#the estate he's already so good with coming up with his own deductions

[cathymee]

'why the fuck you lying' vine is out, synchronized and comical 'may nagsisinungaling! (someone's lying)' is in

[renx01]

Out of Sight - part 1

Summary: Moriarty is your boss. After he helped you out of a precarious situation when you were still a minor, you started working for him. Now, he has a new job for you. Get close to the Holmes brothers to keep an eye on them for him. Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Reader & Jim Moriarty/Reader Fandom: BBC Sherlock Word count: 1492

Masterlist

Jim Moriarty is a tricky man to work for, yet you do. After meeting you while you were a seventeen year old that had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, he had seen potential in you. So, after some training from his right hand man, Sebastian Moran, you became one of his best. He even gave you a nickname, Spike, after your personality. When you initially started working for him, you were quite spunky and talked back whenever you felt like it. Now that you’re older and have worked in his organisation for a couple of years, you’ve mellowed out a bit when it comes to business and listening to Jim. Now, you’re a ruthless assassin that will do whatever you’re told to by a certain Irishman in the blink of an eye. Currently, you’re on your way to his estate out of town. The sleek car that picked you up is quite lavish, something you’d somewhat grown used to as he tends to enjoy showing off. You watch the trees flash by you as the car speeds up while music plays through your earbuds. It had been a while since you last were at the estate, as you’d been out of the country for business the past couple of months. The car eventually comes to a halt and you quietly get out.

‘My dearest Spike,’ Jim smiles when you step into his office, ‘it has been a while hasn’t it?’ ‘It has, sir.’ You smile back at him. ‘Business in Hong Kong has been settled without too much issue.’ You glance at Sebastian entering the room. ‘The target has been eliminated and you are now in control of the biggest criminal network.’ Moriarty’s smile turns into a grin. ‘That is wonderful to hear, I didn’t expect any less from you.’ His face suddenly becomes serious again and he turns to Moran. ‘Sebastian, do you have the files I requested?’ The other man only nods before putting the files onto the desk. ‘Good, good.’ He starts looking through before his eyes turn to you once again. ‘Spikey dear, come here. I want you to look through these documents and photographs today, I have a new assignment for you.’ You approach the table and file which is filled to the brim. There’s mostly pictures of and reports about consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Jim walks around the desk and stands next to you on your right, while Sebastian is already on your left. ‘I want you to get close to Sherlock Holmes and his Brother, Mycroft.’ He points out a picture of the two of them. ‘Keep and eye on them for me. Gather as much information as you possibly can, I do not care how, as long as you don’t reveal your identity.’ Turning to him, you finally look the shorter man  in the eye. ‘Of course sir.’ Sebastian shoves another file into your hands before he starts talking. ‘We’ve arranged for a new identity so you’ll be able to fly under the radar. Name: Charlie Moore, age: 27, occupation: intelligence analyst at Scotland Yard. Any other information you may deem necessary can be found in this file. You’ll move into 221C Baker Street tomorrow morning. We’ve already arranged for you to be able to stay there.’  That night you spent looking through the files that were given to you. Sherlock and Mycroft both seem quite interesting in their own rights. Sherlock is a high functioning sociopath that seems to get a thrill out of showing off his intellect and skills to others. His skill is quite incredible, but nothing you hadn’t seen from Jim before. Besides, deduction is a skill a person is able to learn, quite easily in fact. You’d been taught by Sebastian when you first joined Moriarty’s organisation, though your skills have been sharpened over time, with some help from the Irishman himself when he thought you could do better. Now, you rival Sherlock’s speed and skill when it comes to deduction. Still, you understand why your boss is such a fan, that is what he calls it anyway. You think it’s more of an obsession. Contrary to his brother, Mycroft doesn’t seem to enjoy showing off as obviously as Sherlock does, yet he does enjoy flexing his power from time to time. The files you possess show how Sherlock’s newest acquaintance had been picked up by the man’s secretary multiple times and driven to an ominous location so he could talk to John. Supposedly, he offers money to those that get close to his brother, so you’d be keeping that in mind. It does become clear, however, that Mycroft didn’t just hold a minor position within the British government. Clearly he, like your boss, constantly keeps an eye on the consulting detective.

The following morning you arrive at Baker Street using a cab, so as to not have any suspicions arise. You have two suitcases, mostly holding clothes, books, and other essentials. Your larger weapons have already been delivered to and hidden in your new flat, so you don’t have to worry about those. After knocking on the door, you’re greeted by Mrs. Hudson, your new landlady. ‘Good morning dear, you must be the new tenant.’ She smiles brightly. ‘Yes, very nice to meet you Mrs Hudson.’ You smile back and stick out your hand for her to shake it. She does so before letting you in. Before she leaves you be in the flat, to which some basic furniture had already been delivered, courtesy of Jim, she warns you about your upstairs neighbours. ‘I do hope you’ve read the warning about the noise carefully dear. Sherlock can be quite a lot with his antics.’ Despite not being too worried about the noise, having had to deal with plenty of situations which were significantly worse than a single man could accomplish, you make sure to assure her you’ll be fine. ‘Yes, of course Mrs Hudson. Noise does not tend to bother me very much and I’ll be away for work during the day, so I suppose I should be fine.’ You smile at her again before closing your door and starting to unpack. It is Sunday morning, so you want to try and unpack most of your things before the start of the workweek, tomorrow is your first day at Scotland Yard after all. Before you start unpacking though, you put in your earbuds and put on Radiohead’s album In Rainbows.

The day went by without much issue, or noise from the upstairs neighbours. Probably because Sherlock was on a case, as your employer had let you know. During that time, you’d hidden the last of your weapons in places which aren't deductible and gotten your image in check. Your persona was quite a boring one to be fair, and while there’s always a hint of truth in them to make it believable, your own life has a lot more excitement and risk. Still, that is something you have to intentionally hide from the brothers and their acquaintances. Looking at your watch, you decide it’s time to go to the shops, as you’d be likely to arrive once Sherlock’s already back and you’d have a reason to introduce yourself. ‘Bye Mrs Hudson. I’ll be back in a few.’ You close the door behind you and head out. When you return with a bag of food, you’re met by two men standing at the door. You immediately recognise them as Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. ‘Excuse me, could you please step aside so I can get to my flat?’ You deliberately make your voice softer and quieter than it usually is as to come across as somewhat shy. The doctor steps aside without much hesitation while the detective just turns around and starts trying to deduce you. ‘You must be the new tenant. Nice to meet you, I’m John Watson.’ The short man smiles at you. You shake his hand before introducing yourself and turning to the taller man, though he isn’t much taller than you. ‘Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.’ He looks you over once again. ‘You’re in the police force but no officer, your nails are too clean for that. You’re dressed as if you have a new job despite it being a Sunday, you’ve only brought clothes you wear to work, which means you don’t go out much or meet people in your free time. You prefer listening to music and reading books to social interactions.’ You feign surprise but are glad, those were all the markers you’d set for him to read. He turns around and heads up the stairs to 221B. ‘I’ll see you at Scotland Yard tomorrow.’ John quickly turns to you and apologises for his friend’s behaviour before following him up the stairs. He’s certainly a character. Didn’t notice a thing though. -S

I told you so, and that’s why I wanted you to do this. -JM

I’ll keep you updated. -S

[saeculumaeterna]

As much as making chocolate for her husband was a bit of a tradition Mukuro did, Mukuro wanted to spice it up a bit。 So instead of a traditional gift of pieces of chocolate, Mukuro had made an edible body paint, something that would very likely be used at some point today。

「Happy Valentine’s Day, love,」 Mukuro said in a soft, groggy voice the moment she woke up before nuzzling herself up close to him。

「I got a sitter for tonight,」 Mukuro said as she rested her head on Dagon’s chest, ��so we shouldn’t have to worry about much today~」 She adds before pressing a kiss against his chest, 「You know that estate of mine up in Hokkaido? I was thinking we could go up there and have a very fun day,」 Mukuro had already given some heads up to the staff that she kept up there in case they were to arrive there at some point。

@mcmcntomorii

Ah yes, Valentine's Day.

While Dagon was not unaware of the significance the festive occasion had for humans, that was more out of necessity than mutual fascination. The day was one of those exceedingly rare universal constants, meaning that it managed to exist in every multiverse in the same or similar manner.

Excluding the one where it wasn't a thing of course.

A day dedicated to love that was celebrated almost entirely everywhere sounded like a delightful thing. But love was a powerful primal force, and while he could count on the force not abusing this abundant surge of power he could not say the same for those with control over such power.

Much like the end of a year, this day brought all of those pests out of the woodwork to exploit it for their own ends. Be their motives benign, egotistic, lustful, chaotic, any motivation at all really it still lead to the same end result. Dagon's arrival and their demise. Love was not meant to be wielded so callously, especially by inexperienced hands. It made a terrible mess of things.

Thus, Valentine's Day left a conflicting taste in his mouth. Bad because there was always so much work to do, good because he occasionally had someone to come back home to.

Well Dagon was not fucking around this year. More than a few well placed threats had gotten his fellow agents to get off their asses for once and do their jobs today so he could have an actual proper Valentine's instead. He had only covered for them for the last 10 quintillion years so he felt he was owed.

So for once he was actually able to be in bed with his wife rather than dimensions away ripping apart some pest. He listened to her plans silently, the gears of his mind working as to her plans for the two of them. Sure sex and seclusion were nice, but they could do that here. Sora wasn't old enough to wonder why mom and dad were in such a strange position yet.

Still he kept any deductions to himself lest he spoil whatever surprise Mukuro clearly had in mind for them. That didn't mean they couldn't have some fun beforehand however.

"Valentine's already huh." The ageless chuckled, pressing a kiss to her head after she had put one on his chest. "A getaway for two and a sitter for Sora already planned out." He withheld the fact that he trusted no sitter to take care of their son, and the fact that he could have just cloned himself for the job. Mukuro had done her plan already, there was no point in upsetting it now.

Still, back to the fun. Conjuring a piece of chocolate to his hand, Dagon casually placed it on his chest in a specific spot. When he did do, immediately it began to sizzle and melt as though it were atop a fire. And as calculated, the melted sweet ran a trail down his bare chest right in front of Mukuro's face. Close enough to just reach out and...clean.

"Ooops. How careless of me." And then he did it again.

[superhero--imagines]

Part 1 here! / Part 2 Here! / Part 3 here!

A/N: I already know some of y’all are going to be mad, it’s 2020 and twilight needs some diversity, don’t @ me.

* You’re not really sure how you got here

* “This ones done”

* Edward holds out the blood bag to you, carefully pulling out the needles from you beloved Deer, Hayden.

* “Ah, thank you.” You place it carefully along with the others, before lavishing Hayden with affection

* “You were so good today! You’re going to get extra carrots, yes you are!”

* You’re aware of Edwards gaze on you as he disinfects the injection point.

* “You know it’s illegal to have Deer as pets in Alaska don’t you?” The corner of his mouth is quirked in the smallest smirk you have ever seen, and you roll your eyes

* “Tanya got a permit, the official stance is they’re her deer, I just take care of them for some extra pocket money”

* Not that anyone would venture into the “siren house” to ask questions

* You knew people were probably wary of coming up to the estate, even the mail man looked dead scared when he left Irina’s Lululemon packages in the mailbox

* But you didn’t think the locals legit called the manse “The Siren House”

* Edward told you they used to call it “The Witch House” but then, upon seeing the Denali sisters, changed it to Siren

* Edward doesn’t say anything, just moves to take the filled blood bags up to the house

* Ever the gentleman

* You really thought Edward would show up once, figure out he couldn’t read your mind, and retreat into his own moody silence.

* You figured you would mostly be dealing with Carlisle, who would teach you how to draw blood from your heard of deers, and then you would be on your own.

* But instead it was Edward who volunteered to do it for you, Carlisle was busy with his day job after all.

* He shows up once a week, usually after school, and carefully extracts the blood

* Then he puts them inside the fridge and leaves

* You really don’t get what’s going on, if he hates you so much why even bother coming over in the first place

* You’re about to fall into your usual rhythm of handing him the blood bags, which he then puts in the fridge when he breaks your routine

* “Why-“ your head pops up from the small pile of blood bags and to him. He’s looking away, but then his gaze meets yours. “Why go through all this trouble for a few deer.”

* You grin and hand him a blood bag

* “Another vampire might say the same thing to you, why go through all the trouble for a few humans?”

* He flinches, and you laugh. He’s so unaware of himself it’s actually funny

* “For the record, I do it because they remind me of my (Dog/Cat/Pet).” He quirks an eyebrow at that.

* “Your pet?”

* You nod. You’re number one concern on arrival here had been whether your dog was okay, but sifting through your memories of this life, you realized your dog had passed away in the middle of high school.

* “When I look into their face, all I can think about is my dog” you shrug, it’s the same with bears and other animals too.

* “Also, it’s kinda disgusting to drink that blood straight out of the animal.”

* Draining the blood must have deducted something from the taste, you can’t imagine what that skunky revolting flavor would have been like if you were drinking straight from the animal.

* Edward laughs. It’s the first time he’s laughed around you, pearly white canines in full view, the skin at the corner of his eyes folds

* It’s cute, very boyish. You get what Bella was talking about now

* “You get used to it after a while” he shrugs

* You shake your head, no one should ever have to drink that crap

* “Here, try some of my blood” you say it like you’re offering him some cookies you made. You pick up one of the bags, still warm, and he quirks an eyebrow

* This isn’t the first time you’ve offered, usually he declines and rushes to leave

* One time it looked like he might say yes, but then he noticed Tanya and excused himself.

* He accepts the bag, holding it up with one hand

* “Do you pour it in a mug?”

* And so you and Edward sip your blood-Capri-suns in the kitchen that’s only now started to be used

* You sit in the counter cross legged, while he leans against the adjacent counter. Both of you silently sipping your meals.

* “This is really good” he finally says, his blood bag almost empty.

* “Who’d you have? I’ve been trying to add different veggies to their meal to see if it brings out a different flavour profile.”

* He had Henrietta, who you had been giving more citrus too. Partially for flavour, and partially because she’s your favourite

* “It kind of tastes like...fruit punch” Edward recalls after a prolonged minute.

* He seems so nostalgic, you wonder how long it’s been since he’s had human food

* “I think genetics have something to do with the flavour too, the breed from this region all seem to have a fruity aftertaste”

* “I’m partial to deer since they don’t have a strong game taste aftertaste.”

* “Yes! That part is the worst, it’s like eating a skunk” You scowl and he laughs again.

* You know he doesn’t belong to you, he’s Bella’s, in a few years she’ll be all he thinks or cares about.

* But maybe the two of you can be friends until then.

* All at once the moments broken, Edward stands a bit straighter, the smile on his face gone.

* You turn to look behind you to see Carmen.

* Her head is tilted to the side, a smile tugging on her lips

* “You both look like you’re having fun.”

* After that the conversation is pleasant, but it definitely stutters until Edward eventually leaves.

* “I think he likes you” You’re reading a book by the fire, the gentle heat is nice and it sets the mood.

* “What?”

* Carmen’s grinning

* “The Cullen boy is interested in you.”

* You just shake your head. You doubt it, Edwards only got a one track mind for one person. And it’s not you

* “It would be nice if we could be friends though, I don’t really know many other people my physical age.”

* Carmen stops mid-stitch on her embroidery hoop

* “Is that something you want? Because the Cullen’s have other’s your a-“

* “I don’t need you to set up play dates for me Carmen”

* “Understood”

* Edward comes by regularly, to help you with your animals. You’re both always under the (discrete) supervision of one of your guardians (excluding Tanya of course.)

* And with each visit you learn a little more about him

* You find out that right now he’s masquerading as a senior in high school, he’s considering going to college for veterinary sciences

* “Why veterinary sciences?” You wonder if he’s about to poach your best deer and start his own blood business when he shrugs

* “It’s one of the few degrees I don’t have”

* You’re drinking blood-Capri-suns out on the porch, he’s still in his school clothes, including a very puffy jacket

* “What were you going to do?” Your raise an eyebrow and he elaborates “before you turned, what were you plans for the future.”

* “I was on my graduation trip, I was going to college in the fall”

* You got accepted into your safety school with a generous scholarship.

* Edward doesn’t press any further. But you can tell that he wants too.

* Many nights go by, you experiment with you animals diets, have supervised hang-outs with Edward, you meet Carlisle every so often who basically gives you therapy and helps you control your emotions

* Life is good

* But your growing complacency with the situation is starting to bother you

* You haven’t forgotten about Alec and Jane who are still fighting so hard to survive, or the countless others who would prefer this way of life if they only knew

* You know the minute you start being content is the minute the world wins

* So every night -or really every so often, you’ve lost all perception of time, the nights in Alaska are totally fucked and these heathens don’t even have a damn clock. Your only really sign of time is the mail man dropping off amazon packages- you sit and dream

* You think about giving back to the community, about saving your friends, and about dethroning fucking Aro

* You’re only at the beginning now, there’s still so much work to do, but it’s a start

* You hear a noise and your eyes open

* If you had a beating heart it would stutter when it saw Edward standing beside your bed, your hand moves on it’s own through reflex, clutching your heart

* Under the circumstances you would expect someone else to laugh, but Edward just looks confused

* “Are you...sleeping?”

* “I like to pretend, it’s a nice way to end the day” he raises an eyebrow at that

* “It’s 4 in the afternoon”

* “Well damn Edward, we don’t have any clocks in this house, how am I supposed to know what time it is.”

* He does laugh at that

* “Is it...nice?”

* “Yeah, it’s pretty relaxing, kills some time too.” Noticing the curious look on his face, you ask:

* “Do you want to try?” You pat the space on the bed beside you.

* You’re fully expecting for Edward with his old fashioned virtues to deny your suggestion. So you’re surprised that after several long seconds of silence, and a rather pained look, he adheres to your request and lies next to you on your bed.

* It’s a king size bed, so he’s at least three Great Danes away from you, but the closeness still surprises you.

* “What do I do now?” He says, eyes closed.

* “Daydream, or fantasise I guess, about things that happened in your day, or things you wish happened, places you want to go and memories you wish you could relive”

* “What do you usually dream about?” He asks, eyes open now

* “I think about Jane,” the answer is automatic, and you regret it as soon as the words come out. But Edward’s expression doesn’t change so you continue. “I think about my deers and my family too.” Most of the time you’re just thinking about what animal you want to excitement with next tbh

* “And sometimes I think about you.”

* And how glad you are to have a friend

* Edward doesn’t say anything for a long time, and for a second you hope he hasn’t misunderstood your words, you know he’ll never feel that way about you. All of those romantic feelings are saved for Bella

* “Would you like to come to my house sometime?” The questions throws you off, and your expression illicit’s a laugh from him. “Emmett and Esme are dying to meet the newborn from the Denali coven”

* That’s probably true for Esme, you’re pretty sure Emmett just wants to have some physical match with the “Volturi-reject”

* “That sounds fun, sure.”

* Maybe they have a clock in their house you can steal

* Edward shows up the next day in his shiny white Volvo to pick you up.

* On either side of you on the front porch are Carmen and Kate with their most fierce expressions (and behind them is Eleazer who just looks like he’s along for the ride)

* “Where are you going?” Kate asks

* “Our home on the other side of the mountain, you’ve been there before” Edwards got a small smile curling in his lips, and an eyebrow raised.

* “What will you do?” Carmen asks

* “My family’s having a board game night, I think we’re playing monopoly”

* “What time will you bring them home?” Kate intervenes, man they’re not even pretending to be polite

* “Well it’s not a school night-“ Seeing his joke isn’t going to land, he rethinks his words midway

* “Whenever they tell me to.”

* You’re half expecting to get a curfew, even though this household seems to operate without the concept of time, when Eleazer interjects

* “Well be safe, and have a good time.” He slides a backpack up your shoulders. “I packed you some blood bags in case you get hungry, Henrietta’s since I know that’s your favourite.”

* He’s the only one waving as you get into Edward’s car

* The view as you drive is breath taking, the snow covered mountains, abs crisp green trees

* Edward laughs beside you, at your awestruck expression no doubt

* “You don’t get out much do you?”

* You have your nose practically pressed to the glass

* “Not at all.”

* The Cullen’s home is reminiscent of the one from the movies. All light, with glass everywhere. It’s like a aurora, all wavy with no true shape

* “Welcome to our home (Y/N)” Carlisle greats you first, and behind him is... Esme

* She’s not at all like the books or the movie

* She’s definitely not white, you can’t tell exactly what race, but she’s definitely a POC.

* Her caramel cheekbones seem even more prominent when she offers you a smile.

* “It’s so nice to finally meet you, I’m Esme.”

* For some reason her being a POC, makes you feel more comfortable around her.

* Maybe you will ask her to draw up those plans for a proper barn.

* Edward stifles a laugh behind you, and you raise an eyebrow.

* “Emmett is dying to meet you upstairs.”

* You follow Edward up the stairs, finally meeting the family that spawned four books and a movie franchise.

* None of them look like they’re actor counterparts

* For one Emmett is black. And also really handsome, he’s got this Chadwick Boseman look alike thing going on and you’re down for it (RIP)

* Rosalie looks basically the way she was described in the books, all blonde hair and angel faced, but she’s the only one

* Alice is definitely Asian, she kinda looks like Lana Condor

* Jasper.... is ambiguously brown, but it still makes you let out a sigh of relief when you remember he was a Major in the CONFEDERATE army.

* More to the story than someone who was blatantly racist and supported slavery.

* They’re all beautiful, and they terrify you. You’re not exactly sure why, but something primal in you tells you to run away as fast as you can.

* But Edward lightly brushed the small of your back, pushing you forward. Right into the lions den.

* “Hello, I’m Rosalie”

* Looks like they picked her to be their spokesperson, all glittering smiles and flawless cheekbones. She extends her hand, and you lightly grasp it.

* “It’s nice to meet you.”

* It’s surreal to think how you know almost everything about this girl, while you two are virtually strangers

* Jasper introduces himself next, all smiles and quiet gentlemanly behavior.

* You’re not really sure what to expect with Alice, from what you know this girl has seen every future you could possibly have.

* Who knows what she saw

* But when she stands she hugs you

* “It’s good to see you!”

* “Alice, you haven’t introduced yourself”

* “Oh, right. I’m Alice”

* Emmett claps you on the back like you’re an old friend.

* “So, I heard you used to hang out with the sadist twins in the Volturi”

* You can practically feel the tension in the air, even Edward winces

* “They’re not so bad” really, what did anyone expect when they were in that environment

* Emmett grins

* “That’s bad ass”

* The rest of the night passes in a blur. The cullen’s game of monopoly includes some monstrous version where they put 8 different themed boards together and play in teams (You’re obviously on Edward and Alice’s team)

* They also have some sort of structure where they put four hotels together and called it a mega-hotel

* The whole thing blows up when Emmett accused Alice and Edward of using their powers to cheat

* “What do you want me to do, I can’t turn it off when I want Emmett, trust me I would especially when you and-“

* “Oh shut up Emmett, like we haven’t noticed Rosalie has an awful lot of $500 bills” Jasper interjects

* “It’s because you always pay me rent in small change!” She screams

* “Now-“ Carlisle tried to interject but Alice stands up

* “That’s a lie! I saw you steal from the bank several times when Esme wasn’t looking” Alice screams

* It goes on like this until Carlisle Declares the game over, and shoos everyone away.

