “They can’t charge him for that, though. He’s very good at what he does, my Frank.”

“So am I,” Sherlock replied slowly.

“Well that remains to be seen. Seeing as you’ve reneged on our deal to have a sketch ready by today.”

“No, the other thing. I help the police with cases sometimes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really.” It was sort of sweet how he tried to talk himself up. The poor boy must not have received enough love growing up. Her heart broke for him. He needed someone in his corner.

“Fine, I’ve helped a policeman. Once. And I was sort of high at the time.” He waved a hand. “But that doesn’t matter. I am capable of doing what the detectives do. And far better.” Sherlock grinned. “I’m going to put your husband on death row.”

She stilled. Despite the glib tone, she knew he was serious. At least serious about trying. And yes, they were talking about death, which should never be mentioned lightly. But really, if Frank was put on death row, it was only his own fault for not following American laws. He should be bound by those punishments, shouldn’t he? But it was Frank, and no matter what he’d done, she did love him still, in a way. But …

“I can’t afford to pay for both a tattoo and a detective …” she began slowly.

He leveled a disbelieving look at her. “You took care of his books for years. As if you didn’t squirrel away some money of your own or find a way take the bulk of his fortune after he, well, after.”

“Well, I never.” But she was smiling. He really was very good at his job. Well, one of his jobs, it seemed. She could do worse than to believe in him.

***

In the end, it took less time to find the necessary information to put Frank away for good than it did for Sherlock to design Martha’s tattoo. Still, she couldn’t complain. Her freedom was worth more than some pesky scars she only rarely saw. More than that, Sherlock made her feel comfortable with herself again. The poor boy needed someone looking after and believing in him. And she needed to keep busy.

By the time he’d come up with the final draft of the tattoo, they’d become business partners, opened a little tattoo shop, and Sherlock had moved in upstairs. And truly, the tattoo was worth the wait. She might not be able to fly, but the wings on her back made her feel like she could do anything.

[moonfox281]

Hi, I'm a big fan oft your writting. Would you consider a police officer!Grayson AU? With Jason still being someone bad but then falling in love with the boy (which everybody loves, even criminals) and overthinking his whole world view? Like, not every cop is corrupt or something. Habe a wonderful day. :)

Sorry for being late on this one, I was quite busy with college and work and other AU in AO3, but thank you ano for a wonderful prompt.

Lotus of the night

 (Word count: 2,847)

“You know they all work for me, right?”

Dick glared at the man standing in the shadow, his hand tight on the gun below his hip. Dust fogged the air in the abandoned warehouse, moonlight fell down the concrete floor, exposing the dry puddle of cold dark blood.

Dick wanted to wince, feeling the faint metallic smell hover around his nose. He wanted to kneel down, examine the blood, and maybe just touch it, and remember the life it once belonged to. They might be bad men, but they were men, and men could be redeemed.

Looking up to the dark looming figure half hidden away from the dim moonlight, Dick felt a frown tightly appear between his eyebrows, his hand fisted to white knuckles and just inched to pull out the handcuffs on his belt.

“Not all of us work for you.” His voice was tight, and there was a weight in it that he barely let out in front of anyone.

“Right, sorry, let me correct it: most of you work for me.”

Dick remembered Amy yelling at the guys at the station, remembered her slamming her hand down the table, swearing and begging their boss to hurry to the scene, then getting frustrated and smashing the cup on her table cause nobody had seemed to give a damn about the gunfire that had been going on. If they had listened to her, then maybe they could have done more than collecting bodies of the aftermath.

The next thing caught Dick’s ears was the heavy sound of boots thumping down the hard cold floor. The dark figure made its way to Dick’s stand. Metal clicked on every step he made, dark camo pattern revealed under the grayish moonlight, ran wildly when his legs strode over like the winds of a hurricane. Dick stared at the blood red hood in front of him, swallowing thickly while watching the other man get closer and closer to him. The smaller the gap between them, the bigger he seemed to be.

Huge, bulky and heavy, even the air surrounded him felt thicker and colder, hitting every sense of Dick with the “danger” tag on it.