* “Sorry, I would say it’s usually not like this, but I would be lying” Edward grins and you shrug

* “It was pretty fun and... entertaining in its own way” Edward beams at you, and once again, you definitely feel the dazzling effect Bella described in the movies

* “Should I... take you home now?” You can tell he doesn’t want to take you back yet, and if you’re being honest you don’t want to go back either

* The Cullen’s house has so much light, and you can see the stars so clearly here

* And if you’re being honest things seem to be way more entertaining here

* Edward takes you to a nook which houses a grand piano

* You’re fingers instinctively roam over the keys.

* “Do you play?”

* “Just a bit”

* You’re not the one who knew how to play, not really. But now this body is yours. You’ve thought about asking Carmen for a Piano, you’re sure they would love something that adds to the gothic feel of the mansion, but always cast it aside.

* You’re busy enough with your research.

* “Play me something” Edward grins.

* Alec had said the same thing to you when you were first taken by the Volturi, at the time your mind had raced wondering which piece would impress him the most. Which would aide in your survival.

* But looking at Edward now, you know that it’s not the same situation.

* He really does want you to play whatever your heart desires

* So you play “Love like you”, accompanied by your quiet voice reciting the lyrics

* At some point Edward sits beside you, playing in a deeper key, adding another layer of depth to your performance

* Wordlessly, afterwards he plays a piece of his own, Claire de Lune. Which you know is a remarkably hard piece.

* Still halfway you chime in, your super human fingers keeping up with him with ease

* And so it goes on like this, you play a modern song, waiting for him to catch up and he does the same with a classic

* Like a never ending game of cat and mouse

* It stops abruptly when Edward is in the middle of “moonlight sonata” when Alice clears her throat from behind you.

* “I hate to disturb,” there’s a teasing grin arched on her face. “But if you don’t drop them off, Carmen and Tanya are going to come over personally to retrieve them-“

* You see Edward wince, no doubt reviving Alice’s vision through his ability

* “And I don’t think anyone wants that.”

* You nod, moving to grab your backpack when you overhear Alice say-

* “You never let me play like that with you”

* Edward let’s out some sort of noise akin to a scoff

* “Where did you learn those songs?” He asks when you’re on the road

* Well you can’t tell him they’re from artists who aren’t known yet

* “Personal compositions” you murmur, and Edward grins his dazzling grin

* You talk about nothing but music until you pull into the familiar circle driveway of the manse

* Right when you’re about to thank him for a fun time, he gently stops you with a fleeting touch to your shoulder.

* “I’m graduating next month,” he hands you an envelope which you assume has his graduation card. “I was wondering if you would like to come to the ceremony.”

* You hold the card with both hands stunned, he’s already graduating high school?

* That means only 4 more years until he moves to Forks, and another two until he meets Bella

* And you realize that while time is frozen for both of you until the end of the universe, you’re the only one who isn’t moving forward

* “Yeah, I’d love that!”

* You try your best to smile, but your sure it comes off looking strange

* You don’t talk to anyone, heading straight for your bedroom

* What’s next for you?

[thebrochtuarachs]

All That Was Good - Chapter 3

A/N: This story has just been a delight to write. Thank you to everyone who loves and comments about this story. It absolutely warms the heart. <3 As always, comments and suggestions are always welcome. :) Stay safe!

This story is also on AO3

xxxxxx

Faith.

It was as natural as breathing when Claire knelt and caught her daughter in a tight hug. 

“Ma!” Faith chimed and it swelled Claire’s heart. She couldn’t stop the tears that feel even if she tried. Seeing her photo in the wallet and now, in the flesh in the span of 5 seconds was more than enough to break Claire down. 

But it was definitely more for Jamie, who by now, has completely lost it. He was openly crying in awe and disbelief for the daughter he’s never seen or met but prayed with all regret that he could’ve. After everything that happened in Paris and even though they have settled it between them, deep inside his mind and heart, Jamie blamed himself for her loss. 

Hearing Jamie sniffle and wipe his nose and face, Faith turned to him and quickly reached out her arms, requesting him to carry her. Without hesitation, he picked her up and held her close to his heart. 

Pushing herself up from his shoulder, Faith turned to Jamie with a question. “Da, sad?” 

“No, no, not sad. Da is verra verra happy right now.” he quickly assured his daughter with the biggest smile on his face. “We’ve just missed you so much” 

Faith mirrored his smile as Jamie continued to take her in. “She has your eyes.” he remarked to Claire. 

“And your everything else!” Claire jokingly scoffed back at him. She then, squinted and too, shook her head in wonder. “Jamie, I - “

“I know. I can’t believe it either.” Jamie finished the sentence. He opened his free side to her and she quickly slided in, wrapping Jamie and their daughter together in her arms as close as she could. 

The next five minutes have been the most blissful time yet.

-

If the Beauchamps or the Frasers noticed Claire and Jamie’s puffy eyes and tear-streaked faces when they came to the dining hall, they (thankfully) didn’t mention it. 

To Claire and Jamie, everything was new - but to the foursome in front of them and the baby between them, it was practically routine and regular. 

Brian, Ellen, Henry, and Julia were talking about the latest in business and social events they were planning to attend. Claire and Jamie tried to keep an ear out to get some clues on what their families may be doing at this time but it was proving to be hard when there’s a two-year old, red-headed Fraser calling your attention every minute whether it was giving her food, her giving them food, wiping her clean, and listening to her stories in the past week she was with grandparents. Between the two, Jamie and Claire focused on Faith, savoring everything about her. Everything else can wait. 

They were taken out of their focus when Ellen asked Claire a question. “So, Claire, darling, what was the news ye had to tell us?” 

Claire swallowed the food she was chewing and looked at Jamie, a silent conversation ensuing between them. Jamie looked at her belly and maybe got her answer. It was the only thing of significance they could think of at the moment. 

“Oh, our news” She put her utensils down and everyone followed suit waiting to hear what’s next. “Well, Jamie and I are very happy to share that little Miss Faith here…” she tickled Faith’s belly resulting in a short giggle. “...is going to be a big sister.” 

They waited with baited breath for any reaction and hope that it was information they haven't told before. A few seconds later, all four grandparents erupted in celebration with the news, standing and looping Jamie and Claire into taps and hugs. 

“How far along are you?” Julia asked. 

“About two to three months. We just found ourselves.” Claire replied. 

“Have ye told anyone else?” It was Ellen’s turn to ask. 

“No, you guys are the first to know” 

“Can we tell the rest of the family, then, give them a quick call?” Brian chimed. Jamie and Claire nodded even thought they weren’t sure the extent of it. However, Brian offered the list immediately after. “We’ll call Willie, Jenny and Rabbie. And of course, we’ll reach out to your Uncle Lamb.” 

Jamie quickly clutched Claire’s hand and she did the same. Their entire family and more. 

It wouldn’t be far fetched that Claire and Jamie might think that they may have died and gone to heaven because this was everything. But until that reality falls down upon them, they will take this experience and make the most of it. 

“We should plan to get everybody here together and celebrate, maybe in another month’s time?”

“I agree, plan for a proper celebration. Plus, I think Lamb would also like to be out of the house once in a while.”

“It’s a date then!” 

The parents made all the arrangements and Claire and Jamie were just left to happily agree. 

-

The four grandparents continued their catch up to the library and Claire and Jamie decided to explore the estate. They brought Faith with them, not wanting to part with her just yet, even though the little girl was napping on Jamie’s shoulder. 

“Uncle Lamb must be in his 80s now but from what I gathered from my mom, he’s still strong but prefers to stay at home these days.” Claire shared, pulling out a cloth and wiping a drool from Faith.

They’ve checked the family photos and deducted what they could. In this time, William Fraser was married to Mary McNab, Jenny and Ian are together and already have wee Jamie and Maggie, and Rabbie is still in uni finishing his studies. 

Further reviewing the contents on both their wallets, what they’ve found so far are: Lallybroch is a whiskey distillery, Jamie and Claire are based in Glasgow, where Claire’s a nurse, and Jamie heads the Glasgow branch of the business - thankfully, jobs that are not necessarily out of their range. 

As for how they met, their past, and other information to their present, nothing much on that end yet. Maybe once they head to their own home, they’ll find more answers. But for now, they believe they have enough information to process but more importantly, let go a bit to focus more on Faith. 

The day passed rather quickly, with Jamie and Claire coming back to the house to cool off. They made their way to the living room, laying Faith down in one of the solo sofa chairs while they settled on the other. 

Jamie pulled Claire beside him and kissed her temple in reverence. She, in turn, cuddled closer to him, crossing her legs on top of his. Soon, sleep took over both of them once again, a much deserved nap as they adjust to today’s time. 

-

Jamie and Claire were woken up when they felt something trying to grab or climb at them.

“Oh, hi, darling. Did you have a good nap?” Claire asked Faith, she herself sitting straight and waking. 

“Yes. Are we going home now?” Faith asked as she bear hugged her mother. 

“Not yet. We’ll stay one more night and go tomorrow.” 

It was nearly dinnertime and one of their parents might’ve opened the lamp to give the space some light. Claire turned to Jamie and found him tenderly looking at the both of them. 

“I dinna have the words, Claire.” Jamie sighed and began. “I ken meeting our parents is one thing but meeting her, seeing her, feeling her, talking to her…” he reached to brush Faith’s hair. “Seeing what it is of her or me that is in her, watching ye become a mother…” Jamie shook his head. “I could talk about it all day, Sassenach. But after ye, this has been the best blessing in my life. And I promise ye, I wilna take it for granted.” 

“We won’t take it for granted, Jamie.” Claire reiterated their commitment. She, then, turned to their daughter to ask “Do you want to cuddle with Da next?” 

Sure enough, the little lass pulled out of Claire’s embrace and proceeded to go to Jamie’s. He put his nose in her head and breathed her in. “Mo nighean ruadh, tha gaol agam ort”. He grabbed Claire’s hand and placed a kiss on her knuckle. “Mo nighean donn, tha gaol agam ort” 

“I love you, too, Jamie.” she replied, squeezing his hand in agreement.

“Love too, Da” Faith said so simply and Claire and Jamie could just not stop the tears from flowing. 

Unbeknownst to them, outside the door, Ellen accidentally overheard their unusual conversation when she was coming to get them for supper. Throughout the day, she’d observed some things are rather different but nothing to be alarmed of. However, the chat did leave her a bit confused.

Letting the thoughts pass her mind, she knocked on the door loudly and got the family for dinner.

[possiblyimbiassed]

Ships and Cars - The Sign of Code

There have been lots of discussions about code in BBC Sherlock, and the possible metaphorical meaning of different things that appear frequently in the show, such as coffee/tea, water/fire, dogs/cats and many more. This show indeed seems filled with ciphers, code and secret messages. In this meta (X) I tried to decipher the encrypted name of the fishing boat that Sherlock and John hijacked in TFP, when it was called upon from Sherrinford: “Golf-Whisky-X-ray”. 

The Ship coding

At first I thought this was referring to the international spelling alphabet for wireless communication (X, X) where there’s a word for each letter. “GWX” didn’t make much sense to me, though, until I stumbled upon something deeper: ‘Golf’, ‘Whisky’ and ‘X-ray’ are also part of the marine Code of Signals (X) that was established in Britain around 1850. It’s still used by water vessels to communicate important messages regarding safety of navigation and such, and the signals can be sent by, for example, flaghoist, signal lamp or flag semaphore. Conan Doyle worked on a ship at least in 1880 and 1881, so the signals could totally have been known to him already in Victorian times. And since Sherlock and John are on board a boat in TFP, 

I think it’s reasonable to assume that the marine code is the relevant one here. In this signal code, the flags for “Golf”, Whisky” and “Xray” mean the following:

Golf = “I require a pilot.” 

Whiskey = “I require medical assistance.”

”Xray = “Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals.”

Which in other words could be read as:

I need a pilot (a maritime pilot to help me navigate)

I need a doctor

Pay attention to code

But is this use of marine signals something that only appears in BBC Sherlock? Is it Mofftiss’ own idea to use them, or could there possibly be any canon references to them? In the discussion that followed my meta (X)  @frailtyofgenius​ pointed out to me that ACD’s canon actually does mention “Naval signals” in His Last Bow (LAST), which I think might be very significant. And the one who uses the naval signals is Holmes himself.

Continued under the cut, because this is reeeally a long ‘transport’... ;)

So I took to read LAST and realized that there are several ’naval’ references (my bolding) in this story by Conan Doyle. In the beginning, as a romantic landscape framework, we’re told about the surroundings of the German spy Von Bork’s house:

Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.

LAST takes place on the English east cost, near the port of Harwich. The spy Von Bork is chatting with Baron Von Herling, a German diplomat, bragging about the intelligence he’s gathered for his country, and then he shows the Baron the contents of his safe:

And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.

But apparently the naval authorities have changed the code: 

“But you have a good dossier there already.” “Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed.”

So Holmes, posing as the Irish-American spy Altamont, is supposed to bring new ones. I think the real ‘feature of interest’ in this story, however, is the coding that Holmes/Altamont uses in his telegram to the German spy:

“Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs. ALTAMONT.”

And the conversation between Van Bork and the Baron continues:

“Sparking plugs, eh?” “You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

So here in ACD canon we’re explicitly told that the spark plugs, the ignition of the car’s engine (which generates an explosion in the engine’s combustion chamber) actually represents code - marine code. And other car references, according to Van Bork, are also marine code. I can’t help wondering if water was actually meant to represent emotions already in canon? ACD canon is packed with references to water: sea, coast, lakes, ponds, rivers and waterfalls but also ships, steamers, boats, submarines and such. Some of the criminals in canon are seamen and the navy is mentioned in some cases. And in two stories (NAVA and BRUC) the ‘naval’ issues contain secrets of national importance. 

I’d love to try to analyse all the water and boat references in ACD canon and see if/how they tie into emotions, but that’s for another meta. :) But what if something similar is done in BBC Sherlock; what if Mofftiss have used not only canon’s water metaphors for emotions but also the same general secret cipher as Holmes used in LAST? But maybe Mofftiss also took the cipher one step further, interpreting anything car-related not as general metaphors for emotions, but specifically as code for sexuality.

In TFP there’s a great explosion at 221B, and next thing we know, Sherlock and John are aboard a fishing boat, which is called upon with naval signals. But there’s actually very few ships in BBC Sherlock (while canon, as mentioned, is full of them); the fishing boat in TFP is one of very few boats in the show. As for seamen, there’s also very few in the show. Except for the fishing father and son in TFP, there’a also Sherlock’s deductions about the unemployed fisherman and his mother in THoB. @sagestreet​ has written an excellent meta suggesting a significant symbolic meaning of ‘fishing’ in this case (X).

In this self-censored post on John’s blog, however, there’s a cruiser mentioned in the title: Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror. But we never get to know anything about this case; the post is taken down entirely since, according to John, “the ship’s owners are launching an appeal”. 

Why is this post even there, if no one is allowed to read it? Every other blog post from John has some kind of content in it - at least since he met Sherlock. But this one only has a title (and a teaser in the post before: “I'm going to tell you about a couple of the smaller cases we've been involved in. What really happened on the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise.” (X))  

So the supposed ‘pleasure cruise’ was turned into a ‘cruise of terror’ and then deleted. Maybe it’s just me, but I strongly suspect this is a clue from the show makers telling us that a certain ‘ship’ is not allowed in BBC Sherlock, for ‘legal’ reasons having to do with the ‘owners of the ship’ (ACD Estate). 

Actually, there’s more info than this about the ship even in ACD canon, although it’s scarce. In The Sussex Vampire (SUSS) “Matilda Briggs” is mentioned in a letter to Holmes from the company Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd: 

“As our firm specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in the case of Matilda Briggs.” 

After Watson has read it, Holmes explains to him (my bolding): 

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.” 

If this is an allusion to a possible relationship between Holmes and Watson, indeed the world would not have been ‘prepared’ in Victorian times, since homophobia was prevalent and same-sex couples illegal. 

Source: (X)

Directly after this, while perusing his lexicon for ‘Vampires’ (the actual topic of the letter), Holmes also mentions another ship that was associated with Victor Trevor’s father’s secret past as a mutinous convict:

“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business. I have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I was unable to congratulate you upon the result.”

Indeed this voyage in GLOR was a ‘bad business’; it ended in mutiny and disaster. The ship Gloria Scott exploded and sunk in the Atlantic, and most of the crew and passengers died.

So, not many ships appear in BBC Sherlock. But instead, there’s plenty of cars in the show. What if all these car references actually somehow actually refer to a ship - a very particular ‘shipping’? ;)

The Cars

So, might these cars code for some hidden secrets? And/or is it possible to tie the car references to ’naval code’, as Holmes claims to do in LAST, assuming that naval = water = emotions but also sexuality? 

Returning to canon, please note that Holmes and Watson (both in disguise) arrive in a car to the scene of this story in LAST. This is one of the very few cars that appear in canon, since they weren’t yet very commonly in use by those times. Holmes’ and Watson’s car is modestly described as “a small car” and “a little Ford” (as opposed to Baron Von Herling’s car, which is a huge limo). But at the end of the story, Holmes says about the little Ford: “Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on our way.” And there they go, happily together, with the criminal tied up in the back seat, heading for Scotland Yard. Sweet, isn’t it? :) This is the very last we see of Holmes and Watson in canon. (Unfortunately, I can’t find any illustration of it).

BBC Sherlock, however, is full of cars. So, if we apply this analogy to BBC Sherlock, what car references can we find that could be translated into marine (= emotional) terms? Well, the first thing that comes to mind is the cab, the taxi, which is Sherlock’s preferred means of transport. 

A taxi has a driver, which is the word that the little girl on the plane in TFP uses instead of ‘pilot’. But we don’t see any taxi boats in the show, do we? In the Unaired Pilot, however, the cabbie drives Sherlock home to Baker Street (not to Roland Kerr’s), and there he tries to ‘kill’ him. One could even assume he makes a kind of sexual innuendo when Sherlock is sprawled face-down on the floor and the cabbie says “I could do anything I wanted to you right now, Mr ’olmes.” 

As I explained in my other meta about marine code (X), a marine pilot is someone who leads a ship through dangerous waters. Mofftiss haven’t included any marine pilots in their show, but they do use aircraft pilots, even if they’re not labelled as such: 

But if ‘driver’ should be read as ‘pilot’, then Jeff Hope - a John mirror - in the Unaired Pilot, the ‘driver’ of the show, guides Sherlock home emotionally and sexually, doesn’t he? ;) 

But there’s more about the signals in LAST. This is what the counter-agent Sherlock ‘Altamont’ Holmes says when he arrives at Von Bork’s place:

“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m bringing home the bacon at last.” “The signals?” “Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi – a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too dangerous.”

This seems very similar to Wikipedia’s explanation of the Marine Code of Signals, as I quoted above: apart from flag hoist, the signals can also be transmitted by, for example, flag semaphores, radio communication or signal lamps. We do have radio communication in TFP, when Sherrinford receives the message from the boat ‘golf-whisky-x-ray’. But are there any signal lamps in BBC Sherlock? Yes, in fact there are - and they’re tied to a car! 

A blinking, grinning Peugeot, no less, in THoB. And it’s definitely connected to sex, because that’s what’s happening inside. ;) Even if we’re lead to believe that this isn’t actually code, John does try (unsuccessfully) to decipher the blinking lights from this car as Morse signals and gets “U M Q R A”.

Apparently this code is not referring to the Marine Code of Signals. But @bug-catcher-in-viridian-forest​ has written an excellent meta (X) deciphering the possible code “UMQRA” as meaning “TORCH”, using the Ceasar cipher, which Sherlock refers to on his website (X) in combination with another cipher. In my opinion this does make a lot of sense. John does indeed use a torch to try to decipher this message, and there are also lots of other possible metaphorical meanings of ‘torch’ in the show. 

So I think it would still be wise to pay attention to code, wouldn’t it?

As for Holmes’ quote from LAST above, “a copy, mind you, not the original”, I’d interpret this at Holmes pointing out that these signals can be copied (’mirrored’?) and also that they can vary in type (I imagine that ‘Marconi’ stands for radio transmission (X)). All in all, these naval signals are of national importance in canon, just like the Bruce Partington Plans and the Naval Treaty. And these are all military top-secrets clearly connected to the British navy. At some point in LAST, believing he has won the spy game, the Baron says:“There may be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place!” Seems like the East Wind is coming. ;)

But back to the marine codes and cars: in canon (LAST) the car references hide secrets of national importance, connected to Britain’s naval defense, and some of those secrets, in turn, are encrypted with naval signals. That’s double coding, right? Also: the navy defend British waters and water = emotions.

As for cars, there’s a lot more of them in the show, while canon has very few; cars weren’t in use during most of Holmes’ career. I think LAST is the first time that cars appear in ACD canon? And the spare parts that Holmes/Altamont talks about as code in LAST never actually appear in the story, only the Baron’s limo and Holmes’ little Ford, where Watson is the driver.

But in the modern show there’s plenty of cars, of course; they’re literally everywhere. Many people have long ago pointed out that cars represent transport metaphorically, which is how Sherlock views his bodily needs in the unaired Pilot. Which ties in well with the assumption above that cars also represents sexuality, which is related to emotions even if it’s not the same thing.

But let’s also try to decipher the car references with Holmes’s code in LAST in mind, shall we? Where can we find water and/or possible hints about emotions and/or sexuality?

Apart from the taxis, which run like a red thread through the episodes (ASiP, TBB, TGG, ASiB, TRF, HLV, TST), and the abundance of police cars and ambulances, I can think of the following:

Mycroft’s black governmental car which is used to kidnap John in ASiP (and other episodes).

If Mycroft represents Sherlock’s brain, this might be about Sherlock trying to examine and test John with his intellect, to get an idea of who John is and what to expect from him. But this task is driven by his car - bodily needs - and behind them there’s still emotions, if we apply Sherlock’s code in LAST.

The first hostage’s car in TGG, where she is wrapped up in semtex.

This woman is literally trapped inside her car and metaphorically trapped inside her bodily needs, which are threatening to explode (remember Holmes’ ’sparking plugs’ in LAST?) if Sherlock doesn’t solve the puzzle about Carl Powers. And in this screen cap she is literally juxtaposed to Sherlock:

So it seems like Sherlock is now trapped inside his ‘transport’, yes? Still driven by emotions rather than intellect. And he probably sees this as very dangerous.

The finding of The ’dead’ man’s car with (fake) blood in TGG.