“Evening, Officer.”

He was a giant, body looming over Dick like a truck about to run over a deer on the highway. The two massive guns hung on his thigh holsters and the end of an assault rifle poked up behind his broad back made Dick’s Glock 22 look like a kid’s toy.

This was Dick Grayson’s standard evening, standing against the Red Hood, Gotham’s biggest mob boss, who had appeared to take an interest in Bludhaven’s illegal activities recently.

“Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t arrest you right this instant.” Dick’s fingers were inching for the gun, even though he had barely ever touched it, and the handcuffs, despite the fact that he knew too well the man in front of him could get out of it in mere minute. Gosh, his parents were right, Bruce was right, he had a bad habit of falling without the net.

The bigger man just shrugged, hands folded in front of his chest so casually Dick could just sense him looking down and smirking at him.

“I don’t know. I have more guns? More men? Mostly every guy you know at the station takes my money? Pick your guess, Mr. Officer.”

Dick stood still, eyes followed as the underworld kingpin paced around like a predator, slowly drew a spiral and got closer to him.

“I saw your moves, Richard Grayson, or, what would you like to be called?! Dick Grayson.” Dick flinched when his name was sentenced, guts twisting as the sound of leather stretching became nearer and nearer. “I saw you chased down my man, one of my fastest, and you caught him in what, 15 minutes?! Those flips back there were pretty amazing.”

“Are you here for complimenting me? There are 20 cops out there…”

“Who wouldn’t even pretend they have seen me. Like I’ve said, they all work for me.”

“I don’t.” Dick announced, eyes glaring daggers toward the helmeted face. “There is still hope in the police department, and one day, we’ll get you.”

“Keep your sweet dream, pretty boy, but up until now, the boys in blue are my dogs.”

Dick Grayson, the guy that had refused his money, was a rookie and a stupidly honest, loyal law-abiding idiot who, unfortunately, owned skills that were far too valuable. An idiot like that wouldn’t survive long in Jason’s world, maybe he would, with that pretty face and tempting long legs, as a lap dog for men help power like Jason.

So far, Dick Grayson hadn’t been able to damage much, a spoiled rich brat who had gone tired of his daddy’s money, no one in the force liked him.

He was a rebel, stubborn and alone, against the way this world worked.

That was why Jason used every last strength of his bloody body to curse out when that stupid face appeared in the dark alley where he was half lying on the ground, fully accepting the death that had come already too damn near.

“Oh my God!” Dick rushed over and immediately kneeled down, checking his pulse and wounds. “You’re shot.”

He took a moment to look all over Jason and the red helmet lying next to him, face blank and eyes still. He wasn’t in his uniform, was wearing a blue hoodie that was too big to be his and worn out jean, the grocery bag that was once on his hand now lying on the ground.

He dressed like a broke college student rather than a billionaire’s son.

When the guy looked up, his eyes were way too blue for Jason’s liking, too unreal to be this bright and deep, and he must have lost half of his blood for feeling this fucking cliché.

“Nice seeing you again, Officer.” He groaned out, voice hoarse and mouth full of metallic taste. He could feel the blood oozing out through the wound and the .3 Blackout half way inside felt like a fucking baseball shoving up his guts.

“You’re losing blood, keep your eye on me. Please, stay awake.” Dick’s voice was calm and balanced, well-trained he was. He shoved Jason’s leather jacket down and clicked open his armor, then pulled out his blue hoodie just to take off the white tee shirt beneath it and wrap it around Jason’s wound. His hands were fast but they weren’t shaking, he reached out for the red helmet and fished the abandoned grocery bag with his leg to put it inside while completely ignored Jason’s questioning eyes on him.

“What? No backup? No hospital?”

“There’s no time, you’ll die on the way even if they get here without the traffic, and I need to get the bullet out now. My place is right here, I’m caring you up.” Dick pulled the hoodie back on and stood up to take down the emergency ladder.