This ill-treated transport device (John calls it ”an abandoned sports car” on his blog X) leeds to more cars - Janus cars - and it turns out that the driver - Ian Monkford - isn’t dead; he’s just on ’vacation’ in Colombia (with the real purpose of cashing in his life insurance money). Sherlock figures this puzzle out and the poor fellow wrapped in semtex can breathe out; he’s not going to explode, either physically or emotionally. And no-one is dead in this case, but the driver faked his own death to avoid exposure and get his ‘security’.

The car with a dead body in the boot in ASiB

Licence plate: PYO3 HYN. The dead man in this car was destined for Germany according to his tickets - another ‘vacation’? But he never reached there; his plane crashed but he wasn’t in it, because he was already dead - trapped in his transport a car. Now, this case seems intimately connected with Sherlock in the boot of Mrs Hudson’s Aston Martin in TLD (see below). Except that Sherlock was being transported alive in that boot, but this guy is dead.

The client’s back-firing old SAAB in ASiB

The client stops near a wetland area and a stream because of problems with his engine. The driver - a John mirror? - tries to fix his ‘engine’, but the old car just won’t start. Sherlock analyses this case in his (drugged) Mind Palace together with his libido Irene Adler.

People have pointed out long ago (sorry for not remembering who - was it LSiT?) that the back-firing SAAB engine in the hiker case in ASiB might represent John’s dysfunctional sexlife with women; Sarah in specific and probably their trip to New Zeeland after TGG. (Maybe this is also why Sherlock in TSoT, when John has just been married to Mary, deduces that one of the wedding guests - a doctor - has ‘erectile dysfunction’?)

Irene’s black car in ASiB

Licence plate: SKO8 ZYL. This black car, which has a private driver, is used to transport John to the Battersea station on New Year’s Eve in ASiB. In spite of being in midwinter, Battersea seems to be flooded with water. And this is the place where Irene exposes John’s sexual relationship with (or at least interest in) Sherlock while Sherlock is listening to the conversation from another room, but John declares that “I’m not actually gay”. This car is so similar to Mycroft’s black car (see above) that John thinks this is Mycroft who kidnaps him again. If Irene represents Sherlock’s libido, what does her black car stand for?

Sherlock’s and John’s hired Land Rover in THoB

Licence plate: OEI0 HFK. The Land Rover is a British car, known for its four-wheel drive and vast off-road capacity. Sherlock drives this car to “deepest, darkest Devon” with John in the passenger seat, so it seems like they were prepared for a ‘bumpy ride’. And this car actually has a visible spare part; an extra wheel in case of emergency:

And their journey really became ‘bumpy’ - at least on an emotional level, since they were both dosed with a fear-inducing gas, had a quarrel, and the gay couple who were running the Inn where they were staying took for granted that they were indeed a couple too.

John’s and Mary’s car in HLV and in TST

Licence plate: SP56 LJY, black Audi. Mary is the driver in HLV. (By the way, why has this car the steering wheel to the left, in a country with left-hand traffic?). Here we’re presented with the interesting idea from the billboard that “Information is the power to change 1895″. In HLV we actually do see something like a spare part for this car; John’s tyre lever. ;) (which looks more like some sort of pipe key, if you ask me, but whatever; it’s still a spare part - or at least a ‘tool’ - associated with John’s transport car):

So this would be consistent with Holmes’ cipher in LAST. And this spare part is treated with very sexual overtones in HLV, so I think the influence of Sentiment and Sex is pretty clear here.

Mrs Hudson’s red Aston Martin in TLD

License plate: APIS CXJ. Now, this is a really interesting and beautiful car I think, and it shows its capacity when it goes speeding in TLD. Mrs Hudson has more resources than some people might believe. But John is only allowed to use her sports car - the ultimate symbol of male virility - when he’s off to rescue Sherlock. ;) 

The license plate reads APIS, which I’m sure is a reference to bees and bee keeping, because Apis mellifera is the scientific name of the honey bee. Holmes’ main occupation as retired in ACD canon is bee keeping, which is shown in LAST, where his secret ‘sparking plugs’ turn out to be the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. ;)) So Holmes stood by his words in his telegram to Van Bork; he did “come without fail to-night” (he came together with Watson) and he did “bring new sparking plugs”. It’s just that the ‘spark’ wasn’t maybe of the sort that Van Bork had expected... 

Anyway, in this scene in TLD, Sherlock is being kidnapped and handcuffed by Mrs Hudson and transported in the boot of that sports car; he’s literally trapped inside the rear end of his transport, which has John as its direct destination. 

Sadly for all of us, however, John refuses to ‘examine this body’, and this is instead done by the John mirror Molly (inside an ambulance), who tells Sherlock that he’s dying and that “it’s not a game”. 

The next time we see this red sports car, however, John is the driver, and he’s using its great capacity as it should be used: to come to Sherlock’s rescue. ;)

Come to think of it, there’s actually at least one more car spare part mentioned in the show, even if it might not be meant as this specific part:

This car has a steering wheel nevertheless, and Sherlock is sitting in the car while saying this. And yes; this show is indeed repetitive when it comes to certain topics. Like ‘transport’, emotions and bodily needs. But I do hope we’ll finally see some new turns on this topic in the next series. ;)

Thanks for your patience in following this marathon meta to its end! Tagging some people who might be interested (please alert me if you don’t want to be tagged):

@raggedyblue​ @ebaeschnbliah​ @gosherlocked​ @sarahthecoat​ @lukessense​ @therealsaintscully​ @thewatsonbeekeepers​ @sagestreet​ @tjlcisthenewsexy​ @thepersianslipper​ @loveismyrevolution​ @shylockgnomes​ @frailtyofgenius​

Screencaps in this meta are in some cases borrowed from this site (X). 

[tokoyamisstuff]

Betrothed Ch. 6 - Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Chapter 6: Bold

Summary: Two pretty unusual family meetings, but one of them lacks a happy end.

Warnings: Angst, Family Drama.

Words: ~4300

Story Masterlist

A/N: Tumblr accidentally posted the unfinished draft a few days ago. Sorry for the confusion! As a treat, you get a very long chapter! (:

Before you were married, Illumi was rarely at home.

He had no one to come home to anyway, let alone someone who cared.

Anyway, this was only one of many things you had changed.

These times, whenever he left, it was only for a good reason like missions, training or caring for his siblings. Sometimes family conferences you were allowed to attend as well, yet not to talk.

Whenever he got home, it felt so cozy and peaceful.

Like he was welcomned and safe here - unlike anything he knew before.

Your home would always smell like scented candles, the many flowers you had planted at the balconry, and whatever you were cooking at the time.

It was very lovely and kinda cheesily decorated by now. Most of the things were stuff you asked Illumi to bring home from his missions, but lately he got you anything he thought you'd like.

Of course you were grateful for everything. It meant he took the time and actually think about what you'd appreciate!

Occasionally, you’d bring home injured animals you found in the forrest surrounding Kurokoo mountain. Sometimes your husband reluctantly assisted you, even though he found kindness futile - he just couldn’t say no to your begging eyes, so be it.

From you, he got love and care in return for his efforts. But a wild animal? Well, if he thought about it, he consdiered himself lacking a real consciousness just as much as the pets you kept.

One day, he’ll understand why people help each other without wanting something back - you promised him. Even though he always emphasized that saving such small lives won’t redeem him anyway.

Yes, the weight of his sins was sure massive - especially now that it all broke down on him, suffering under his newfound sympathy.

You swiped through your phone, adoring all the photos you persuaded him to take together.

It filled your heart with joy to notice every small change he underwent:

He'd run himself a bath from time to time, buy sweets or other things to try out, and spent his free time reading or wandering the estate's forrest instead of thoughtlessly staring into the void.

And for the more nasty things, well...let’s just say Illumi is a quick learner. And you were glad that he began taking the initiative and try out things he may enjoy.

Your husband was more and more developing a personality.

"She's so pretty!"

"Yeah, right?" you proudly commanded the owl to come back, and she immediately landed on your lap. "Her name is Luna."

“She was a gift from big bro Illumi, right?” Your familiar had grown strong very fast, yet it's claws never hurt you. Sometimes you almost forgot that Luna was a dangerous animal rather than a cuddly pet. “Yes, she is!”

"Maybe we can play in the forrest some day. I just need some time to convince your parents."

Alluka was sitting on a chair next to you, cheerfully petting the patient bird. "Thanks, big sis!"

Illumi's little sister was probably the only normal person in this building. No nen, no assassin training either, and a loving nature.

If only there wasn't-

"Y/N!" Oh no. Your husband was back earlier than you expected. "Did you bail her out again?!"

"Big bro!" the little girl cheered, jumping down the stair and wobbling to his direction.

There was not the slightest hint of hate inside of her. Even though she was alone all the time, she was blissfully unaware about her own family resenting her.

"Illumi!" That was the first time you actually raised your voice against him. "Take.down.the. needle. Right now!"

You kept Alluka from getting closer to Illumi, defendingly wrapping your arms around her.

God knows what he'd do...

"Then get that thing out of my face."

Actually, you didn't want to fight in front of a child, but Alluka needed constant superveilance . "How can you be so cruel? She's your sister!"

"Did you make a wish?"

"Of course not! I used my nen to get her out unnoticed, so she could spent some time like a normal child. I would've brought her back tonight. That's all, really! I promise!"

Suddenly, you felt a foreign, powerful aura under your palms.

Damn it.

You forgot her last wish was a hug, which was exactly what you gave her right now.

"Aye."

"That's enough." Illumi already had his needles prepared, infusing them with nen. "I'll end this right here."

You knew he didn't mean it like this. He was afraid of Nanika's powers, and even if this wouldn't end in a disaster, his parents would punish you for your reckless actions.

"Nanika?"

The girl answered, her blackened orbs obediantly glaring at you. "Aye?"

"Y/N" Illumi almost growled, still hesistant. "Know your place."

"Give Illumi a hug."

Baffled, Illumi's needles disappeared into thin air. The girl didn't even reach up to the tall man's thorso, rather embracing one of his legs.

She was so small and weak and fragile - and for the first time, Illumi was able to acknowledge the affection his sister felt for him.

"See?" you calmly explained, now hugging him as well. "Nanika is not evil. Only the people's wish are."

"...she's all alone" he spoke to himself, trying to at least logically understand the situation. "Just like you when I'm gone."

He didn't get it.

Hard enough to understand why you were caring so much about him, but Alluka? The sibling he always despised, insulted, abused, and locked away?

There were still so many things he didn't know yet.

"Well, if it's only the two of you, and I'm supervising..." he mumbled, kneeling down to the girl's height, "Then I guess I can promise you a few liberties."

Alluka's face and aura were back to normal, her glimmering eyes blinking happily at her brother, who was absentmindedly petting her hair.

"Great!" You clasped your hands together, disappearing in the kitchen. "Let's make a hot chocolate for you guys!"

Quickly, you reappeared to the two sitting on the sofa with an awkard distance, until you wrapped them in a blanket.

Illumi sat in middle of you two, deeply buried in thought while you and Alluka were watching TV until she fell asleep.

"I'll bring her back now" you whispered softly, but Illumi already cradled the snoring girl into his arms. "No. I will."

For a second, you were taken aback, unsure about his intentions - but you wanted to believe in him, so you stayed quiet about your apprehensions.

"She's cute, right?" you noticed as Illumi got a strand of hair out of her face. He held her with such great care and insecurity, it was a truly cute sight.

"Dunno. I know the definition of cute, but I don't think I really understand it."

"You are cute, for example." Placing a wet kiss on his cheek, you waved him goodbye as he walled out the door - but in the frame, he stopped.

"You're changing so many things at once."

"For better or worse?"

Illumi wouldn't turn around to look at you, instead watching Alluka's soundly sleeping face.

"I don't know. We'll see."

When Illumi took longer than expected, panic began to rise inside of you.

Did his parents find out? Due to your powers this should basically be impossible, but still-

"Alluka wanted me to stay and play with her" Illumi's voice appeared behind your back, making you jump a little.

So that's why he took so long.

"Was it fun?"

"I'm not a good brother" he murmured, "Not to her or any of them."

He remembered the time he got Kalluto a kimono you picked out for him, as a gift. 

“You’ve changed” the boy said back then, and the confusion in his eyes made Illumi painfully aware that the child was close to become just as inhuman as he was.

And he was the one who teached his siblings to be that way.

Your husband sat on the edge of the bed, with you already laying inside. He buried his face into his hands, seemingly distressed.

Yes, it was fun. Even though he didn't know how to properly entertain a child, Alluka seemed to enjoy her brother's attention inconditionally - just like you did.

Was that love?

"You just tried to protect your family, Lumi" you cooed, massaging his tensed shoulders.

"What about yours?" he suddenly asked, turning to you with a stony expression.

"I, uh-"

"Do you miss them?" Seems like he was afraid to lose you.

You tugged on his arm until he'd finally let himself fall into the bed, and you put an arm and leg around him, effectively trapping him into your hold.

"Of course I do. But this is my home now."

"And they're nice people?" he wondered, since your parents were assassins too.

He laid his head onto your chest, trying for your heartbeat to lull him to sleep.

"They are...special. Strict but loving. I think all parents fuck up their children somehow. But I still love them."

Both of you had already closed your eyes, his cold skin feeling refreshing on your warm one.

"Then let's meet them" Illumi suggested as his hand ran across your bodyline, before he stopped himself with a tender kiss on your skin.

"I want to know what other families are like."

Only a week later, you were allowed to leave the Zoldyck estate for the first time. Wether it was because of Illumi’s curiosity or maybe that he knew you missed your family, it didn’t matter.

Two different worlds.

Your family was living in the midst of the small town, loved by the inhabitants. Being honorable head hunters who mainly killed wanted criminals and acting as protectors of the city, you had kind of a reputation.

So it was no wonder everyone you saw greeted you with great respect, yet also as if you were never gone.

That was what a real home must feel like, Illumi thought as he watched you casually talk to anyone who recognized you while both of you wandered the main street.

“They sure think highly of you” he deducted out loud, seeing how anyone was smiling and cheering at you.

“Well...” Flustered, you rubbed the back of your head as you kept on walking, “I’ve grown up in between those people. Of course they know me! That’s all.”

“Mhh” he murmured, still eyeing everyone quite suspecting. This was your first day outisde the manor, and your husband would be damned if something would happen to you.

“There it is!” Already running ahead, you pointed at the tallest building of the town - your birthplace.

“Y/N Y/L/N” a familiar voice behind you spoke, trying way too hard to keep a straight face.

Turning around, you saw all of your siblings gathered at one spot. Of course you knew they had followed you this whole time, due to your nen - but it was still a pleasant surprise. “You guys!”

Giving each one of them a wholeheartedly hug, you immediately began to chatter about all kinds of things. You haven’t seen each other for a while, and you wanted to know everything.

“Better tell me next time” Illumi abruptly cut you off, and only now you realized the needles in between his fingers. “I almost killed them.”

Oh. So he noticed them too.

Well, your family had it worse, so they just laughed it off.

“So this is your husband, huh?” They didn’t dare speak his name - the family was too infamous, and not in a positive way. it wouldn’t really gain you the good kind of attention. “I thought you’d be more...intimidating.”

All of your siblings got way too close to Illumi, aving hands in front of his face and eyeing his appearance, at least trying to make the stoic man react in any way.

“Nice to meet you!” One of your brothers offered his hand for your husband to shake, yet Illumi decided on staring him down instead.

“Pleasure is all mine” he retorted in his robotic way, sounding way too fake for anyone to buy it.

At least they were not afraid of him. Your husband was very talented in hiding his bloodlust, after all - even though it was constantly there, not even a skilled nen user would notice.

“Mother and father are awaiting you at the usual spot.” Your brother’s voice was more serious now that he had assessed the situation.

It was clear from the very first moment that they didn’t only come to greet you - their main goal was the eldest Zoldyck.

“Seems like he’s now our leader” you pondered as all of them dispersed into different directions. 

Things had changed. Of course they did.

Back then, you declined your fate of becoming the clan-leader, even though it had been the centre of all your ambitions up until now.

Meeting Illumi made you question anything you expected from life.

You didn’t even know why: What would it matter if you left an assassin family just to join another one?

Even your youngest sister was different. You could feel her steady aura, meaning she had completed her training.

The situation made you both nostalgic and anxious.

“Do you regret it?” Illumi’s blank stare turned to your form, black orbs interrogating you. He knew you were meant to be a leader, yet you gave up on that dream and had laid down all your independency.

“Not really.” Shrugging, you quickly linked arms with your husband, leading him to the secret entrance of the headquarters. It was sealed with nen, just like back then.

At leas that didn’t change, and so you’d soon find yourself in the middle of the hall where you’d plan all of the operations back then.

“You’re home.” That solemn tone was fitting for your father: Hard to detect his emotions, but easy to understand. “Welcome home.”

Illumi took a few steps back, almost withdrawing into a dark corner of the room as if he wanted to disappear from this earth. He was more likely to be a mere bystander or observer than to be in social situations.

“My little angel of death!” your mother almost cried out, both incredibly happy and sorrowful. “You’ve returned to us!”

“And that handsome young man over there?” After she was done smothering your face in kisses, she directed her welcoming nature to Illumi was well. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Take a seat!”

That’s right. She’s never seen him before. He was here exactly once to propose in front of your father - god knows how he even got inside. Obviously it wasn’t really a big deal to him.

Your family was so insignificant compared to his heritage - not that it mattered to you, it was just an observation.

“When we heared your wish to bid our humble fort a visit, we were greatly honored” your father declared as all of you sat down at the great, round table. Now everyone was there: Siblings, uncles and aunts, even your grandparents and great-grandparents. “And we are glad of your safe arrival.”

Illumi didn’t really seem to be impressed, being able to silence the room with a single gesture of his hand. “Don’t go out of your way. I am here because Y/N wished to see you.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his polite manner, even though he wasn’t very talkative. Trying to get a hold of his hand under the table, you’d spend the day just like that.

Hours just flew by as your family held a great dinner to honor ‘the happy couple’, with Illumi absorbing every little detail like a dry sponge: Daily conversations about irrelevant topics, tales about the past and especially the childhood.

He even managed to show a lopsided smile when he realized something made you particulary happy.

Yet everytime someone of your family tried to get close to you, all of you noticed how tense he became.

Of course he was very possessive, and didn’t want to share you with anyone. But it was so damn sweet that he at least tried to get himself together...

“I’ll be waiting outisde. Might give the town a visit.” Even through all of your objections, your husband was gone faster than any of you could comprehend. “Take all the time you need.”

“He’s amazing” you thought to yourself, not noticing how much you were trembling due to your excitement. Being here together with him was such a huge progress, and he was doing so damn great.

“Y/N?” Your father was the first one to take the word, clearing his throat before continuing. “Now that we’re alone...”

Of course he knew they weren’t. Illumi was supervisioning everything somehow. But they waited for so long, and needed to let it out.

It was ‘speak now or stay silent forever’.

“Tell us about life with the Zoldycks.” Your sister once again let her hand run up and down your arm, and you realized this wasn’t just loving closeness - they were searching for injuries. “Are they harsh on you?”

“His family is pretty crazy, but it’s nothing wild, really. I manage” you stated, pulling away from the touch of your siblings.

All of the eyes were on you now, dropping the act. Everything left was sympathy and...guilt?

“So...what’s your point?” You didn’t know why, but their glares made you furious somehow. Maybe because you knew what they were hinting at. “Just speak your mind.”

“Y/N, dear...” Now your mother was the one taking the initiative, squeezing your hand ever so slightly. “We’re so, so sorry! You need to understand why we did this, okay?”

“Did what?” When they didn’t respond, you repeated the question with a much weaker, almost broken voice. “Did...what?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” your brother now spoke, almost disgusted by what he was about to say. “Giving you away to this...freak.”

“Huh?”

Your mother now clung to you, as if you were about to disappear if she was to ever let go. “There was no other choice!” she exclaimed, while your father dramatically swung his balled fist on the table. “The Zoldycks are dangerous! We knew your fate was sealed when he came asking for your hand in marriage...”

“Of course we despise that sick weirdo. Who would wish for their child to be with someone like him?!” your father continued, his explanation wrenching your heart dry. “But if we hadn’t complied, they would’ve taken you by force. You know they would’ve killed all of us. It was to protect the family, so we had to give you up! My sweet, sweet child-”

“-shut up” you whispered as you felt tears burning in your eyes.

“It’s okay, Y/N” your sister was trying to wipe them away, letting her thumb run over your cheek. “We’ve grown stong now, Y/N! You don’t need to protect us anymore, we’re-”

“You still don’t stand any chance against them.” You got up from your chair, slamming your palms on the table. “But that’s not the point!”

“What did that monster do to you?” 

“Oh, he? Nothing!” you now screamed, slamming a plate to the ground to release some of the built-up tension. “In opposite to you, who abandoned their daughter to save their own skin!”

You didn’t know. How could you have missed that fact? Those people weren’t glad you married him, they just weren’t honest with you.

And they were selfish - for all they cared, they would’ve given you away to die if Illumi had been that way.

“My husband-” you choked on a sob, feeling as if the love you felt for Illumi was crushing you, keeping you from breathing freely. “He’s been here with you, wanting to understand what a normal family is like. But only now I realize this one is just as fucked up!”

“Don’t say something like tha-”

“I’m not done!” Suddenly, an outburst of your aura shook the whole room. “Illumi is a kind and confused person. He was benevolent with you, against all of his teachings. And you are talking behind his back? How cowardly of you. I thought we were a family of proud warriors!”

All of them were looking at each other, nodding in unity as they all thought the same.

“Illumi Zoldyck is probably the most dangerous of them all. Maybe not the strongest, but the most mad of them all.” You grid your teeth, almost snarling at your grandfather’s words. “Don’t fool yourself, Y/N. Love is a foreign concept for him. The word has spread across the whole continent: Even his own family, those bloodthirsty monsters fear that young man!”

“You don’t know him like I do.” Turning around, you prepared to leave - but your siblings blocked the way. “As if I’d listen to the opinions of people who gave me away just like that.”

“Listen to us, Y/N. Maybe you can free yourself. He might’ve placed a needle-”

“That’s enough.”

Your eyes widened in wonder. How did Illumi get back in without any of you noticing?

Yet here he was, and his aura had turned purple, stained with black from all the disappointment, hurt and anger he miraculously contained without breaking down.

“I think Y/N is tired and wants to leave.” His voice was as unaffected as always, yet one look of him was enough to make your siblings freeze in terror.

“You’re Y/N’s family, so I won’t kill you” your husband declared in an absentminded tone, grabbing your wrist and turning towards the exit without anyone daring an attempt to stop him. Just after he shoved you out of the door, Illumi would turn around one last time -  a threatening ember sparkling in his eyes.

“But consider this a warning: Y/N belongs to me.”

“Why?” your father asked with an almost begging undertone. “Why did it have to be Y/N?”

“Because your child is important to me.”

Illumi had carried you all the way out of the town, only getting to a hold when you were at a mountain far enough away. Not that your family would follow you anyway.

After being done crying to your heart’s extend, your husband let you down in the slightly wet grass, and you were able to see the dim lights of the city far away at the horizon.

“We’ve played here very often” you sniffled, trying to get a hold of yourself. “My siblings and I.”

“Ah.”

You appreciated moments like these. Illumi was a very good listener, even though you weren’t even sure that he actually cared about what you were saying.

It just felt good to have him near when you were sad.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Lumi...they shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay.” No, it wasn’t You knew he tried to hard to be the best version of himself today, to try and respect boundaries and to trust people, and yet- “I am aware I’m a repulsive person.”

“Not to me.” Gently stoking his face, you could feel him rubbing his cheek on your palm in return.

“That’s enough for me.”

For a while, you just sat there, enjoying your closeness and the absence of anyone else in silence.

“So this is what family is like” Illumi cut through the nature’s sounds, “They protect you. And they only want your best.”

“They only ever thought of themselves.” You pulled your knees onto your chest, burying your face in them.

“I refuse to believe that.” Your husband wanted to pat your back, but decided against it just at the last second. “They seemed to be in great pain because of their actions. Can’t this only be because they cared about you?”

He was right, of course. The man with the heart of stone was great at knowing other people’s feelings, apparently. What an irony.

But you were too angry at that moment to listen to his rational explanation. That was only human, too.

“You know, when I was a child, my parents-”

“Please.” You wanted him to stop right there and now. “Don’t elaborate.”

Every time Illumi would complete a story about his childhood, it usually ended up with you having a crying fit. Then he was the one having to console you instead of the other way around, and it made you only feel guilty.

Of course you were happy that he’d finally open up a little, but...no. Just not now.

“You defended me” he changed the topic, quietly adding “Even though they were right...”

“That’s only natural. You’re my husband.”

Back then, you didn’t know Illumi’s intentions when he asked you to become his. But truth was, you didn’t regret it - not even for a second.

Illumi on the other hand was as overwhelmed as always.

“I was afraid you’d stay with them.” His voice sounded impassive, yet you knew him better than that. “But now-”

Listening to you passionately defending your husband’s honor was satisfying, obviously - yet knowing you broke with your family left a foul aftertaste in his mind.

No one ever stood up for him like that.

What a day.

His mind was racing, still trying to catch up with everything that had happened today: You did all of that, no - gave up so many things, just because of him.

His entire life was going one set and predetermined way, revolving around his family. Yet meeting you had changed both of your fates in a completely different direction.

And this meant he now had to learn with the consequences of actions he did out of his own, free will.

What for? And was it good or bad?

Now that he was with you, he had liberties. Choices. But freedom felt wrong and made him feel...scared? Not even he could decipher his emotions very well.

All that was clear from now on that - to a certain extend - you were free to draft your own ways - and together, it didn’t seem all that bad for him.

_____

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Scarlet Carnations ~ Part IV

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.1k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

It was nine o’clock in the morning, two days after I’d made my arrest, and Paya’s trial was in its opening stages. I was watching from the gallery. Normally, as the one running the investigations, I would be the first witness to take the stand, but today, for whatever reason, the lead prosecutor, Urbosa Sigatur, planned to summon me second after Auntie Purah. Urbosa was far from a stranger to me, however. She and I had collaborated on several cases in the past, and she shared with me many of my own ideals. She’d once even known my mother before her untimely demise. And so I decided not to question her judgment, however unconventional it may have seemed.

The prosecution’s opening statement had been based on the fact that the stolen Sheikah Slate, along with a bloodstained bullet, had been found in the defendant’s room, which, until recently, hadn’t been searched as it had been deemed irrelevant to the case. With these conclusive pieces of evidence, she’d stated, the defendant had been charged with both the theft of the Slate and the murder of its owner, Impa Sheikah.

The stolen object was the most central piece of evidence in the prosecution’s case. It had once been a target of my own immense interest, even before its theft. But that had all changed following its recovery. The riddle, though having been solved by means of professional reprogramming, still made little sense to me if any. “Carnation” was its answer, according to Auntie Purah herself. Much to my dismay, the secrets that the riddle had supposedly kept hidden had turned out to be nothing but my own fantasy. Every last piece of data that had once been stored in the Slate had been deleted, meaning the possibility of proving a motive for its theft was next to nonexistent. The only thing left in its memory was a diary entry, written by Auntie Impa the day before her murder. This in itself, however, held the potential to serve as a lead to her killer’s identity, at the very least.

The diary entry, as projected onto the courtroom wall by the Slate, went,

“Today was the first day of Zelda’s holiday visit. It is hard to believe that the last long term visit she paid us was already over a year ago. We have all missed her dearly. She seems as interested in my sister’s work as ever. It brought me joy to see the two of them bonding over their shared passion once again.

“However I must admit, I would still love for her to also spend some quality time with Paya some day soon. I sensed some resentment coming from her directed at my dear granddaughter. Perhaps it is something to do with that boy. Either way, it seems their relationship has hardly changed since she left the nest.

“I cannot say for certain whether anyone will ever be able to read this, but I have faith that Purah will figure it out. I am no good with machines like these, but I believe in her. At any rate, I hope she is the one who gets to read this message, but in the event that it happens to fall into the wrong hands, I will sign off here.”

With this, the prosecution’s argument, though a bit scattered across several different points, seemed sturdy enough so far. That Auntie Impa had seemingly known that her life would be taken the following night after writing her final message, combined with the fact that she’d received no threats from the outside world up until then, was one of the strongest pieces of evidence in our arsenal.

Paya’s defence lawyer, one Revali Twii, had made several attempts to dismantle her argument by claiming she had no possible way of knowing whether or not the victim had received a threat from outside the estate by phone. These attacks were easily deflected. As a foreigner to this city, Mr. Twii had been unaware that, thanks to the Sheikahs’ company, household phones here were all equipped with recording devices. Naturally, Ms. Sigatur had already listened to each recorded call since a month before the murder and had detected no discernible threat in any of them.

And yet in spite of all that, the argument shifted heavily in favour of the defence when it then carried out his cross examination. With how confidently Urbosa had stated her case, I never could’ve imagined how easy it would be for the opposing side to shatter it into countless, tiny pieces.

Mr. Twii’s primary line of questioning was a solid one, to say the least. He concurred with my deduction as presented by Ms. Sigatur that the parlour indeed was not the true scene of the crime. However, he claimed that the real crime scene could not possibly have been the defendant’s bedroom either. His basis for this was the gunshot. Paya’s room was in the same hallway that the sleeping quarters of the current witness, Auntie Purah, as well as myself, were in. Mr. Twii had her testify about the sound of the gunshot that she’d heard. In addition to the fact that it hadn’t seemed loud enough to have come from the very next room over, she’d only heard it once: from the parlour.

No doubt he intended to question me about the same thing when the time came for me to take the stand. I’d been itching to speak my mind and set things straight so badly that I’d had to cross my legs just to keep myself from getting up too soon by the time court was finally adjourned for a half-hour recess.

Now the prosecutor and I were together in a private room reserved for witness prepping. Normally I did just fine testifying on my own, but in this trial, everything was at stake, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from racing no matter what I tried. Thankfully I had Urbosa here, and simply talking with her had done much to calm my nerves already.

“You’re originally from out of town too, aren’t you?” I noted, thinking back on her performance.

“That I may be, but unlike that lawyer, I’ve spent enough time here to know of the perils this city is facing, and who’s been holding it together in spite of all that.”

“Right.” My lips rested against the curve of my index as my leg bounced restlessly underneath the table. “That schmuck really doesn’t have a clue, does he?”

“No, not likely. Though he’s quite the formidable opponent, I must say.” She leaned back in her chair, looking pensive, but not the least bit agitated. “My case took quite the beating out there.”

My heart rate was starting to pick up again. “You don’t think you’ll...lose...do you?”

“Who, me? Lose?” She let out a hearty bout of chuckles. “Young lady, are you quite sure you know who you’re speaking to?” I returned her laughter halfheartedly, unable to shake the foreboding feeling lying at the pit of my stomach. Urbosa cleared her throat, preserving her calm smile. “All jokes aside, I wouldn’t worry even if we do end up losing this one. The true criminal is still out there somewhere, and there is no such thing as a perfect crime.”

“I suppose...” Perfect crimes may not have existed, but neither did perfect investigations. If they ruled Paya out as a suspect, then only one other, “safe” option would remain.

“Alright, out with it. What’s on your mind?” Her hand had landed on my shoulder as she’d reached across the desk, over my half empty glass of water. “And why are you so set on getting Paya convicted, if I might ask? Sibling rivalry is one thing, but this is...”

I avoided her perceptive gaze, staring intently at the latch on my bag. What could I possibly tell her? “It’s just,” I stalled, eventually settling for a vague, “I’m running out of time.”

After a long pause, she leaned back, letting go of my arm. “I see. Well, whatever it is, know that I’ll be on your side no matter what, little bird.”

Oh, if only she’d known.

“So to sum up, you were outstandingly negligent in your investigation of the defendant’s bedroom.”

My jaw unhinged at what I’d just heard come out of the attorney’s mouth. I’d just finished giving him an explanation of my findings in as much detail as I could, during which time he’d been surprisingly polite, until now.

“You likely saw the Slate along with the bullet and made your arrest right then and there. You didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that you hadn’t found all there’d been to find in that room, did you?” I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off again. “In fact, I’m willing to bet you didn’t even attempt to look for the murder weapon.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” I retaliated with chest puffed up, “but my team and I searched the property from top to bottom, repeatedly, for two whole weeks, and—”

“Yes, I am well aware. However, you failed to complete a thorough search of this so-called ‘true crime scene’ before you arrested Ms. Sheikah. Do you deny it?”

I was floundering for words. Why bother questioning me if he merely intended to cut me off and answer his own questions? “I-I...”

“Objection.”

All eyes fell upon the prosecution. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“The defence is harassing the witness, Your Honour.”

The judge gave a slow, considerate nod of his head. “Objection sustained.”

Twii gave Urbosa a subtle but unmistakable side-eye. I thanked her silently. “Speaking of the murder weapon,” he continued in his signature, holier-than-thou tone, “I have here Exhibit F: a list of traits possessed by the elusive firearm responsible for the victim’s life.”

This wasn’t good. The list in question had been compiled by the prosecution based on traits of the fatal wound revealed by the autopsy, as well as other traits shared by the two bullets that were found at the estate. It contained information like its .38 caliber and that it had likely been fired twice at point blank, to name a few examples.

“My question for you, witness, is the following. What did you find during your ‘investigation’ regarding the weapon?”

This was fine, I kept telling myself. He still had yet to present the most fatal piece of evidence in the record. “As I’ve said before, none of our searches turned up any sign of it, other than what’s listed on that piece of paper you’re holding.”

“Is that so?” The sarcasm rooted in his voice had me sweating bullets. “In that case, Ms. Hyrule, I’d like to turn your attention to this passage here at the bottom.”

That was “Inspector Hyrule” to him, but of course, he couldn’t care less for such trifling things as common decency.

But when I read over the passage at which he was pointing, my throat closed up.

“Allow me to read it aloud for the court.” He snobbishly cleared his throat. “And I quote, ‘The murder weapon and the circumstances surrounding it strongly suggest an Octoric M&P revolver,’ end quote. I’d also like to add that this particular model is favoured by the district bureau of police, who issue them out to many of their detectives for self-defence.”

I gritted my teeth, annunciating each word as I spat, “Get to the point.”

The smarmy bastard was hardly even phased by my unmasked hostility. “Now, now, Ms. Hyrule, you’ve no reason to worry,” he waved off. “After all, I have no intention of accusing you.”

When he spoke that last word, my heart stopped, and deep down, I knew it was over.

“Firstly I wish for you to clarify a few things for me, as you were one of the first to discover the scene of the murder when it happened.”

I gave a slow, strenuous nod, losing strength in my knees by the second, but standing my ground all the same. “Go on.”

“The defendant showed no sign of having a gun on or anywhere near her person when you arrived, correct?”

“Correct,” I lied.

“Good. Now that we’ve established that the defendant was unarmed, I’d like to present another piece of evidence.” He laid out flat a second sheet of paper on the stand in front of me. “Exhibit H. This is part of a record kept by the precinct where the witness is currently employed, alongside the rest of her team. It details a list of the firearms given out to detectives each day, as well as the time when each one was issued and when it was returned to custody at the end of its designated officer’s shift.”

And there it was. I’d known all along that it had only been a matter of time until he’d bring out this piece of evidence, but, evidently, I’d failed to prepare myself mentally for this. Perhaps a part of me had hoped not to be on the stand when it happened. All I could do now was hold my peace and pray that it wouldn’t get worse from here.

“This page corresponds with the day before the murder. Now, Ms. Hyrule,” he addressed, summoning a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, “I’m sure you’ll recognize this badge number here. Would you please read it aloud for me?”

I swallowed my nerves and did as he’d requested. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“Thank you.” He flashed me that shit-eating grin of his. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the number belonging to one Constable Link Fyori, the witness’ very own investigative partner.” A few whispers drifted through the gallery following that announcement. “One who reads this will also notice that, after his revolver was issued out to him the morning before the murder, it was never returned to the precinct’s custody thereafter. In fact, it is still missing to this day.”

With this, the whispers grew in number, creating a din of distrust that had the attorney smirking from ear to ear.

“Objection.”

The whispering dissipated. Twii’s shoulders sagged as he hypocritically shot Urbosa a look that said, “What now?”

“Mr. Twii, how is this relevant? Unless you have definitive proof linking Constable Fyori to the crime, I see no point in bringing it up.”

The judge gave a pound of his gavel with a bone-chilling shake of his head. “Overruled. The court will allow the defence to continue, provided that it has good reason.”

My mouth fell open, and so had Urbosa’s.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I was just getting to that, my good prosecutor.” Now even she seemed on edge. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut through with a knife. “I may not have proof as things stand currently. However, that is about to change. You see, I have reason to believe that our witness here is covering for someone.”

The courtroom broke out into an even louder din of murmurs, as if I couldn’t clearly hear each backhanded remark the members of the gallery were making at my expense.

The pounding of the judge’s gavel echoed throughout the room, and the whispering ceased once again.

“You must be mistaken.” I stood as tall as I could with how close my legs were to giving up on me. “I happen to be one of the most trusted detectives in the force. Why do you think I was put in charge of this case despite being one of the first on the scene?”

“Ah, but that, dear witness, was your superiors’ fatal mistake.”

Damn that solicitor. “What do you mean?”

“Although my client has elected not to testify to the court, she has let me in on a certain piece of information—one that I believe will make the jaws of everyone here drop to the floor.”

Surely not. Surely even she wouldn’t dare stoop so low.

“Inspector...” The attorney looked me dead in the eyes. The air was suffocating. “What do you have in your briefcase?”

Everyone was staring at me and murmuring amongst themselves, more raucously than ever before, like I was the one on trial.

“N-No, it’s—it’s not what it seems,” I wavered. Then mustering my shattered courage, “You!” I pointed my finger at Twii. “Prove to me that the defendant wasn’t lying. I demand to see proof!”

But my demands were met with silence. Even Urbosa was looking at me with cold contempt and disappointment.

“Bailiff.”

An officer appeared from the sidelines. He seized my bag.

“Wait, stop!”

I tried to wrest it from his grasp, but he was too strong. I watched helplessly as he opened it up, reaching in and revealing the murder weapon for all to see.

“No...!”

“Bailiff, what is the number engraved on that weapon?”

He seemed to recite the number in slow motion, twisting the knife with every digit. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“No, please!” I screamed. “It wasn’t him, he’s been framed! Please, Your Honour, you have to believe me!”

Amidst the roar of the crowd, I saw the conclusive shake of the judge’s head. With a pound of his gavel, he said, “I hereby order the immediate detainment of Link Fyori under the charge of first degree murder.”

I met eyes with my partner but half a second before I saw him be dragged out of his seat with brute force.

“No!”

“As for this witness, she shall receive her sentence after being questioned by the police for the concealing of evidence, contempt of court, and perjury.”

I cried out when an overwhelming pain shot through my arm. My family watched from the gallery in either horror or disgust, or a mixture of both perhaps. I tried with all my might just to get the bailiff to stop hurting me, but it was futile.

“Your Honour, just a moment please.”

With the judge’s approval, the man’s grip on my arm lightened up. The one who’d spoken had been none other than that wretched defence attorney.

“Inspector, if you don’t mind, I have one more question to ask you.”

I held my breath, bracing myself. Though there wasn’t much he could say at this point that could possibly make the situation worse.

“Why?” he finally asked. “Why did you feel the need to conceal such a critical piece of evidence?”

My entire face boiled over with heat. I looked around, taking in the courtroom’s atmosphere, and my whole being was filled to the brim with indescribable anger and shame. Barely able to swallow the charged whimper lodged at the cusp of my throat, I choked out the words, “No comment.”

The trial had ended while I’d still been in the middle of interrogation by my own peers. I was lucky enough to get off with a fine, but it was because of that hour-and-a-half-long lecture that I only found out about Paya’s “not guilty” verdict after the entire courtroom had been cleared out. This was no surprise to me, of course, but still a disappointment, to put it lightly. What was a surprise was that no one, not Paya, nor Auntie Purah, nor even Urbosa, had bothered to wait for me.

That was fine. They could think whatever they wanted of me. I’d simply have to redeem myself by proving Link’s innocence in his trial.

It was to this end that I made my way to the district’s Centre of Detention.

When Link appeared behind the iron bars of the visitors’ room, he was already sporting a worn and faded prisoner’s uniform, surely having just undergone an interrogation of his own. Though, from the looks of him, his had been considerably more thorough than mine.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, Link.”

“Hello,” he replied.

Deathly silence filled the air. The harsh ticking of the clock on the wall behind me was slowly starting to crawl under my skin.

“They, uhm...didn’t go easy on you, eh?”

He shook his head, eyes wandering without aim.

Why did it have to be so hard to talk to him sometimes? He’d never been so unapproachable back in our days as teenagers. Though now, I supposed, recent events were only making things even more difficult for me than usual.

“Look...” I took a deep breath, shifting in my seat. “I’m sorry. Alright? I couldn’t cover for you forever. They were bound to find out eventually. Please, don’t be upset.”

“What? Zelda...” His demeanour morphed from listless to urgent, almost apologetic, as he struggled to find his voice. “Why would I be upset with you? I never asked you to cover for me in the first place.”

“I know.” Now it was I who couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eyes. “I just knew that you couldn’t have possibly... I mean, you would never—”

“I didn’t.”

He’d caught me with my mouth hanging open, when he’d cut me off.

“I didn’t kill her. I promise you.”

Of course he hadn’t. It was obvious, even though the revolver had borne no fingerprints and, with the gloves that he always wore, he wouldn’t have left any. What motive could he have had? He was an amnesiac, and even if he hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have had a reason to kill my godmother.

I took out my pen and notebook, the only things left in my case that hadn’t been confiscated. “Tell me what you know, Link. Everything.”

A beat. Then he straightened his posture and began to explain his side of the story. As it turned out, my intuition had been spot on. This whole mess was the design of the Yiga organization. Link told me about his encounter with them before the murder. They had blackmailed him into surrendering his revolver to them, after which he would never see it again.

Though, even without a hint of deceit in his tone or manner, I had questions about the means by which the Yiga had blackmailed him. He had virtually nothing to lose. Didn’t he?

In any case, I honestly had considered showing him the gun that I’d found on the scene that night, but somehow I’d had the distinct impression that he’d known nothing about it, despite the very object in question belonging to him. I’d thought perhaps someone from the organization had switched out his weapon for another without his noticing. It was no secret that even the police bureau was infested with their ilk. In the end, I hadn’t been far off the mark.

The whole time he spoke, he had his head lowered, hair falling in front of his eyes, as if something were holding them back from meeting mine. Then he muttered, “When I had my encounter with the organization, I...remembered.”

His limited annunciation meant I had to take a moment to decipher the syllables of the last word he’d uttered. Then they sank in. “Wait. What? You mean you...” It felt beyond strange to even speak the words after so long. “You got your memory back?”

He lowered his head further. Was that a nod?

My mind went back to what he’d said to me on that one occasion in the office, not long after this whole mess had first begun. “Link, you...” My hands curled into themselves around the strap of my satchel. “All this time...why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” he pleaded. “It would’ve been a hindrance to the investigation.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Dropping that bomb on me would only have thrown my conscience deeper into its already tangled web of turmoil.

Amidst all the questions swirling in my mind, one suddenly appeared, eclipsing all the rest. “Why did you disappear back then?”

At this, he finally looked up and met my gaze. But when he did, his eyes were wide, almost trembling. His look seemed to cast the whole room into a great, looming darkness.

“Oh, it’s...it’s okay if you’d prefer not to talk about—”

“No,” he exclaimed. “I must.” But the way his shoulders came up to meet his ears and how rapidly his chest rose and fell told me it wasn’t going to be an easy story to tell. “It was the Yi—” He choked on his words. “The...organization.”

There it was again. The name of the group I’d been chasing without rest ever since their appearance eighteen years prior. “I knew it...” I mumbled without thinking.

He steeled himself, then continued. “That day, my father was picking me and my sister up after school. Normally we would’ve ridden home with him in his automobile, but that morning, he and I had planned to surprise Aryll by getting...I think it was ice cream, on our way back. Anyway, we decided to walk home that day. But...” His face darkened yet again. “But then...”

Pressing him for more details would have been beyond cruel. I could only imagine the horrors that those blackguards had put him and his family through. “How many of them were there?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that they had us outnumbered.” I nodded along, without thinking, as he continued his tale. “They were all armed with what looked like military grade shotguns, and they wore those masks with the inverted Sheikah family crest... I’ve always known that I’d seen that image somewhere before.”

No one knew why the organization had chosen this symbol for themselves, though I personally suspected it to be a show of opposition.

“Anyway, after they sh...shot father,” he struggled, a hand coming up to his now quavering lips, “they must’ve felt threatened by Aryll and me, because the next thing they did was...shoot her, too.” The way his tone had started to oscillate and how his face had drained itself of colour made my stomach churn. His anguish was so clear, it was devastating. “One of them had said something to the ends of, ‘We can’t have you scamps telling on us.’ But before they could...’shut me up’ as well, I fled.” Another pause. He kept on breathing. “I was too terrified to notice which way I was going. The whole time I ran, they kept firing at me. They were too reckless to aim properly, though, mind.”

“Well...that’s lucky, at least,” I tried. This was met with a sigh of reluctant agreement. “Still, how did you make it out of that with your life?”

“They stopped chasing me when I made it out of the back alleys and into the open,” he explained. “I suppose they couldn’t risk revealing themselves.”