When Dick crouched down to pull him up with one hand aside his chest and the other secure Jason’s arm around his shoulder, Jason groaned and cursed nastily in Russian, making the law enforcer wince in sympathy and drop encouragement.

“Shh, you’re doing great. Few more step, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

It made Jason want to laugh his lungs out, but his body was in shape for that right now.

“Been through worse, you know.” He groaned out, couldn’t help looking down at his red iconic helmet inside the grocery bag hanging on the backside of Dick’s elbow and thinking that this cop was handling the fact that he had finally seen the face of the dangerous man that he had been chasing down for the last 3 months way calmer than he should.

“I know, but you’re hurt. I just kinda feel like I need to.” Dick breathed with his lips pulled into a thin line. He was sweating, of course, Jason was a heavy piece of shit, not to mention the extra 30 pounds of weapons he got in himself. The guy was stronger than he looked to be able to get him to the 3rd story already.

They finally made it to the 6th, the last floor of this shit building. By that time, both were painting like fishes on dry land. Dick quickly opened the window and lowered Jason down the single couch near his bed as gently as possible. He rushed out of the room right after taking Jason’s undershirt off and ducked under the sink in his bathroom for the aid kit.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

Large bookshelf on the corner next to the bathroom door, filled with novels, Robin Hood and full collection of Sherlock Holmes and Tolkien’s works, wall closet on the right side, lot of blue, mostly jeans, hoodies and sweats, couple of tuxedos, and the blue uniform. Badge and gun were on the nightstand next to the bed on the other side where Jason’s was half sitting half sinking into the couch, along with framed family pictures, which Jason’s swimming head couldn’t spot out clearly.

“Thanks.” Dick came back when Jason was still gazing around the space with heavy eyes, a medical tray full with tools, bandage and a bottle of ethanol. He sunk down to his knees and pulled off the shirt on Jason’s stomach, frowning a little while wiping off the blood. Jason couldn’t help but to drop his eyes down to the law enforcer, feeling his long fingers stroking feather touches on the hard muscle of his torso.

His lashes were long, ridiculously, curled beautifully and shadowing his under eyes by the street light from the window, eyes blued an unrealistic shade, so bright and deep like the bottom of the Caspian sea. His cheeks were slightly hollow, lips full and healthy pink, face slim and skin so fair.

Jason thought he was high on pain med or something, cause this man looked too fucking godlike to be human.

“Are you conscious?” Dick asked, frowning lightly and even an idiot could read the worry in his eyes.

Was this guy for real?

“Not dying on your couch, for you to be sure.” He hoarsely said, voice coming out as a low rumble of words.

“Good.”

And there was a fucking smile in his face.

When was the last time someone smiled at him like that? Must be since his mom, and she was long died. And this was a cop, a fucking officer who chased his tail all night and swore to take him to the law.

Jason went silent for the rest of the hour, only grunted out when Dick took the bullet out and sealed the skin back together. He spent the moment looking everywhere around, to the badges and the uniform in the closet as a reminder that this was actually Dick Grayson the naïve cop, to the pictures on the nightstand, and the bed sheet spread out next to the couch. The room was tidy, not militarily orderly like Jason’s safe houses, but was clean and fair for a single guy.  

When his eyes fell down, Dick was finishing the last roll of the bandage on his wound, face was completely at ease  

“You do remember I’m a criminal, right?”

“You mean a crime lord who masters dozens of different lines of illegal drugs and weapons in the US, as well as stands behind a large number of casualty in Gotham and this city alone?!” Dick quirked his eyebrows and hands moved away from the knot of the bandage. “Yes, I do remember.”

“Then why did you save me?”

Dick frowned and looked like he had been hit with no reason.

“Why shouldn’t I?!”

Jason huffed. “Don’t you think a “crime lord who masters dozens of lines of illegal drugs and weapons as well as stands behind a large number of casualty” should be better off dead?”

“No one’s better off dead.”

“Who teach you in the academy? Producer of Pixar!?”

“Believe it or not, Pixar has quite a lot of good convictions.”

“Are you for real?”

“Maybe.”