Now it all made sense. Seven years ago, when he’d vanished without a trace, it was as though he’d never even existed in the first place. No one could get in contact with him or his family, and yet, no one batted an eye about it. It had seemed I’d been the only one who’d thought of it as anything less than perfectly normal. Just like when my mother had lost her life.

“We never had the chance to get ice cream that day.” He looked all but ready to burst into tears with that sentence. That was the moment I realized, no matter how drastically the last seven years of hell had changed him, there was still a fragment of that playful, hollow-legged sixteen-year-old left deep in his dark, forgotten core. If there was a way to bring that bright-eyed child back out into the light, I would find it, even if it spelled my demise.

Even so, there was one thing left that had yet to be explained. “What about your amnesia?”

“Ah...” His brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know what caused that, to be honest with you.” He seemed to be racking his mind, but to no avail. “By the time those thugs finally gave up, I didn’t recognize my surroundings. I remember trying to find my way home, but I suppose I just ended up getting myself even more lost from there.” It was no wonder. The street names in this town were of little help in navigation, and it wasn’t hard to understand why he might have been apprehensive to ask for directions in such a bustling and hostile environment, especially after what he’d just been subjected to. “So I fell asleep in the streets that night,” he concluded with a shivering exhale. “The next morning, I woke up without the slightest notion of who I was.”

My heart took a plunge at the thought of his young self curled up in some alleyway, like a baby bird who’d fallen from the nest. “It must have been some sort of mental defence mechanism,” I conjectured. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with.” He slowly nodded his agreement. “After that, then, I suppose the rest is history.”

“Indeed...”

The visitors’ room fell into a deep, reflective silence, one nothing like that which had had me gasping for air moments ago. I watched the weary feelings of dread swim in his once bright blue eyes, tearing him apart.

He’d spent five whole years in that cold, cramped ward without even a name by which to call himself. And now we were back where we’d started. He may have regained his memories in the end, but at what cost?

I no longer felt the need to hunt down those who had wronged me. Now, my only desire was to slip between the bars that stood between the two of us and whisk him away to a far off land, where no one would ever hurt us again. But I pushed the impossible daydream aside. Even if escape were an option, we’d only be running straight out into range of Yiga fire.

“After your trial tomorrow...well, at the very least, I’ll lose my badge,” I smiled waywardly. Then, letting it fade and rolling my shoulders back, “Until then, I swear, I’ll do everything within my power to prove your innocence. Then we can go out for ice cream together.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears when he looked up at me then. Now that I thought about it, this seemed like the first time I’d ever seen him come close to crying, even in the time before the incident. Of course, he’d seen me in tears countless times back then. I wondered if he remembered them.

“Zelda...?” My name had started to leave his lips with conviction, but weakened on its way out. “There’s...something else I should tell you.”

“Anything.”

Just then, I caught him straightening out the cuff of his black-barred sleeve, concealing the fair skin of his wrist, out of the corner of my eye. “Never mind.” He again cast his gaze downwards, muttering an inaudible, “It’s nothing,” under his breath.

[nothingofpracticalgardening]

i just finished the return of sherlock holmes (1987) after @a-different-equation made me curious with this addition to my post. thanks for adding more for me to check out! (warning: obviously there are spoilers, and this post got longer than i planned, so sorry about that!)

i absolutely loved the idea of this movie! in 1987, sherlock holmes, full of gentlemanly politeness and victorian chivalry, meets a good-hearted and smart private investigator named jane watson. with his heightened powers of observation and her resources and experience, they set out to solve a case that began several years ago but is about to culminate in murder which only they might prevent. and the best part is that because it's set in the year 1987, it combines the age of retro technology and style with the antique undertones of sherlock holmes himself. what an awesome setup!

the only thing i didn't like was the how. sherlock freezing himself in the early 1900s and then reawakening in a dank laboratory like frankenstein's monster was just too sci-fi for me. i totally get it--the idea was to have this genius archetype from another era try to insert himself into a modern world without losing who he is at heart. but i think something a little different might have worked almost as well, without the IT LIIIIIIIIIVES stuff in the beginning.

an alternative idea: sherlock holmes is the reclusive son of one of the oldest wealthy families in england; with his brother mycroft handling the lordly side of things, sherlock has plenty of remaining time to devote to his own hobbies and interests, which include studying victorian london and its culture and ideals (he's old-fashioned at heart, very prone to romanticize the past), practicing violin, conducting chemistry experiments, and more. but the biggest interest he has is the study of crime-solving. there's a house near his family's country estate where a great criminal investigator and writer once lived; it's been empty for years but he goes there for inspiration all the time.

sherlock isn't just educated and intelligent, though. he also has a great ability: logical deduction. and maybe he's actually managed to solve a few little mysteries in his tiny, secluded village, but nothing big enough for fame. so when the deceased writer's great-granddaughter jane watson arrives to sell the house for money, after she freaks out about his hiding in the basement like a creep, sherlock is able to wow her with his observational skills. you know, the whole, "you come from boston, i perceive" thing.

the rest of the movie can go pretty much the same way as canon. maybe jane has some old writings of her great-grandfather that sherlock wants to pick up, so he goes with her to boston. sherlock has been so distanced from the "real" world because of his circumstances, and so engrossed in his obsession with victorian crime, he doesn't quite fit into jane's city streets. he can't drive because his family always has a chauffeur, so that scene can stay for the comedy, etc., etc.

anyways, whether you take the movie as it is or entertain my version of it, one thing i adored was the relationship between sherlock and jane. they are SO cute like wow. sherlock staying up half the night waiting for jane to come home so he can make sure she's okay after her date, jane gripping the lapel of his jacket and kissing his cheek when he's going off alone into danger, the whole thing. the teasing each other was the best part, and their chemistry was very natural and sweet. i don't mind toby necessarily, but i much prefer jane paired with sherlock. and if the time-travel aspect of it is removed, they're just holmes and watson in the end, right? soulmates already, so why not?

[itsclydebitches]

Enola Holmes: A Not So Elementary Adaptation

It's cliché and a bit unfair to say that the book was better than the film, but I'm afraid that's precisely where I need to start. Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes: The Case of the Missing Marquess is leagues better than Netflix's adaptation of it. They did her work dirty and to say that I'm shocked at the accolades other reviewers are heaping on the film is an understatement. Before I dive into any critiques though, it's worth acknowledging that not every minute of the two hour film was painful to get through. So what worked in Enola Holmes?

The film is carried by the talent of its cast, Millie Bobby Brown being the obvious heavy-hitter. She helps breathe life into a pretty terrible script and it's only a shame her talent is wasted on such a subpar character.

The idea to have Enola continually break the fourth wall, though edging into the realm of Dora the Explorer at times—"Do you have any ideas?"— was nevertheless a fun way to keep the audience looped into her thought process. Young viewers in particular might enjoy it as a way to make them feel like a part of the action and older viewers will note the Fleabag influence. 

The cinematography is, perhaps, where most of my praise lies. The rapid cuts between past and present, rewinding as Enola thinks back to some pertinent detail, visualizing the cyphers with close ups on the letter tiles—all of it gave the film an upbeat, entertaining flair that almost made up for how bloated and meandering the plot was.

We got an equally upbeat soundtrack that helped to sell the action. 

The overall experience was... fine. In the way a cobbled together, candy-coated, meant to be seen on a Friday night but we watched it Wednesday and then promptly forgot about it film is fine. I doubt Enola Holmes will be winning any awards, but it was a decently entertaining romp and really, does a Netflix film need to be anything more? If Enola was her own thing made entirely by Netflix's hands I wouldn't be writing this review. As it stands though, Enola is both an adaptation and the latest addition to one of the world’s most popular franchises. That's where the film fails: not as a fun diversion to take your mind off Covid-19, but as an adaptation of Springer's work and as a Sherlock Holmes story.

In short, Enola Holmes, though pretty to look at and entertaining in a predictable manner, still fails in five crucial areas: 

1. Mycroft is Now a Mustache-Twirling Villain and Sherlock is No Longer Sherlock Holmes

This aspect is the least egregious because admittedly the film didn't pull this version of Mycroft out of thin air. As the head of the household he is indeed Enola's primary antagonist (outside of some kidnappers) and though he insists that he's doing all this for Enola's own good, he does get downright cruel at times:

He rolled his eyes. “Just like her mother,” he declared to the ceiling, and then he fixed upon me a stare so martyred, so condescending, that I froze rigid. In tones of sweetest reason he told me, “Enola, legally I hold complete charge over both your mother and you. I can, if I wish, lock you in your room until you become sensible, or take whatever other measures are necessary in order to achieve that desired result... You will do as I say" (Springer 69).

Mycroft's part is clear. He's the white, rich, powerful, able-bodied man who benefits from society's structure and thus would never think to change it. He does legally have charge over both Enola and Eudoria. He can do whatever he pleases to make them "sensible"... and that right there is the horror of it. Mycroft is a law-abiding man whose antagonism stems from doing precisely what he's allowed to do in a broken world. There are certainly elements of this in the Netflix adaptation, but that antagonism becomes so exaggerated that it's nearly laughable. Enola's governess (appointed by Mycroft) slaps her across the face the moment she speaks up. Mycroft screams at her in a carriage until she's cowering against the window. He takes her and throws her into a boarding school where everything is bleak and all the women dutifully follow instructions like hypnotized dolls. Enola Holmes ensures that we've lost all of Springer's nuance, notably the criticism of otherwise decent people who fall into the trap of doing the "right" (read: expected) thing. Despite her desire for freedom, in the novel Enola quickly realizes that she is not immune to society's standards:

"I thought he was younger.” Much younger, in his curled tresses and storybook suit. Twelve! Why, the boy should be wearing a sturdy woollen jacket and knickers, an Eton collar with a tie, and a decent manly haircut—

Thoughts, I realised, all too similar to those of my brother Sherlock upon meeting me (113-14).

She is precisely like her brothers, judging a boy for not looking and acting enough like a man just as they judged her for not looking and acting enough like a lady. The difference is that Enola has chaffed enough against those expectations to realize when she's falling prey to them, but the sympathetic link to her brothers remains. In the film, however, the conflict is no longer driven by fallible people doing what they think is best. Rather, it's made clear (in no uncertain terms) that these are just objectively bad people. Only villains hit someone like that. Only villains will scream at the top of their lungs until a young girl cries. Only villains roll their eyes at women's rights (a subplot that never existed in the novel). Springer writes Mycroft as a person, Netflix writes him as a cartoon, and the result is the loss of a nuanced message about what it means to enact change in a complicated world.  

Which leaves us with Sherlock. Note that in the above passage he is the one who casts harsh judgement on Enola's outfit. Originally Mycroft took an interest in making Enola "sensible" and Sherlock— in true Holmes fashion—straddles a fine line between comfort and insult:

"Mycroft,” Sherlock intervened, “the girl's head, you'll observe, is rather small in proportion to her remarkably tall body. Let her alone. There is no use confusing and upsetting her when you'll find out for yourself soon enough'" (38).

***

"Could mean that she left impulsively and in haste, or it could reflect the innate untidiness of a woman's mind,” interrupted Sherlock. “Of what use is reason when it comes to the dealings of a woman, and very likely one in her dotage?" (43).

A large part of Enola's drive stems from proving to Sherlock, the world, and even herself that a small head does not mean lack of intelligence. His insults, couched in a misguided attempt to sooth, is what makes Sherlock a complex character and his broader sexism is what makes him a flawed character, not Superman in a tweed suit. Yet in the film Mycroft becomes the villain and Sherlock is his good brother foil. Rather than needing to acknowledge that Enola has a knack for deduction by reading the excellent questions she's asked about the case—because why give your characters any development?—he already adores and has complete faith in her, laughing that he too likes to draw caricatures to think. By the tree Sherlock remanences fondly about Enola's childhood where she demonstrated appropriately quirky preferences for a genius, things like not wearing trousers and keeping a pinecone for a pet. They have a clear connection that Mycroft could never understand, one based both in deduction and, it seems, being a halfway decent human being. We are told that Enola has Sherlock's wits, but poor Mycroft lucked out, despite the fact that up until this point the film has done nothing to demonstrate this supposed intelligence. (To say nothing of how canonically Mycroft's intellect rivals his brother's.) Enola falls to her knees and begs for Sherlock's help, saying that "For [Mycroft] I'm a nuisance, to you—" implying that they have a deep bond despite not having seen one another since Enola was a toddler. Indeed, at one point Enola challenges Lestrade to a Sherlock quiz filled with information presumably not found in the newspaper clippings she's saved of him, which begs the question of how she knows her brother so well when she hasn't seen him in a decade and he, in turn, walked right by her with no recognition. Truthfully, Lestrade should know Sherlock better. Through all this the sibling bond is used as a heavy-handed insistence that Enola is Sherlock's protégé, him leaving her with the advice that "Those kinds of mysteries are always the best to unpick” and straight up asking at one point if she’s solved the case. The plot has Enola gearing up to outwit her genius brother, which did not happen in the novel and is precisely why I loved it. Enola isn't out to be a master of deduction in her teens, she's a finder of lost people who uses a similar, but ultimately unique set of skills. She does things Sherlock can't because she is isn't Sherlock. They're not in competition, they're peers, yet the film fails to understand that, using Sherlock's good brother bonding to emphasize Enola's place as his protégé turned superior. He exists, peppered throughout the film, so that she can surpass him in the end. 

You know what happens in the novel? Sherlock walks away from her, dismissive, and that's that.

That's also Sherlock Holmes. I won't bore you with complaints about Cavill being too handsome and Claflin being too thin for their respective parts, but I will draw the line at complete character assassination. Part of Sherlock's charm is that he's far more compassionate than he first appears, but that doesn't mean he would, at the drop of a telegram, become a doting older brother to a sister of all things. Despite the absurdity of the Doyle Estate's lawsuit against Netflix for making Sherlock an emotional man who respects women... they're right that this isn't their character. Oh, Sherlock is emotive, but it's in the form of excited exclamations over clues, or the occasional warm word towards Watson—someone he has known and lived with for many years. Sherlock respects women, though it's through those societal expectations. He'll offer them a seat, an ear, a handkerchief if they need one, and always the promise of help, but he then dismisses them with, "The fairer sex is your department, Watson." Springer successfully wrote Sherlock Holmes with a little sister, a man who will bark out a laugh at her caricature but still leave her to Mycroft's whims because he has his own life to tend to. This is a man who insists that the mind of a woman is inscrutable and thus must grapple with his shock at Enola's ability to cover the "salient points" of the case (58). Cavill's Sherlock is no Sherlock at all and though there's nothing wrong with updating a character for a modern audience (see: Elementary), I do question why Netflix strayed so far from Springer's work. The novel is, after all, their blueprint. She already managed the difficult task of writing an in-character Sherlock Holmes who remains approachable to both a modern audience and Enola herself, yet for some reason Netflix tossed that work aside.  

2. Enola is "Special,” Not At All Like Other Girls 

Allow me to paint you a picture. Enola Holmes is an empathetic, fourteen-year-old girl who, while bright, does not possess an intelligence worthy of note. No one is gasping as she deduces seemingly impossible things from the age of four, or admiring her knowledge of some obscure, appropriately impressive topic. Rather, Enola is a fairly normal girl with an abnormal upbringing, characterized by her patience and willingness to work. Deciphering the many hiding places where her mother stashed cash takes her weeks, requiring that Enola work through the night in secrecy while maintaining appearances during the day. She manages to hatch a plan of escape that demonstrates the thought she's put into it without testing the reader's suspension of disbelief. More than that, she uses the feminine tools at her disposal to give herself an edge: hiding her face behind a widow's veil and storing luggage in the bustle of her dress. Upon achieving freedom, her understanding of another lonely boy leads her to try and help him, resulting in a dangerous kidnapping wherein Enola acts as most fourteen-year-olds would, scared out of her mind with a few moments of bravery born of pure survival instinct. She and Tewksbury escape together, as friends, before Enola sets out on becoming the first scientific perditorian, a finder of lost people.

Sadly, this new Enola shares little resemblance with her novel counterpart. What Netflix seemingly fails to understand is that giving a character flaws makes them relatable and that someone who looks more like us is someone we can connect with. This Enola, simply put, is extraordinary. She's read all the books in the library, knows science, tennis, painting, archery, and a deadly form of Jujitsu (more on that below). In the novel Enola bemoans that she was never particularly good at cyphers and now must improve if she has any hope of reading what her mother left her. In the film she simply knows the answers, near instantaneously. Enola masters her travels, her disguises, and her deductions, all with barely a hitch. Though Enola doesn't have impressive detective skills yet, her memory is apparently photographic, allowing her to look back on a single glance into a room, years ago, and untangle precisely what her mother was planning. It's a BBC Sherlock-esque form of 'deduction' wherein there's no real thought involved, just an innate ability to recall a newspaper across the room with perfect clarity. The one thing Enola can't do well is ride a bike which, considering that in the novel she quite enjoys the activity, feels like a tacked on "flaw" that the film never has to have her grapple with.

More than simply expanding upon her skillset—because let’s be real, it’s not like Sherlock himself doesn’t have an impressive list of accomplishments. Even if Enola’s feelings of inadequacy are part of the point Springer was working to make—the film changes the core of her personality. I cannot stress enough that Enola is a sheltered fourteen-year-old who is devastated by the disappearance of her mother and terrified by the new world she's entered. That fear, uncertainty, and the numerous mistakes that come out of it is what allowed me to connect with Enola and go, "Yeah. I can see myself in her." Meanwhile, this new Enola is overwhelmingly confident, to the point where I felt like I was watching a child's fantasy of a strong woman rather than one who actually demonstrates strength by overcoming challenges. For example, contrast her meeting with Sherlock and Mycroft on the train platform with what we got in the film:

"And to my annoyance, I found myself trembling as I hopped off my bicycle. A strip of lace from my pantalets, confounded flimsy things, caught on the chain, tore loose, and dangled over my left boot.

Trying to tuck it up, I dropped my shawl.

This would not do. Taking a deep breath, leaving my shawl on my bicycle and my bicycle leaning against the station wall, I straightened and approached the two Londoners, not quite succeeding in holding my head high" (31-32).

***

"Well, if they did not desire the pleasure of my conversation, it was a good thing, as I stood mute and stupid... 'I don't know where she's gone,' I said, and to my own surprise—for I had not wept until that moment—I burst into tears" (34).

I'd ask where this frightened, fumbling Enola has gone, but it's clear that she never existed in the script to begin with. The film is chock-full of her being, to be frank, a badass. She gleefully beats up the bad guys in perfect form, no, "I froze, cowering, like a rabbit in a thicket" (164). This Enola always gets the last word in and never falters in her confident demeanor, no, "I wish I could say I swept with cold dignity out of the room, but the truth is, I tripped over my skirt and stumbled up the stairs" (70). Enola is the one, special girl in an entire school who can see how rigid and horrible these social expectations are, straining against them while all her lesser peers roll their eyes. That's how she's characterized: as "special," right from the get-go, and that eliminates any growth she might have experienced over the course of the film. More than that, it feels like a slap in the face to Springer's otherwise likeable, well-rounded character.

3. A Focus on Hollywood Action and Those Strong Female Characters

It never fails to amaze me how often Sherlock Holmes adaptations fail to remember that he is, at his core, an intellectual. Sure, there's the occasional story where Sherlock puts his boxing or singlestick skills to good use, and he did survive his encounter with Moriarty thanks to his own martial arts, but these moments are rarities across the canon. Pick up any Sherlock Holmes story, open to a random page, and you will find him sitting fireside to mule over a case, donning a disguise to observe the suspects, or combing through his many papers to find that one, necessary scrap of information. Sherlock Holmes is about deduction, a series of observations and conclusions based on logic. He's not an action hero. Nor is Enola, yet Netflix seems to be under the impression that no audience can survive a two hour film without something exploding.

I'd like to present a concise list of things that happened in the film that were, in my opinion, unnecessary:

Enola and Tewksbury throw themselves out of a moving train to miraculously land unharmed on the grass below.

Enola uses the science knowledge her mother gave her to ignite a whole room of gunpowder and explosives, resulting in a spectacle that somehow doesn't kill her pursuer.

Enola engages in a long shootout with her attacker, Tewksbury takes a shot straight to the chest, but survives because of a breastplate he only had a few seconds to put on and hide beneath his shirt. Then Enola succeeds in killing Burn Gorman's slimy character.

Enola beats up her attackers many, many times.

This right here is the worst change to her character. Enola is, plainly put, a "strong woman." Literally. She was trained from a young age to kick ass and now that's precisely what she'll do. Gone is the unprepared but brave girl who heads out onto the dangerous London streets in the hope of helping her mother and a young boy. What does this Enola have to fear? There's only one martial arts move she hasn't mastered yet and, don't worry, she gets it by the end of the film. Enola suffers from the Hollywood belief that strong women are defined solely as physically capable women and though there's nothing wrong with that on the surface, the archetype has become so prevalent that any deviation is seen as too weak—too princess-y—to be considered feminist. If you're not kicking ass and taking names then you can only be passive, right? Stuck in a tower somewhere and awaiting your prince. But what about me? I have no ability to flip someone over my shoulder and throw them into a wall. What about pacifists? What about the disabled? By continually claiming that this is what a "strong" woman looks like you eliminate a huge number of women from this pool. The women we are meant to uphold in this film—Enola, her Mother, and her Mother's friend from the teahouse—are all fighters of the physical variety, whereas the bad women like Mrs. Harris and her pupils are too cultured for self-defense. They're too feminine to be feminist. But feminism isn't about your ability to throw a punch.  Enola's success now derives from being the most talented and the most violent in the room, rather than the most determined, smart, and empathetic. She threatens people and lunges at them, reminding others that she's perfectly capable of tying up a guy is she so chooses because "I know Jujitsu." Enola possesses a power that is just as fantastical as kissing a frog into a prince. In sixteen short years she has achieved what no real life woman ever will: the ability to go wherever she pleases and do whatever she wants without the threat of violence. Because Enola is the violence. While her attacker is attempting to drown her with somewhat horrific realism, Enola takes the time to wink at the audience before rearing back and bloodying his nose. After all, why would you think she was in any danger? Masters of Jujitsu with an uncanny ability to dodge bullets don't have anything to fear... unlike every woman watching this film.

It's certainly some kind of wish fulfillment, a fantasy to indulge in, but I personally preferred the original Enola who never had any Hollywood skills at her disposal yet still managed to come out on top. That's a character I can see myself in and want to see myself in given that the concept of non-violent strength is continually pushed to the wayside. Not to mention... that's a Sherlock Holmes story. Coming out on top through intellect and bravery alone is the entire point of the genre, so why Netflix felt the need to turn Enola into an action hero is beyond me.  

4. Aging Up the Protagonists (and Giving Them an Eye-Rolling Romance)

The choice to age up our heroes is, arguably, the worst decision here. In the original novel Enola has just turned fourteen and Tewksbury is a child, twelve-years-old, though he looks even younger. It's a story for a younger audience staring appropriately young heroes, with the protagonists' status as children crucial to one of the overarching themes of the story: what does it really mean to strike out on your own and when are you ready for it? Adding two years to Enola's age is something I'm perfectly fine with. After all, the difference between fourteen and sixteen isn't that great and Brown herself is sixteen until February of 2021, so why not aim for realism and make her character the same? That's all reasonable and this is, indeed, an adaptation. No need to adhere to every detail of the text. What puzzles me though is why in the world they would take a terrified, sassy, compassionate twelve-year-old and turn him into a bumbling seventeen-year-old instead?

Ah yes. The romance.

In the same way that I fail to understand the assumption that a film needs over-the-top action to be entertaining, I likewise fail to understand the assumption that it needs a romance—and a heterosexual one to boot. There's something incredibly discomforting in watching a film that so loudly proclaim itself as feminist, yet it takes the strong friendship between two children and turns it into an incredibly awkward, hetero True Love story. Remember when Enola loudly proclaims that she doesn't want a husband? The film didn't, because an hour later she's stroking her hand over Tewksbury's while twirling her hair. Which isn't to say that women can't fall in love, or change their minds, just that it's disheartening to see a supposedly feminist film so completely fall into one of the biggest expectations for women, even today. Forget Enola running up to men and paying them for their clothes as an expression of freedom, is anyone going to acknowledge that narratively she’s still stuck living the life the men around her want? Find yourself a husband, Enola. The heavy implication is she did, just with Jujitsu rather than embroidery. Different method, same message, and that’s incredibly frustrating when this didn’t exist in the original story. “It's about freedom!” the film insists. So why didn't you give Enola the freedom to have a platonic adventure? 

It's not even a good romance. Rather painful, really. When Tewksbury, after meeting her just once before, passionately says "I don't want to leave you, Enola" because her company is apparently more important than him staying alive, I literally laughed out loud. It's ridiculous and it's ridiculously precisely because it was shoe-horned into a story that didn't need it. More than simply saddling Enola with a bland love interest though, this leads to a number of unfortunate changes in the story's plot, both unnecessary additions and disappointing exclusions. Enola no longer meets Tewksbury after they've both been kidnapped (him for ransom and her for snooping into his case), but rather watches him cut himself out of a carpetbag on the train. I hope I don't have to explain which of these scenarios is more likely and, thus, more satisfying. Meeting Tewksbury on the train means that Enola gets to have a nighttime chat with him about precisely why he ran away. Thus, when she goes to his estate she no longer needs to deduce his hiding spot based on her own desires to have a place of her own, she just needs to recall that a very big branch nearly fell on him and behold, there that branch is. (The fact that the branch is a would-be murder weapon makes its convenient placement all the more eye-rolling.) Rather than involving herself in the case out of empathy for the family, Enola loudly proclaims that she wants nothing to do with Tewksbury and only reluctantly gets involved when it's clear his life is on the line. And that right there is another issue. In the novel there is no murderous plot in an attempt to keep reform bills from passing. Tewksbury is a child who, like Enola, ran away and quickly discovers that life with an overbearing mother isn't so bad when you've experienced London's dangerous streets. That's the emotional blow: Enola has no mother to go home to anymore and must press out onto those streets whether she's ready for it or not.

Perhaps the only redeeming change is giving Tewksbury an interest in flowers instead of ships. Regardless of how overly simplistic the feminist message is, it is a nice touch to give the guy a traditionally feminine hobby while Enola sharpens her knife. The fact that Enola learned that from her mother and Tewksbury learned botany from his father feels like a nudge at a far better film than Enola Holmes managed to be. For every shining moment of insight—the constraints of gendered hobbies, a black working class woman informing Sherlock that he can never understand what it means to lack power—the film gives us twenty minutes worth of frustrating stupidity. Such as how Enola doesn't seem to conceive of escaping from boarding school until Tewksbury appears to rescue her. She then proceeds to get carried around in a basket for a few minutes before going out the window... which she could have done on her own at any point, locked doors or no. But it seems that narrative consistency isn't worth more than Enola (somehow) leaving a caricature of Mrs. Harris and Mycroft behind. The film is clearly trying to promote a "Rah, rah, go, women, go!" message, but fails to understand that having Enola find a way out of the school herself would be more emotionally fulfilling than having her send a generic 'You're mean' message after the two men in her life—Sherlock and Tewksbury—remind her that she can, in fact, take action.

Which brings me to my biggest criticism and what I would argue is the film's greatest flaw. Reviewers and fans alike are hailing Enola Holmes as a feminist masterpiece and yes, to a certain extent it is. Feminist, that is, not a masterpiece. (5) But it's a hollow feminism. A fantasy feminism. A simple, exaggerated feminism that came out of a Feminism 101 PowerPoint. To quote Sherlock, let's review the salient points:

A woman cannot be the star of her own film without having a male love interest, even if this goes against everything the original novel stood for.

A feminist woman cannot also be selfish. Instead she must have a selfless drive to change the world with bombs. 

The best kind of women are those who reject femininity as much as they can. They will wear boy's clothes whenever possible and snub their nose at something as useless as embroidery. Any woman who enjoys such skills or desires to become lady-like just hasn't realized the sort of prison she's in yet.

The best women also embody other masculine traits, like being able to take down men twice their size. Passive women will titter behind their hands. Active women will kick you in the balls. If you really want to be a strong woman, learn how to throw a decent punch.

Women are, above all, superior to men.

Yes, yes, I joke about it just as much as the next woman, but seeing it played fairly straight was a bit of an uncomfortable experience, even more-so during a gender revolution where stories like this leave trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer viewers out of the ideological loop. Enola goes on and on about what a "useless boy" Tewksbury is (though of course she must still be attracted to him) and her mother's teachings are filled with lessons about not listening to men. As established, Mycroft—and Lestrade—are the simplistically evil men Enola must circumvent, whereas Sherlock exists for her to gain victory over: "How did your sister get there first?" Enola supposedly has a strength that Tewksbury lacks— he's just "foolish"—and she shouts out such cringe-worthy lines as, "You're a man when I tell you you're a man!"

I get the message, I really do. As a teenager I probably would have loved it, but now I have to ask: aren't we past the image of men-hating feminists? Granted, the film never goes quite that far, but it gets close. We’ve got one woman who is ready to start blowing things up to achieve equality and another who revels in looking down on the men in her life. That’s been the framing for years, that feminists are cruel, dangerous people and Tewksbury making heart-eyes at Enola doesn’t instantly fix the echoes of that. There's a certain amount of justification for both characterizations—we have reached points in history where peaceful protests are no longer enough and Tewksbury is indeed a fool at times—but that nuance is entirely lost among the film's overall message of "Women rule, men drool." It feels like there’s a smart film hidden somewhere between the grandmother murdering to keep the status quo and Enola’s mother bombing for change, that balance existing in Enola herself who does the most for women by protecting Tewkesbury... but Enola Holmes is too busy juggling all the different films it wants to be to really hit on that message. It certainly doesn’t have time to say anything worthwhile about the fight it’s using as a backdrop. Enola gasps that "Mycroft is right. You are dangerous" when she finds her mother's bombs, but does she ever grapple with whether she supports violence on a large scale in the name of creating a better world? Does she work through this sudden revelation that she agrees with Mycroft about something crucial? Of course not. Enola just hugs her mom, asks Sherlock not to go after her, and the film leaves it at that. 

The takeaway is less one of empowerment and more, ironically, of restriction. You can fight, but only via bombs and punches. It's okay to be a woman, provided you don't like too many feminine things. You can save the day, so long as there's a man at your side poised to marry you in the future. I felt like I was watching a pre-2000s script where "equality" means embracing the idea that you're "not like other girls" so that men will finally take you seriously. Because then you don't really feel like a woman to them anymore, do you? You're a martial arts loving, trouser-wearing, loud and brilliant individual who just happens to have long hair. You’re unique and, therefore, worthy of attention, unlike all those other girls.

That's some women's experiences, but far from all, and crucially I don't think this is the woman that Springer wrote in her novel. 

The Case of the Missing Marquess is a feminist book. It gives us a flawed, brave, intelligent woman who sets out to help people and achieves just that, mostly through her own strength, but also with some help from the young boy she befriends. Her brothers are privileged, misguided men who she nevertheless cares for deeply and her mother finally puts herself first, leaving Enola to go and live with the Romani people. Everyone in Springer's book feels human, the women especially. Enola gets to tremble her way through scary decisions while still remaining brave. Her mother gets to be selfish while still remaining loving. They're far more than just women blessed with extraordinary talents who will take what they want by force. Springer's women? They don't have that Hollywood glamour. They're pretty ordinary, actually, despite the surface quirks. They’re like us and thus they must make use of what tools they have in order to change their own situations as well as the world. The fact that they still succeed feels very feminist to me, far more-so than granting your character the ability to flip a man into the ground and calling it a day.  

Know that I watched Enola Holmes with a friend over Netflix Party and the repeated comment from us both was, "I'd rather be watching The Great Mouse Detective." Enola Holmes is by no means a horrible film. It has beauty, comedy, and a whole lot of heart, but it could have been leagues better given its source material and the talent of its cast. It’s a film that tries to do too much without having a firm grasp of its own message and, as a result, becomes a film mostly about missed potential. Which leads me right back to where I began: The book is better. Go read the book.

Images

Enola Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Enola and her Mother Doing Archery

Enola and her Mother Fighting

Tewkesbury and Enola

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Toe-To-Toe | Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Summary: Life as a Nilfgaardian in the Northern Realms is not exactly wonderful. In fact, it’s dreadfully boring – at least until a Witcher shows up, responding to a message left on the local notice board.

Word Count: 4,111

Warnings: Smut with, like, a dash of plot. Mostly just #DaddyGeralt vibes. (I’m going to hell lol.)

A/N: This one-shot is based off one of these writing prompts. If you like my work, check out my masterlist for more! 

You hate everything north of the Yaruga. Except, of course, the steady stream of your father’s money that he feels guilty enough to provide you with. He’d been sent to this gods-forsaken hold by Emperor Ehmyr two years ago now, and in those past two years, it’s been nothing but a bore. The populace is rude, and just about everything else is dull – not to mention the weather, which is shite.

So, naturally, you are intrigued when you notice a man with two swords slung over his back heading up the winding path leading to the estate the Emperor oh so kindly provided your father with when he informed him of his new position as the baron of this dump of a hold in Velen. You are not particularly fond of it, even if it is objectively beautiful.

You watch from the window as the stranger approaches, eyes fixed on the two swords slung over his back. You don’t even need him to draw close enough to see his eyes to confirm that he is a Witcher. The peasants around here are lucky if they own one sword, let alone two. The only people on the Continent who walk around with two swords like that are Witchers; or so you assume. You’ve only ever read about them in books and heard stories of their exploits sung in ballads.

And this is no ordinary Witcher. You’ve heard the ballads about this one – the one with the long white hair that rides a mare and carries two swords on his back and walks with a confident swagger. Oh, you know who he is straight away.

* * *

“Geralt of Rivia,” you eye the man up and down as you stand blocking the entrance to your family home.

If he’s curious to know how you know who he is, he doesn’t show it. More likely than not, he knows all about the bard, Jaskier, who has made quite a name for the both of them, singing about their exploits across the Continent. The man just nods in acknowledgement.

You study the Witcher for a moment longer, eyeing the yellowed parchment in his hand. You know everything that goes on in this town, so you happen to know that the piece of paper he is holding has been tacked to the village notice board for at least a month; unlike the numerous Imperial notices that the villagers tend to rip from the weathered wood within a day or two of them being posted.

“So, going toe-to-toe with the big bad then, are you?” you ask with a smirk.

The white haired Witcher, to your surprise, returns a sort of half-smile, raising his arm to wave the water-damaged paper in front of you, “If you still intend to pay the reward, I suppose I am.”

Your father posted the contract before he set off on some Imperial business you didn’t deign to ask him about because the villagers had been bugging him about a couple of ghoul nests in the area. No surprise that they were there – there seemed to be no shortage of bodies turning up left and right thanks to the bloody war. More seems more likely than not that even after the Witcher dispatches the creatures, new nests will crop up within months; but you’d prefer not to have a hoard of angry villagers on your tail.

So, you push open the door, talking over your shoulder as you walk into the large hall, trusting that the Witcher will follow you inside. “My father posted the contract a month ago,” you inform him, “Left a bag of coin for me to give to whoever takes care of the ghoul nests north of town.”

When you turn around to face the Witcher, you find his yellow eyes set on you, as if he’s studying you or something. You’re not sure whether to be amused, offended, or flattered, but you don’t have much time to think on it before he speaks again.

“So happens I took care of the ghoul nests already,” he speaks in a deep and gravely voice quite unlike any other you’ve heard.

“Hmm,” you muse, studying him for a moment and realizing for the first time that his black leathers are smeared in places with fresh blood, “That ghoul blood or human?”

The Witcher smiles impishly, shrugging, “Smells like ghoul blood to me.”

You raise your eyebrows, taking several steps toward him. “I don’t have superhuman senses, Master Witcher.”

He cocks his head to the side, looking down at you, “Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

You are silent for a moment, though you are not actually concerned. The Witcher seems trustworthy enough, and you were fairly certain that if there’d been some sort of slaughter in the wilds around the village, you’d have already heard complaints about it. After all, with Father gone, you were the only one here for the villagers from across the hold to complain to.

“Fine,” you finally say. “You do smell of a thousand deaths.” That much is true. From your position only a few inches in front of him, you have to admit he does not smell particularly good. You’d witnessed more than one death, and human blood smelled more metallic than anything – it took a while for them to smell quite like this.

“What a lovely compliment,” he says with a slight laugh.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” you say matter-of-factly. The Witcher does not respond.

“I’ll get your coin,” you tell him, “And have the servants draw you a bath.”

The Witcher seems to be intrigued; at least the expression on his face leads you to believe so. The suggestion had been a serious one. You are enjoying the banter with this stranger, and you aren’t in a hurry for him to leave. It grows awfully boring here, especially with your father gone. You are alone with the servants and guards, which is not necessarily the greatest of company. The servants dislike you, no matter than you treat them respectfully enough. The guards, on the other hand, like you a bit too much – as if you would be interested in some hired guard from the Northern Realms.

You expect him to say something about taking the coin and being on his way but, for whatever reason, he did not. He just nodded gruffly, eyes scanning the empty entrance hall, do doubt wondering what servants you were speaking of, as there were none here.

Catching his searching eyes, you cross you arms over your chest and look at him, “I don’t need servants trailing after me all day.” It was true enough. Of course, you are accustomed to life as a noblewoman, but one thing you did not enjoy was being tailed by servants at all hours of the day. You were perfectly capable of dressing yourself in the morning, thank you very much. “But they’ll come if I call,” you add hastily.

“Hmm,” the Witcher says, as if he is musing over something. When he doesn’t follow up with anything, you look at him curiously.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, “Going to let me in on those mysterious thoughts?”

“Am I supposed to keep you informed on my mysterious thoughts when I do not even know your name?” He smirks, amber eyes locking on yours.

You ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks and answer quickly, “You never asked.”

“Then I suppose I am asking now,” he says. You are sure that you are blushing now, thanks to the look Geralt has fixed on you. It is hard to describe, really, but there is a slight glimmer in his yellow eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Y/N Aep Hedhal,” you respond. Your name would, among many circles, cause as stir. With so many Nilfgaardian noble families vying for power, those who are successful in that endeavor are looked to with a mixture of adoration and jealousy. But if the Witcher knows anything of your family, his cool and even expression does not give it away.

He nods, repeating your name as if tasting it on his lips adding, “From Nilfgaard?”

“How’d you guess?”

“The guards outside, for one,” he responds easily, “Your last name for another, and even without those two, your accent would be enough for anyone to guess.”

You laugh, somewhat bitterly. Your accent did indeed mark you as other here. Even when you were out in public without guards, servants, or other nobility, your accent gave it away nearly immediately. You thought, of course, about adopting the Nordlings’ way of speaking, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. You did not intend to stay here and changing your way of speaking would only make it seem as if you did.

“Brilliant deductive reasoning skills,” you quip.

“Necessary skill for a Witcher,” he says casually. “Have to deduce what monsters people have me chasing after.”

“Ah, I see,” for a moment, you feel uneasy.

Perhaps he was only engaging in this conversation for that purpose. You were, after all, seen as a monster by most of the people here. What’s more, it might even be true. You had no idea who occupied this land before Emhyr cleared them away to provide your father with this grand estate. And, you could not deny that very often, the bodies found in fields and on the sides of the road were victims of violence perpetrated by your fellow Nilfgaardians.

“And have you found a monster?” you ask.

The Witcher studies you for a moment longer before finally answering, “Don’t believe I have.”

You hold back the sigh of relief you had the strong urge to release and speak instead, “Interesting...   Thought everyone here hates Nilfgaardians.”

“I’m a Witcher,” he says, “We don’t take sides.”

“Ah yes, I’ve read about that,” you muse, “Apolitical monster slayers.” You not your head toward the man, “Honestly thought that part was made up.”

“Out of all the things that book probably said about us, that is the part you thought was made up?” You are slightly caught off guard by the fact that he seemed genuinely interested in your answer. Not many people seemed to be interested in your opinions; even when your father was away on business and the responsibility of responding to issues in the hold fell to you. Oftentimes, they’d be in the great hall, standing in front of you as you sat in the plush chair in the center of the room, but they would be looking past you all together, looking to the guards at your sides. Typical.

“Does that surprise you?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “I’ve never known anyone who didn’t take sides, especially during wartime.”

“In my experience,” he says slowly – thoughtfully, as if he is carefully weighing every word, “Two warring nations care little about their people’s wellbeing. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t send their youth out to kill and be killed for the sake of redrawing some lines on a map.”

You realize you are nodding in agreement only after your head is already moving, quickly responding, “Well, Master Witcher. It seems like you do take sides after all.” He looks back at you, eyebrows knitted together in vague confusion before you continue, “You’re right next to me with all of the other cynics.”

“Next to you, Lady Aep Hedhal?” You swear he’s inched closer to you, but you cannot be sure it isn’t just your own wishful thinking. “I’d be honored.”

Well, perhaps it wasn’t in your head. Unsure of how to respond to his words, you fumble for a moment before finally settling on the easiest response, “Oh, Lady Aep Hedhal is my mother, Master Witcher. Call me Y/N.”

“If you call me Geralt, Lady Aep Hedhal.”

“Fine.”

It seems as if there is an invisible thread linking the two of you together becoming more and more taught as the conversation continues. Loose strands of you hair flutter as he breathes out. You could easily close that small distance by rolling up onto your toes, and if you were to tilt your head…

But that smell, it is impossible to ignore. As much as you’d like to tangle a hand in his long white hair, you’d rather not come away smelling of ghouls’ blood. And besides, you enjoy keeping men on a string – like a cat with a mouse. It’s a game for you; to see how far you can push it before they cave in. And, well, most of them do.

So, you take a step back, taking care not to wipe the small smile from your lips. “Your bath, Master Witcher, just down that hallway, the last door on the right. I’ll send someone in after you.” After studying his soiled clothes for a moment more, you add, “I’ll have some clothes sent for you as well, so the servants wash those.”

The Witcher holds up his hands, about to protest, but you silence him with a hand, “You will stay for dinner, won’t you? With father gone and mum still in Nilfgaard with my siblings, dinners are dreadfully lonely.” You blink up at him all doe-eyed, the way that you’ve learned most men cannot resist.

“Of course, Lady Aep Hedhal,” he says, “A feast for cynics.”

* * *

“So, you tend to business while your father is away?” the Witcher asks before taking a sip of wine.

You nod, taking a sip from your own goblet as the servants clear away the empty plates, “Someone’s got to,” you say. “Parents got dreadfully unlucky; four children and not one of them a boy.” Your voice is dripping with sarcasm, betraying your displeasure with the way of the world.

“Why are your mother and sisters still in Nilfgaard?”

You hate to admit it, but you are basking in the glow of his attention. It is rare that anyone asks you any question that doesn’t involve lowering their property taxes or trying their very clearly much more successful neighbor as a witch. Though, the wine is probably also a contributing factor in why the words seem to fall from your lips so easily.

“My youngest sister is sick, wouldn’t have been good for her to travel. And mum didn’t want to come, anyway. ‘Supposed to be a temporary position,” you explain, unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at that last bit.

“Not so temporary?”

You laugh, shaking your head as a rueful smile plays on your lips, “Two years now, and no sign of anything changing.”  

You see Geralt’s expression soften to something akin to pity, and you immediately narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” you snap. “I don’t need anyone’s pity,” you say, waving an arm to indicate the grand room you’re sitting in, “I mean, look at this shit.”

Geralt glances around the room and laughs, “I suppose it is a decent setup.”

The décor is simple enough, much different from when you arrived. You’d taken the liberty to remove most of the gaudy, ridiculous décor and replace it with equally expensive but simpler ones. You aren’t quite sure where they put the boar’s head that used to hang in there, but you are nevertheless glad that it’s gone.

“Thanks,” you say, draining your glass, “Had to spend the illustrious Emperor Emhyr’s money somehow.”

He smirks, eyes settling on you, “Fancy décor and pretty dresses.”

This time, you do blush. Of course, he isn’t wrong. One of the few things you like more in the Northern Realms are the clothes. There is no shortage of fancy silk and gauze, linens, chiffons, and lace for you to buy. And the colors—you can find such lovely colors here, like the dark navy silk you’re wearing now.

“Geralt,” you drawl, “I had no idea you had an eye for fashion, especially since you didn’t bother to put on the doublet I sent you.” Not that you really care – the shirt he’s wearing is white linen and the loose tie at the middle leaves a good deal of his chest exposed. It is not a bad view, you have to admit.

“I hate doublets,” he insists, shaking his head. “Can’t stand them.”

You raise an eyebrow, shaking your head. You can’t say you’re surprised. You highly doubt that Witchers ever have much occasion to wear fancy clothes. Even you can’t be bothered to wear a full corset. You don’t like wearing anything that requires help getting in or out of.

Silence settles over the two of you for a moment before Geralt turns to look out one of the large windows. You are surprised to see that the sun has set and the only thing you can see out the window is a smattering of stars. It must be quite late.

“It’s late, Lady Aep Hedhal,” he says, “I should probably be on my way, wouldn’t want to keep you awake.”

You look at him, eyes alight, “Oh, I didn’t know how much you cared about my bedtime, daddy.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his eyes widen, and you swear that they’ve dilated slightly. You grin to yourself – who knew it would only take one word to disarm the Witcher. He has that look on his face – one you are quite familiar with from several of the guards and townsmen alike.

“But, since you are,” you speak slowly, taking advantage of the moment, you stand up, letting your dress rustle about as you take a few steps around the table, dragging your hand along the backs of each chair until you reach the Witcher’s. “Maybe daddy could tuck me in?”