Dick rolled his eyes and chuckle. For the whole shitty life of his, never once Jason thought he could laugh, really carefreely laugh, for a cob’s joke.

Dick’s hand touched his knee and lightly squeezed, he looked up with that brightness in his eyes that made Jason’s inside tingle.

“I have to put you away after this.” His voice was soft like a feather, light warm breath mix into thin air. Jason couldn’t do much but stare, eyelids half closed when he looked down at the cop on his knees.

“Yeah, blue.” He grumbled sarcastically, and somehow immediately regretted it when those ocean eyes flinched and looked at him sadly. Was he feeling bad for making him do this face? Yes. Was it normal for him to do things like that? Fuck no.

“Red, I do this… I put people like you in jail, not to punish you or something like that. I do it to protect the others living their normal life out there, and to give you another chance.”

“Another chance?”

“Yes, a chance to have a better life, life where you don’t have to hurt people or yourself to be able to survive, a chance to actually live, love, and be loved.”

The earnest in his eyes was as clear as daylight, it wasn’t something you could fucking fake. It put Jason in mere shock, made him breathless in seconds and his guts twisting. This guy, this fucking guy…

“Why are you saying this? You were so eager to catch me every single time we met, toughing all around like a crusader.” If Jason’s voice was shaking, Dick definitely didn’t react to it.

“Right now, you’re hurt and almost got killed. Back there, you were killing and hurting people.”

“People that deserve it!” He snapped, losing control of the fire in his eyes, yet, Dick remained calm like an autumn lake. “They were drugs dealers, were killers, rapists, thieves and douchebags. There were just like me.”

“You aren’t a rapist.”

“How can you tell?”

“You kill rapists, figure you must hate them too much to be one.” Dick shrugged.

“Okay, but aside that, the people I kill, they don’t deserve the lives they own. Yet, you still care about them?! You still saved me?!”

Dick looked at him, and Jason felt his mouth snap shut for the tenderness in his eyes was too strong to be against.  

“There aren’t bad men, only bad decisions. People make mistakes all the time, but that doesn’t mean we should give up on them.”

And that, let the air out of Jason’s lungs. The smile this guy was giving him sweet like a mother soothing her child to sleep, and the light in his eyes was pulling Jason’s soul out of his body. He felt like gasping for air and clutching his chest tightly, but his pride wasn’t giving him a knuckle of that. Unconsciously, he reached out for that handsome face, pulling up lightly and thumb rubbing his chin.

“There aren’t people like you anymore, you know that?”  

And he kissed him, bruising Dick’s lips with every strength his body could give by now. He felt Dick gasp in surprise, hands touching his shoulder, wanting to pull away but too afraid to hurt his wounded body. It was like pouring more gas into the explosion inside his body. Jason was high, he was way high on adrenaline, on pain med, and Dick was glowing and caring, playing pure golden hearted God’s angel.

How a guy like this, beautiful, purely beautiful, could even exist in this hell hole, Jason didn’t know, but he had had too much of a night, and Dick’s words were eating his inside bits by bits.

Pulling out a syringe inside his boot, he tugged Dick’s waist closer, pushing his body flat against his bare chest, feeling fire burn his skin hot every inch. He had it prepared, but still couldn’t help wincing at the upcoming lost when Dick’s winced and yelped a surprise sound as the needle broke the skin of his neck and green liquid drug slowly pumped into his pulse. In next seconds, Dick’s body slumped down at him, boneless and unconscious, his mouth slipped away, living Jason’s lips cold to the air, missing and eager for what it had lost.

“Sorry, blue.”

He lowered Dick down the bed, tugged the blanket up and tucked his bang aside. He stared at the beautiful sleeping face for a while, admiring in silent of the fact that he looked too young, too beautiful for this kind of job he was having, yet, the guy was like a lotus, blooming his grace gorgeously from the mud of ugliness, corruption, and rottenness of this city.

He kissed his temple then left out the window with his clothes and the red helmet, letting his eyes linger to the peaceful face in the bed before jumping out to the night sky.