It takes all of two heartbeats for Geralt to stand up, pushing the chair off to the side as he turns to face you, eyes drinking in your form as you blink up at him. “Gladly, princess.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as he places one hand at the side of your face, letting the other slide over your shoulder and down your back, coming to rest firmly on your waist, pulling you flush against him. You shiver at the feeling, nerves on fire as you look up at him towering over you. You would very much like to kiss him, but you’ll wait for him. The game of cat and mouse was fun, but now that you’re held flush against him, you fully intend to let Geralt take it from here, especially after the way he looked at you as he said princess.

He presses his forehead against yours, talking slow steps, backing you toward the oaken wall, the hand on your face sliding down ever so slightly so that his fingers are on your neck, raising goosebumps on your skin. All the while, he speaks in those slow, deliberate sentences, “I cannot guarantee, though, Princess,” his fingers press slightly harder into the soft skin of your neck, making you bite your lip in anticipation, “That you will sleep very much.”

He finishes his sentence at the exact moment you feel the wall behind you, and it takes all of your self-control not to melt right there. You heart races as his amber eyes lock on yours for a seemingly endless amount of time as he pins you there against the wall.

Finally, you break the silence, biting your lip and looking up at him with wide eyes, words sounding innocent as possible, “Why not, daddy?”

That seems to finally snap his resolve. He presses his body against yours, pinning you more tightly against the wall. “I’ll show you why not, Princess,” he growls, finally capturing your lips in a hungry kiss.

Your lips part for him almost immediately, allowing him access that he fully takes advantage of, tongue exploring your mouth as you whimper into the kiss, lost in how good this all feels. With the men from here – the guards, the occasional traveler – it has always just been a diversion. This is the first time in quite a long time that you’ve ever actually felt anything.

The Witcher pulls away, leaving you gasping for more. He stops for a moment, grinning just centimeters from your lips. You grip at his shirt, his shoulder, trying to draw him closer so that you can kiss him again, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he just laughs silently, cocking his head to the side. “You’re an eager little one, aren’t you Princess?”

Your only response comes out much softer than you intended. You aren’t used to being this, well, charmed by anyone. “Y-yes,” you whisper, “I do.”

Geralt breathes deeply, as if memorizing your scent, and hums appreciatively before pressing his lips to your neck.

You sigh, tipping your head back to give him better access, and he takes full advantage of it. His lips trace across your neck, gently sucking and licking at the skin there drawing several moans from you. You grasp at his shirt, clawing at his chest with both hands, vaguely aware that you are trying to rip the thin material from his chest.

He obliges, pulling back to pull the material over his head, tossing it behind him. You grin appreciatively as you drink in his form. Strong muscles and a body full of scars that somehow look good on him. You bite your lip before wrapping his arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck, tasting the skin there. He grunts appreciatively, gathering the silk of your dress and pulling it up using firm but gentle fingers. You are all too happy to allow him.

His hand snakes up under your dress, traveling higher and higher, leaving you breathing heavily, wanting more. For a moment, you pull away to look at him, eyes silently begging him to move his hand just a little higher. And, much to your delight, he does exactly that.

He snakes his hand up underneath the thin material covering your core, fingers gliding easily thanks to the wet heat pooled there. “You are eager, Princess,” he whispers, letting his fingers ghost over your clit – his touch so feather light it only stokes the flames, doing nothing to abate them. Until finally, he looks you in the eyes as he drags a calloused finger from your entrance to your clit, moving over the bundle of nerves in small circles – first slow and then faster, applying more pressure as your eyes roll back in your head, his name spilling from your lips.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he works you with his skillful fingers, massaging your clit just the right way so as to keep you like putty in his hands, legs bucking beneath you as he holds you upright, firmly against the wall – begging him for more but earning only a smirk as he continues to tease you.

“Open your eyes,” he demands in that intoxicating baritone. You never listen to anyone, but something about the way he says it has you snapping your eyes open immediately.

His amber eyes fix on yours as he toys with your clit, a smirk on his lips. You whimper, trying in vain to move your hips against his hand, but he has you locked right where you are.

“I bet you want to come,” he breathes, leaning down to nibble your ear.

You can only whimper in response as he flicks his tongue over the sensitive skin of your earlobe. His breath his warm on your neck as he speaks again, “Don’t you want to come, little Princess?”

You not emphatically, finally able to make your mouth form somewhat coherent words, “Y-yes…,” you breathe, “Please.”

“Please, what?” He growls in your ear as his fingers continue to rub slow circles that have you seeing stars.

“Please, daddy.”

He grunts in approval, lips moving to your neck, as he begins to work his fingers faster, flooding you with so much pleasure your body can hardly keep up. Between his fingers working over your clit and the soft kisses and licks he is placing all over your neck, you let out a desperate mewling sound as you come undone, hips bucking against his fingers as your knees buckle beneath you.

You would have fallen, but his reflexes are fast as lightning, and he catches you with one arm around your waist, holding you upright as your body slackens and you slump against his chest, breathing heavily.

Geralt slowly moves to brush back a few strands of your hair, moving his mouth up to whisper in your ear, “Oh, we’re going to have fun tonight, Princess.”

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 10 - In Which Jack Hosts A Fashion Show

Jack is finally ready for his first runway show, after months of work and agonizing over every small detail and making sure he keeps up appearances as a flighty party boy with enough money that he doesn't need to have talent or ambition.

But he's honestly quite proud of how everything has turned out. He's tailored the runway fashions for the trendy, upscale gallery that's hosting the show, of course, so everything is very modern and very stark. There are a lot of geometric shapes, structured collars, plunging triangular necklines and sideslits, things like that. Lots of metallic black fabrics.

It's all very cyberpunk dystopia - but chic. Because the upper echelons of society will commodify and romanticize everything, including the surveillance state.

It does appear to be a successful strategy, however. Mary has been taking pictures of his work throughout the process. Pictures that are framed to hint, to tantalize, but not to actually reveal anything. And there's been significant hype building around the show. Some of the backstage photos from the runway rehearsal have even appeared in the society sections of various newspapers. Which nobody really reads anymore, but Jack's Instagram account has simultaneously blown up, so that's probably a better indication that he's on the right track with this designer nonsense.

And he's had no trouble filling seats at the show itself. Since it's all rich assholes in attendance, they'd never do anything so gauche as to charge admission, but there's an understanding that everyone who attends the event will provide a hefty (and tax deductible, after some creative accounting) donation to both the art gallery and Jack's little design company. And Kaylen has used her extensive network of snooty art acquaintances to make sure there are plenty of critics in the audience, which should help get his name out there in the fashion world so he can start broadening their field of influence.

So the last thing that remains to be done is to personally invite the Councilor to the show. Not only because Jack is trying to develop a deeper friendship with him (and thereby cement his influence over any and all planning decisions) but also because Max wants to form another sort of relationship with Councilor Featherstone. Ie. she wants one of her girls to start “dating” the esteemed Councilor and whispering sweet nothings about their competitors into his ear instead of pillow talk. Which is also why Jack's throwing an after party at his house where the invitees can mingle with the models, get to know them a little better.

Jack had initially been rather uncomfortable with this plan. Mostly because he doesn't like people in his house messing up his things. But also because this feels just slightly skeevy in a way he hasn't been before. He's a con and a killer and a dealer, but he's not a pimp.

But when he'd talked to the girls about this plan, they'd seemed surprised at his reservations. One girl - Jackie – had even asked if the Councilor was, quote, wicked and seemed disappointed when Jack told her he had the sexual charisma of a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. And Jack supposes it's their job, so they know what they're getting themselves into.

So he finds himself at the office building downtown (a pricey piece of real estate if Jack's ever seen one) to personally extend the glossy black invitation to both fashion show and after party to Councilor Featherstone. Who apparently has not yet grasped e-vites as a concept. And anyway, it's the personal touch that leaves a lasting impression.

And Charles has elected to accompany Jack, for whatever reason. He seems familiar with desk security and the building layout at least. Which is, perhaps, suspicious. As are the wary glances Councilor Featherstone's second in command – a man who's doing much what Max wants them to do in terms of filtering exactly what proposals actually reach the Councilor's desk, although his criteria for acceptance is more in line with being rich and titled and not a dirty foreigner - keeps giving Charles through Featherstone's glass door.

Charles's self satisfied smirk is not particularly encouraging either.

But he'd rather have any potential adversaries cowed as apposed to actively antagonistic. And Counselor Featherstone is more than happy to receive an invitation to his good friend Jack's debut fashion show. With front row seats to ensure that he gets a good look at all the models as they parade past on the catwalk. And Max's second sitting next to him - because Featherstone doesn't seem like the sort to approach a woman of his own volition and they'll need some indication of who to throw at him later tonight.

Jack's stupid fashion show is giving Anne a bitch of a headache. He's running around backstage in a fucking tizzy, because someone's makeup isn't quite right or they're wearing the wrong style of jewelry or a dozen other fucking things. And Anne's supposed to be coordinating this mess – as if that's fucking possible.

At least she's good at glaring and rude hand gestures. That appears to be all that's required to get the DJs – some poor fucks Max has by the balls – to get their shit set up and now there's some pumping electronic shit going as all the rich fucks mingle and drink cocktails, waiting for the show to start.

Fortunately, Eme'd been the one to recommend the caterers and other than pointing towards the kitchen and telling them when the show starts, she hasn't had to deal with them. And Mary's running around taking pictures of all the models and dresses and shit but she spares Anne a quick smile whenever they cross paths. So it could be worse.

And then Anne's pressed into lining up all the models in order and cuing when they're supposed to go out, so she's too busy to hear Jack's little speech at the start of the show. But by the polite applause he gets, it's a pretty good one – always been silver tongued, Jack has, and that ain't changed any with this new venture.

And it turns out he's pretty good at the whole designer thing too, which had been a surprise. Anne doesn't think much of the outfits – completely impracticable and all ugly weird dresses - but all these posh idiots are eating this shit up, if you take into account the fact that rich people excitement is a lot less loud than normal people excitement. The after party is sure to loosen them up, at least.

Jack slumps against the wall, absolutely exhausted. The fashion show had gone well, with several of the critics and many of the various high society invitees coming up to congratulate him afterwards. He's the darling of the upper crust for a night.

And in order to cement that for the future, he's in the process of throwing the mother of all parties – champagne, blow, stupid finger foods with gold leaf on them. The sort of club music that keeps coked up partiers on the dancefloor all night. And it's all getting to be a bit much.

Anne and Mary have already disappeared upstairs to bed, and Jack dearly wishes he could join them. Or at least meander in their general direction – he doubts they want him in their bed. Particularly because they're probably not even attempting to sleep what with all the noise downstairs.

And Jack doesn't really feel like laying awake for hours in his empty bed while Anne and Mary fuck down the hall, even if he wasn't bound by his persona to stay until the party ended or the sun rose. And it's starting to look like sunup will be the earlier of the two conditions, so it's just as well he's a jobless layabout who can sleep all day tomorrow.

At least Counselor Featherstone looks to be having fun with Idelle, all tucked into a sort of quiet corner with her and staring shamelessly at her tits. Which are quite noticeable in the dress she's wearing, to be fair. But Jack doesn't particularly want to spend his night thinking about that either.

So he turns on his heel and weaves through the crowd until he's reached the French doors leading to the little patio out back. He needs a minute – just one minute – of quiet and calm. Just a minute to catch his breath before he heads back into the heaving throng.

He walks out to the edge of the lawn and lets out a long sigh, head tipped towards the heavens.

“Get sick of the party, Jack?”

Charles emerges from the dark, only the glowing cherry of his cigar lighting his face, making his eyes gleam in a way that would be terrifying if Jack didn't know him so well.

But he does know Charles, so he just turns toward him, slumps against him in exhaustion. “I'll admit, it's a little harder to make it through these things without enough blow to keep an entire 80's office building supplied.”

Charles grins. “Or you're just getting old.”

“And what does that say about you, Chaz?” Jack leans back to look him in the eye. “You're the one out here in the dark all by yourself. Maybe you're the one getting too old for this shit.”

Charles eyes the house and all the guests making a disgusting mess all over Jack's fancy furniture. It's unbelievable, and he's spent his whole life, minus the last few months, living on the streets or in derelict drug dens.

“Don't know that I was ever young enough for this particular shit. Want to pretend to be desperate for a fuck and go hide upstairs?”

Jack considers it for a long moment, torn between responsibility to Max and his desire to escape the party. But fear of Max wins out – she can make is life awfully difficult. And that's without Anne giving him unimpressed looks on her behalf.

“Want to pretend to make out on the dancefloor instead?”

Charles grins. “Ok, but don't get pissy at me for grabbing your ass.” And he proceeds to steer Jack into the house and out into the middle of the dancefloor by doing just that, to the cheers and wolf whistles of everyone close enough to understand what he's doing.

Which is a fair number, because Charles is not exactly known for being subtle. And then he sticks his tongue down Jack's throat.

“I hope you know this means I'm spending tomorrow braiding your hair in retaliation,” Jack growls at him, when he's finally let up for air. “And I will give you pigtails.”

Charles just laughs, so apparently it's not a enough of a threat. Jack will find something truly menacing at some point. He swears.

[angstmongertina]

A Little Wager (BoL&S)

Honestly, I almost appreciate the hiatus that they gave us in BoL&S, since it means I had time to replay and start working on some fic ideas that I’ve been toying with. I still want to write something for the last night before they arrive in Undermount, but I’m glad I was able to finish SOMETHING, at least.

Mal and Imtura are actually just so much chaotic energy and I love them.

AO3 Link

Mal and Imtura were up to something.

There was no other explanation for it. Too many times, she had seen them together, talking in low voices, glancing about with nervousness and cutting off whenever Csilla or Tyril got within earshot. Mal would linger by the wheel of the ship, Imtura slouched over to accommodate his height, as they sailed, conversing in voices so low that the winds couldn’t carry them. They would sit together by the campfire before turning in, murmuring softer than the crackling logs. If she weren’t completely convinced that there was nothing between them, she might have suspected that they were interested in each other.

As it was, they were managing to be suspicious enough that even Threep noticed, though in typical fashion, his investigation was easily bypassed through the bribery of fish, a fact that the nesper recounted to her with far more pride than it warranted.

In the end, it was simply a matter of timing. Days had turned into weeks after leaving the horrifying shores of that island behind them. They arrived back onto solid land, Imtura bidding a long farewell to her crew, and off they had set for the elven city of Undermount, yet another place she had heard of only in tales at the temple. Then again, the entire trip had been an exercise in firsts and unusual circumstances—she would never have guessed that her first trip out into the world would have brought her to these individuals, not lead to her traveling through all of Morella. They camped in open fields and wooded camps, trading off watch and sharing duties with slowly growing efficiency and the help of Csilla’s seemingly endless patience.

It was one such evening that she found her opportunity, settling in earlier than typical but she was hardly going to complain after days of hard travel she was not familiar with. The two elves had disappeared into the woods, debating the best methods for identifying firewood, when she caught the suspicious pair together once more, heads bent toward each other as they set up their tents. As she watched, Imtura snorted, tossing some quip over her shoulder that had Mal wheezing as she slid one of the poles into place.

Before manners and good sense could remind her that it was a conversation they could very well wish to keep private, she marched across the camp, coming to a stop beside them with her hands on her hips. Threep, as if sensing her intent, or at least the potential for some excitement, emerged to perch on the log beside her.

“Can we help you, Priestess? And I don’t mean in getting out of cooking duties.”

“What are you whispering about all the time? And don’t try to hide it. We’ve,” she indicated Threep, who sat upright with all of the primness he could manage, “both seen you.”

To her annoyance, they traded an amused look, Imtura’s with some amount of what she might almost call encouragement if that actually made any sense. She frowned, barely resisting the urge to stamp her foot, though judging by the expression that crossed Mal’s face as he sat back on his heels, her temptation did not go unnoticed.

“All right, Priestess, calm down. Let’s not get your smallclothes in a twist now.”

Imtura audibly snorted, though managed to look contrite about it when she glared. “It’s nothing that exciting, I swear.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to discuss it whenever Csilla or Tyril are around?” She gasped, staring from one to the other with wide eyes. “Are you planning on committing some kind of crime?”

“You think we’d be more willing to discuss getting in trouble with the law with a priestess of the light around than with an adventurer? You’re probably not wrong about Lord Grump but the kit’s a good sort.”

“‘Lord Grump?’”

He shrugged. “I know, I know, it needs some work. Haven’t gotten a chance to brainstorm proper names yet.”

“We’ve noticed, Mal the Magnificent.”

Groaning, he visibly wilted. “One time. I try out a title one time and I never hear the end of it.”

“Get used to it, buddy.” She winced on Mal’s behalf; the elbow Imtura jammed into his side looked like it hurt. “Anyway, as much as I hate to break up this session of poking fun at Mal, that discussion can continue when our fearless leader comes back while this one can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s about her. And her little grumpy shadow.”

In spite of herself, her lips twitched at the face she was certain said grumpy shadow would have made if he knew what his latest epithet had become. But if they were talking about him, then surely that meant…

“Are they…?” She turned to glance in the direction that the pair in question had disappeared off to. It did make sense, in some way, given how Csilla seemed to be the only one who could get him to relax. “They’re, ah…” What did the priests call it again? “Are they having relations?”

Mal snorted and shook his head. “You can just ask if they’re having sex, Priestess. And no. We don’t think so. Not yet, at least, otherwise someone in the camp would surely know, which means everyone in the camp would know. As for when… That there’s the golden question. Literally.”

Golden question… gold… She looked from one to the other, wearing almost identical grins, and gasped again. “You two have a bet!”

The smile on Mal’s face twisted into a grimace. “A little louder, please? I don’t think they heard you over in Whitetower.”

“Sorry!” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Am I right? I’m right though, right?”

“Congratulations,” he returned, deadpan. “You’ve done it. Truly, a deductive marv— Ow!”

Imtura shook her head with faux sympathy, as though she hadn’t just elbowed him again, even harder than the last. “Ignore him, Nia. He’s just upset that the so-called Lord Grump is gonna be getting more action than him soon.”

Laughing at the incoherent sputtering that that received, she squatted beside them. “So what did you say?”

“Are you asking me what I bet?” Beside her, Mal wheezed again, this time as a hand clapped him on the back, hard. “Look what you’ve done, you scoundrel. Corrupted a nice young priestess of light with your gambling and your stories. Next she’ll be wanting to join a thieves’ guild and break into some rich man’s estate.”

“And that’s a problem how?” The question was more croak than coherent sentence, but when she peered at him, this time with genuine worry, he waved her away. “Those stuck up assholes have it coming.”

“To you, maybe. Not to a priestess of light.” Imtura shook her head. “Honestly, the brains of some people… But back to your original question. Mal has ten gold that Tyril’s enough of a mess that it won’t be until we get to Whitetower, or even after we manage to beat the Shadow Court. I think he’s not giving Csilla enough credit. She’s determined, that’s for sure.”

“So you think…?”

“Oh, he’s still an oblivious idiot. Probably not until after we reach Undermount, at least.”

She pursed her lips while Threep made what she could only describe as a nesper’s equivalent of a scoff. “Foolish, both of you. That only holds true if you are expecting him to make the first move.”

When only silence followed his proclamation, he blinked, tail twitching so violently it nearly hit her in the face. “What?”

“Nothing. Just didn’t take you sophisticated beings for gossips is all.”

Despite his diminutive form and position on the ground, the look Threep gave Mal was impressively contemptuous. “Being companions of the elves meant we were deeply entwined in their lives, social and otherwise.”

“Meaning you were all a bunch of nosy busybodies.”

She cleared her throat before Threep could snipe back. “He does have a point though, doesn’t he? I would not put it past Csilla to say something first.”

Before Mal could say anything, Imtura cocked an eyebrow at her. “Would you care to add something to the pot, then?”

For a moment, she hesitated, then, glancing at Threep once more, who gave her hand a nudge, shrugged. “Why not? Five gold on Csilla making the first move before we even reach Undermount.”

Mal whistled, low and long, and made a note on a scrap of parchment, on which he had already written his and Imtura’s wagers. “All right, then. We’ll see what happens.”

“See what happens?”

They all jumped as Csilla stepped into view, closer than Nia was expecting, her companion nearly fading out of the shadows behind her. The woman gave them all a curious look, pushing her hair behind her ear, while Tyril frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing!”

Her response, louder and quicker than normal, was enough to draw a raised eyebrow, but thankfully, Csilla said nothing, instead directing Tyril to set down the wood to start a fire. “If you’re certain. Anyway, we’ll get a fire going so you can start cooking soon, Nia, and Imtura and Mal can finish putting up the tents. Though I suppose if you two don’t finish, it’s your own loss; I’ll take first watch with Tyril while you figure it out.”

In spite of herself, she turned, catching Imtura’s eye as the other woman raised an eyebrow, and burst into laughter.

[imthequeenofcordonia]

Wacky drabble #31: We all need a little help sometimes.

This is my contribution to @emceesynonymroll​ wacky drabbles. The prompt is: You should’ve told me earlier – I could have helped you.  The prompt will appear in bold. 

Paring: Drake x OC (Lily Rys)

Word count: 2,244 (OMG I really tried to stay under 1,000. I  got a little bit carried away  😳 ) 

Warnings: Depression/ panic attack 

A/N:  All characters belong to Pixelberry other than Lily.

Permatag: @desireepow-1986 

Drake and Lily tags: @addictedtodrakefanfic @msjr0119​ @drakewalker04

Masterlist

Anxiety. This was something Lily often had to deal with but she did normally without too much of a problem. Anxiety, although it could often be crippling, was the least of her problems. 

She remembered the first time she had a panic attack. She was fourteen, nearly fifteen, when she was attending a ball. She stood by the ballroom doors with her brothers, father and stepmother when the world around her started to spin and breathing became an unnecessarily difficult task. 

She had them more and more throughout the years, especially during her teenage years when it got increasingly bad. The thing that annoyed her was she was never able to pinpoint what caused them. What her trigger was. They’d always come seemingly out of nowhere. 

Lily was nineteen now and she hadn't had one for a month, to everyone else that seemed like a minuscule thing, but to her? It was amazing. Before that she barely went a day without having one, not that anyone seemed to notice it anyway. 

She understood, her father was the king for god sake and wasn't the most affectionate of people. Leo was learning everything he’d need to know for when the crown was passed down to him, between his disappearances and flamboyant trips around the world that was. As for Liam, well he had his own life, they weren’t joined at the hip so he didn't notice either. Regina, yes, she was Lily's stepmother, but Lily very much doubted the woman would be able to help her with her anxiety, so keeping that all in mind, she was left to deal with it on her own. 

Lily had always been closer with her eldest brother, they were just more alike than her and Liam were, so occasionally he’d be the one to quell all her fears away, if he was there that was.  

Today the whole family was taking a trip to Ramsford for the annual Beaumont bash. This was Lily’s favourite event, it wasn't formal in any shape or form like every other event was. The thought of being around so many people had her anxiety rearing its head. 

She had been out of the palace much over the last month. She had stayed confined in her room for the majority of it only leaving for food and to have her piano and singing lessons in the ballroom. 

She didn't have a fear of leaving the palace, not normally, but it was difficult to have much confidence when you hated everything about yourself. She constantly judged herself so why wouldn't other people. It was alright for her brothers, they got all the good genes. They were tall, handsome, confident whereas Lily wasn't, or at least that’s what she believed. 

Lily glanced at her clock hung on her bedroom wall, they would be leaving soon. Lily packed a bag, making the deduction they’d most likely be spending the night in Ramsford, then grabbed her ball gown off the back of her door as finishing packing and doing her makeup for the evening. The dress was beautiful, it once belonged to her mother but those types of dresses were not the most comfortable to travel in. 

She met Constantine and Regina on the steps outside the entrance to the family as staff loaded their belongings into the awaiting SUV as Liam had headed on over earlier that day with Drake. 

“You’re not dressed,” Constantine noted. 

Lily shrugged, “The dress isn't that comfortable, especially to travel in, i’ll get changed when we get there.” 

“Very well,” Constantine nodded. 

“Where’s Leo?” Lily asked, looking around for him after noticing he wasn't there. 

“I’m here!” he yelled bombing out of the doors, bending over and putting his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. “I’m here,” he muttered, looking up at his family. Constantine made a wordless noise of disapproval as they headed down the steps and into the awaiting car. 

When they arrived they had twenty odd minutes before the ball was to officially begin so, Constantine and Regina sat and talked with Bertrand as Leo went in search of his brother and Lily headed on up to her room to change. 

She quickly changed into her dress and stood in front of the mirror in the conjoining bathroom, eyeing her appearance quizzically. It really was a miracle nobody had noticed something was wrong. There  were dark bags beneath both her eyes, like she’d been punched but the reality was she just hadn't slept, she was pale, all the makeup she’d caked on earlier that day was doing her very little justice. 

After she was done, she checked her phone quickly seeing there was only a few minutes before the ball was to be officially kicked off, turned her phone off and put it on the bedside table- there was no point in taking it down with her, she wouldn't use it, then she smoothed down her dress and headed over to the door, hesitating to turn it when her hand latched onto the doorknob and her anxiety peaked. 

Would anyone really notice if she wasn't there? She wondered. 

After getting herself together somewhat she opened the door, stepping out and shutting it behind her. She knew the Beaumont estate off by heart now, she had spent a lot of time there growing up. She wandered slowly through the corridors, peeping out the line of windows that looked out onto the driveway and saw guests after guests wearing exquisite outfits arrived for the bash.  Lily looked down at her royal blue dress she was wearing, then out the window and out at the other women’s gowns. Her dress was beautiful, it was her mothers, she loved it but it didn't come close to the other ladies, adding on the fact that Lily looked almost sick. 

Her breathing picked up at her made her way toward the ballroom. Her feet tingled as she walked, making her nearly trip as she did so. She wrung her hands together, her palms starting to feel sweaty.  She felt her heart thumping in her chest, violently. Lily came to a halt, she couldn't walk in like this. She lent against the nearby wall as breathing became a more difficult task, her hand went to her chest as it felt as if somebody was sitting on top of it and that action would push the invisible force off of her, but of course that didn't work. Her heart continued to thud harder as her panic continued, affecting her hearing as it thumped in her ears, to the point she didn't hear the footsteps of the person approaching her. 

 “Lily?” Drake's  voice called, as he tried to interrupt her panic but his attempt failed, she was too focused on the deafening sound of her heart beating in her chest. “Lil,” he called again, and luckily this time seemed to snap her out of it somewhat. 

She turned to face him, with tears pricking at her eyes and a sense of fear in them. He felt his heart pang with guilt. “Sorry, what?”

Her eyes darted around the hallway around her and back to him, then back to the floor, her breathing became more laboured and shallow as her panic continued to rise.  Her hands shook, her feet tingled as they stayed fixed to the floor being the only thing that was grounding her in  the sea of panic and fear that was surrounding her. Her heart thudded in her chest like it was going to burst right out from her rib cage. She was scared, what was he going to think about her? Nobody was supposed to see this, least of all Drake. Their relationship was...complicated to put it lightly. 

She could see through her tear clouded vision that Drake was scared, she could see the fear in his chocolate brown eyes. Which in turn made her feel guilty, which made her cry harder. Every attempt at trying to stop panic taking over failed miserably, every technique she had learned didn't work, the panic had already gotten its vicious claws in and it wasn't letting go. 

She tried to stop her crying, but her efforts failed resulting in her crying more and not breathing properly other than some strangled breaths here and there.  It hadn’t  been going on long but she was exhausted, she was worn out before this started after not getting a wink of sleep the night before and this most certainly wasn't helping. 

“It's okay,” she heard Drake's  soothing voice tell her, but it wasn’t, she wasn’t okay, none of it was okay. She felt him put a hand on her shoulder, but it felt foreign to her at that moment, so she pulled away from her friend's touch. 

“Lily, it’s okay,” Drake affirmed. She looked up at him as tears accumulated in her ocean blue eyes, that soon cascaded down her face, leaving tear streaks down her cheeks. 

Drake pulled her gently against him. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Lily, it’s okay,” he soothed.  

He couldn’t do anything to stop it, all he could do was help her through it, but he wasn't really sure how to do that.  

“It's okay,” Drake whispered as he ran his fingers through her long, dirty blonde hair.  

Finally Lily's tears had come to a stop as it became easier for her to breathe, rather than taking in a few strangled breaths in between cries. Neither of them knew how much time had gone by. 

She pulled out of his grip, wiping her tired and sore eyes. After she had steeled herself, she looked up to him, her red and puffy blue eyes meeting his similar chocolate brown ones. Mascara dripped down her cheeks, her eyes were red and puffy, her hair was all out of place from where Drake had run his fingers through It in an attempt to soothe her. Drake had noticeably  been crying and had lily’s snot and tears down his denim jacket as a few stray tears ran down his own cheeks. When Lily let herself break down it was always like she had opened a floodgate and there was nothing that  could be done to shut it again. 

“Lil-” 

Drake placed a hand on her face and gently turned her head so she was looking up at him. He wiped the stray tears that ran freely down her cheeks with his thumb.  

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to not let anymore tears fall as she locked eyes with him. 

“How long has this been going on for?” 

Lily wiped at her eyes, “A few months,” she explained, sniffling. 

Drake’s expression fell. They weren't dating, not properly, but he thought she would tell him if she was struggling, apparently not. “You should’ve told me earlier – I could have helped you.” 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. 

“Lily…” 

She took  in a deep breath, wiped at her eyes and looked back up to him, “We need to go in. My dad will be wondering where I am.” 

“Talk to me,” Drake pleaded. 

“I can't,” she snapped. “Okay? I just can’t. Now, I need to go in there-” 

“And act like everything’s fine? Like you didn't just have a panic attack?” Drake asked, raising his voice, although he didn't mean to. He was worried about her. He was frustrated. 

Tears welled in her eyes when she looked up to him. “Yes.”

Drake shook his head in disbelief, “You know, we all need a little help sometimes. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It is if you are in my family. You think my father will, what show me affection? Kindness because I can't keep it together? Look how he treated Liam. I mean, Leo had to drag you back because my dad was awful to him. He punished him for being scared. Or how he made it all much worse for Leo when he was depressed a few years ago. We’re not allowed to be scared, Drake. We have to carry on when it feels like the fucking walls are closing in on us,” she explained, “That's just the way it is. There’s no changing it. There’s no talking about it to him. Ever.” 

“I’m here. Talk to me,” Drake encouraged.

“And say what? That it feels like time is collapsing in on itself,  that every day, hour, minute, hell every second just blends in together to create this suffocating, vicious, never ending loop?” 

“Yes! Lily...I’m worried about you,” Drake revealed, “I just want you to talk to me or anyone! I just want you to be okay.” 

“I am,” she shrugged. 

“Ignoring it won't make it go away. Believe me.” 

“So suddenly you’re the expert?” Lily scoffed, “look, I’m dealing with it...it’s getting better. This is the first panic attack I've had in a month...What are you doing here anyway?” 

“Your dad was wondering where you were- asked me to come and find you,” Drake explained. 

“Well then-” she started,wiping once again at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress to try and remove the dripping mascara away by looking at her reflection in the mirror, then smoothed down her dress sniffled as she looked back up to Drake. “It’s best not to keep the king waiting,” she said, her voice monotone as she pushed past him and toward the ballroom. 

“So that’s it, you’re not gonna talk about it?” Drake asked, calling after her. 

“Nope!”

[ask-de-writer]

LOST TIME (part 1 of 3) A fantasy of Flocking Bay.

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LOST TIME

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5556 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003

All rights reserved.

Reproduction  in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the  express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge   for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

It stands out even in the dark ... It shouldn’t. It’s just a house. A damned old house. Not even that old really, not for New England. It’s a two story salt-box style with an observation deck under a cupola at the peak. It is probably just the setting. Rusty old iron fence, gnarled elderly trees, unkempt lawn not quite out of control, windows that the neighborhood kids haven’t broken. It should be a witch’s house but it isn’t. It is mine. I just closed on it yesterday.

The kids are going to have a field day this time. I don’t like the daylight... been on night shift as far back as I can remember. That’s a longish way back. But I’m not a witch, nor vampire. Nothing exotic that I know of. I’m just one of those people (you probably know one or two) who don’t show their age. If you envy me, think again. YOU try to explain to a traffic cop why your ID has you pegged for seventy+ and you don’t look over twenty. I carry a copy of my fingerprint record from the military, because they can check that.

Funny part of it is, I really don’t have the slightest idea how old I am. Traumatic amnesia the doctors called it, during the war. The head wound was minor, they said.

That is a matter of opinion. It robbed me of my past, my name, my identity, my loves and hates but left my skills intact. I was an empty shell. I am still trying to find my past.

The name that I use comes from more or less modern myth. Vandervekken. The Flying Dutchman. Wandering Dutchman would be more accurate. He sails the seas off the Cape of Good Hope until Judgment Day. He can’t find his home either. I bought the house because it is the first place that I have seen in over fifty years where I want to stay. You explain it.

The rusty gate opened silently, thanks to the bit of oil that I put on the hinges. Going up the uneven walk, between the looming trees is an experience. The door lock is old-fashioned but still works smoothly. Covered furniture could have made ghosts to haunt the place, if I were superstitious or given to being easily frightened.

As I said, I like the night. I even enjoy things with a bit of a spooky atmosphere. I also like antiques and handcrafted things which is why, if I ever find out who did it, I will cheerfully throttle whatever philistine covered the finely inlaid hardwood parquetry floors with battleship gray paint.

Stripping and refinishing those floors was on my priority job list. Actually, I shouldn’t beef too much. Pointing out the problem got me a price reduction of nearly $2000 on an already underpriced house with all of its furniture as part of the deal. Estates can be wonderful when you are on a tight budget. Too bad that someone else had to die to create my good fortune.

As I pulled the dust covers from the furniture, I saw that my good fortune was been complete. It was all sturdy, hand-carved hardwood with Chinese silk brocade upholstery. The furniture alone was worth what I had paid for the house and contents. The tops of even the smallest hall tables were inlaid with rich veneers, ivory and mother of pearl. You couldn’t buy furniture like this any more. Besides the cost, the ivory in the inlays is no longer legal to obtain. I could get as much from the sale of just one or two pieces as I could from a year of writing if I could bring myself to part with any of this treasure. It just feels like the house would not be complete without it.

Whoever it was that had died and left this for me to have has whatever blessings it is in my power to bestow. The only wonder is that this place stayed on the market long enough for me to find it. Usually, deals like this get snapped up by the real-estate brokers before people like me ever see them.

When I got to the kitchen, I received another little jolt. I knew that it was fairly up to date, but some thoughtful soul had stocked the fridge and set out a bit of a snack for me. Just cookies and a glass for the milk, which was staying cold in the cooler. Thoughtful. I wondered who did it.

While munching on the cookies, I opened a few windows to air the place out a bit. Going out to my car, I saw that the flags of the walk needed leveling because of the weeds that grew up between them. I drove around to the alley behind the place, opened the garage and parked Lilitu, my classic pre-war Packard touring car. She looked right at home in there. Few, even of modern garages were big enough for her. I ferried my few personal goods up to the house. On my last trip, I saw a couple of wide-eyed kids looking over the back fence.

“Told ya, told ya so!” one of them chanted. “There’s somebody sneakin’ inta the ol’ Vekin place!”

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking, to move into your own place,” I answered as civilly as I could manage. “I just bought it. Why do you call it the Vekin place?”

“If ya ain’t sneakin’, why ya goin’ in the back way? An’ after dark, too?” she shot back. I could now see that they were a girl and a boy. She was obviously in charge.

“I like nights. I’m a writer, so I can keep any hours I like. Why is it the Vekin place?” I asked again.

“Dun’no - Crazy guy named Vekin used to live there,” she contradicted herself.

“Lot of folks tried to buy the place since then,” the boy piped in.

“But nobody ever stays,” the girl finished for him firmly.

“So, this is the neighborhood’s haunted house?” I inquired jovially.

“No,” was as far as the boy got.

“Its down the street, on t’other side,” she cut in.

“I looked at that one,” I said thoughtfully. “The old Victorian. Somebody’s broken out all the windows. Not like here. If the Vekin house is so bad, why hasn’t some kid chucked rocks at it?”

“‘Cause we’re not THAT crazy!” exclaimed The boy, getting out a whole thought. The girl gave him a push, and they ran off into the night.

I got up about noon, after the most restful night’s sleep that I’d had since the War. After my breakfast and a quiet tour of the place from attic to basement, I went out. My goal was the local newspaper. THE FLOCKING BAY VOICE was sprawled across the plate glass window in Old English style letters of gold leaf and black. Smaller letters proclaimed Est. 1841. I pushed open the door. My nose was assaulted by the multiple odors of printer’s ink, paper and grease. The VOICE occupied one large room. An elderly web press crouched at the back of the space, behind several rolls of newsprint. Cubicles made offices in the middle of the room. An old oak counter that had once seen duty as a bar had several signs suspended over it on thin chains. They read ‘submissions’, ‘advertisements’, ‘subscriptions’, ‘billing’.

There was a bell on the counter. Some wag had put a sign on it, “Please ring bell, it won’t help but it will give you something to do.” I gave myself something to do, energetically, a few times.

A trim little blond lady answered the bell’s summons. She wore a green eyeshade and a pin on her sweater announced, ‘Lois Martin - cook, bottle washer & EDITOR in CHIEF.’ “What can I do for you, today?” she asked.

“I came to see what I can find out about the Vekin place,” I answered, trying not to stare at her.

“Just a moment, I’ll get the file out of the morgue. I was going to get it anyway. Somebody went and bought the place again.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “Someone buys a house and that makes news in Flocking Bay? This town must be even quieter than it looks.”

“Oh,” she retorted, “it can get downright interesting around here when the old Vekin place sells. You’ll see.” She disappeared among the cubicles and I heard her feet clattering down a flight of stairs. I heard a file drawer creak and slide, then slam shut. It wasn’t long before she reappeared, a rather fat file clutched in her hand.

“If you’d like, we can have lunch over at Mike’s Soda Shop,” she proposed. “He makes decent submarine sandwiches and real ice-cream sodas.”

“Well ... ” I pretended to hesitate, “I haven’t been invited out by a beautiful blond in a long time, so, yes.”

“I hope that I haven’t just made a fool of myself,” she remarked, laying aside the eyeshade. “You are Mr. Vandervekken aren’t you? The man who just bought the place?”

“Too true,” I said.

“Then I’ll make it an interview and deduct it from my taxes,” she smiled.

“You make enough to pay taxes?” I asked, looking back as we crossed the street.

“I have hidden assets. The paper is a tax shelter.” She opened the door of Mike’s and ushered me in.

As I was seating her, I just couldn’t help blurting out, “Your assets seem to be pretty obvious.”

She grinned, “Go ahead and stare. I don’t mind. If I did, I wouldn’t wear a snug sweater and put my pin just here.” She pointed, then added, “Looking at it will keep you off your guard while I ask my questions.”

“OK, Ms. Martin, but let me look at the file first. You can order for me. You know the food here,” I said, reaching for the file.

“Lois,” she replied, “call me Lois, everyone else does.” Then she hollered to the man behind the counter, “Oh, Mike! Two butterscotch sodas and a big turkey sub! Divide it in half!”

“How did you know that I liked butterscotch?” I asked. “It’s not that common a preference these days.”

“I just had a hunch, that’s all. You looked like another butterscotch type person.”

I was leafing through the file on the rather beat-up table while we waited. I couldn’t resist snorting with amusement at the name of the house’s builder. Capt. Von Der Vekin. The house had been built in 1894 by the Capt. and his elusive son, Charles. Nobody had ever seen Charles until he came into town, on April 1st, 1900, to report his father’s demise and burial on the property. He ordered a headstone hewn of the local limestone. Charles had returned from WW I with honors and lived quietly, claiming to be a writer, though nobody ever saw any of his work in print. When asked, all that he would say was ‘Pseudonyms are great for privacy’. He was not so lucky when he volunteered to assist the French resistance in 1939. He never came home.

Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

[umbrahighpriestofgiratina]

Greenhorn Prometheus

So, uh. This is that secret project/Project Gene I kept mentioning on Discord and a few other places. And after several months of being cryptic I can finally tell you...

It's a crossover Halloween special. And a very silly one at that. I am probably doing one half of the crossover a supreme injustice but I tried I guess (and also removed some problematic bits you're welcome).

This was all already prewritten and is going to be posted in three parts around the beginning, middle, and end of October. Anyway, here we go:

Greenhorn Prometheus

Chapter 1: Origin

Thunder crackled across the Kanto sky in the dead of night. Was it the whim of Zapdos or some other Pokemon? It was not clear. Rain pattered down and the dark storm clouds rolled and tumbled.

In the massive estate the thunder and lightning were crackling over. Deep within its confines lay a coffin. Slowly, trembling hands opened the coffin to reveal a human corpse, clutching tightly to a box. They touched the corpse's hands, slowly pried them off, flinched when the corpse seemed to move, then grabbed the box and ran.

----------

At a university in Unova, behind a door labeled DEPARTMENT OF BIOLOGY, a man with red hair was lecturing a class, pointing to a chart of an Altaria's brain and nervous system with a scalpel.

"As you can see, the medulla oblongata connects to-"

"Professor Altamura?" said a student, standing up.

The man's eye twitched. "It's Alti-mira. And call me Silver."

"Is it true you're the son of crime boss and sponsor of mad science Giovanni Altamura?"

Silver sighed and sat down.

"Do not mention my father in this classroom."

"But sir, have you ever thought of using your father's forays into the sciences for goo-"

"My father was a lunatic, and whatever contribution he made to science was through unwitting pawns. I would never think of repurposing it in my life. Sit down or I'll deduct from your grade for disrupting the class."

Silver did not seem to notice or care he had stabbed himself in the leg with the scalpel.

The student opened his mouth, went through several motions including one suspiciously similar to the thinking emoji, then sighed, closed his mouth, and sat back down. During the debate Silver did not notice an old man with a box enter the room.

"Anyway!" said Silver. "I believe it is time for the demonstration!"

Another scientist entered the room and handed Silver a Premier ball. Silver opened the ball to reveal a Braixen.

"Full disclaimer," said Silver, "I have never worked with this Pokemon before and probably wouldn't attempt it on one of my own. I don't really care."

The students muttered nervously. The Braixen gave him a look.

"See, this is an instinctive response, controlled by genes."

He swung a hand toward the Braixen. The Braixen stopped him with a paw.

"This is a premeditated response, controlled by behavior."

He attempted to lightly punch the Braixen. The Braixen rolled his eyes and made Silver punch himself in the face.

"Ow... Anyway! These responses are controlled by specific parts of this Braixen's brain! So what if we suppressed those?"

He produced a headset, placing it carefully on the Braixen's head. The Braixen promptly froze up, but did not move.

"Now then..." said Silver.

He started tickling it. It still did not move.

"See? If you suppress certain parts of the brain or genome or certain other biological functions... everything changes!"

He removed the headset, only to be floored by a fiery blast from the Braixen. The Braixen jumped off the table and stormed off. Another scientist approached the floored Silver, who held up a Poke bill.

"Give his Trainer five hundred will you?"

The other scientist nodded and left. Silver stood up and looked around at the class, only now noticing the scalpel in his leg and sighing.

"Class is dismissed."

The class all sighed in relief and started leaving the room. The one exception was the old man, who approached Silver with the box. Silver looked at him curiously. "Hello, what is it?"

"It's Dr. Fuj- er, Ijuf, at your service."

"What service?"

"Well, I'm here to inform you... Well, first off, your great grandfather, Beaufort Altamura, has passed."

"Oh, I'm... Dreadfully sorry, he and I weren't exactly close but this is still-"

"And on that note... You've inherited the Altamura estate."

"...Oh. Oh no no no."

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

Silver was sitting in his room, staring at his phone. As much angst potential as there'd be, it'd be a lie to say he was alone - a Feraligatr was curled up at his feet, a Magnezone floated about, a bored Weavile flicked at the drawstrings. Silver looked around at all of them and sighed.

"Well, here goes nothing."

He went to one of his contacts and called them with Watchog Chat. A girl with light blue hair tied in pigtails that pointed upward answered, with a Typhlosion peering over her shoulder.

"Silver! Hey! Nice hearing from you!"

"I know, Kris, I know... I've been caught up in work for the university."

"I figured, don't worry. So what's up?"

"...Apparently I inherited the family estate."

Kris' eyes widened. Her Typhlosion growled with concern. "Wait... Your family?"

"Yes."

"...Remind me of the deal with them? I mostly know your father and assumed the rest was bad news."

Silver sighed. "First I should go over the one who just died. My great-grandfather, Beaufort Altamura. Founder of Team Rocket."

"So he's the one who started it all?"

"Yes. It started as a small smuggling ring before becoming something bigger and nastier. Eventually it was passed down to his daughter, Mary Louise Altamura... Otherwise known as Madame Boss."

"Never knew much about her..."

"She stayed quiet compared to my old man. Didn't like having her name on anything on anything that could be traced back to her, hence the codename. She had a husband but something happened and he was killed, but not before she could give birth to my dad. She did have a stint with some woman I don't know the identity of but after my dad took over Team Rocket... She left, and no one knows where she went."

He sighed.

"And after my father took over... You know the rest."

"So this family history's finally catching up to you, huh?" said Kris. Her Typhlosion frowned.

"Apparently."

"You want me to come over and help you deal with it? I'm busy with stuff but I can be at the estate when I get the chance."

Silver smiled.

"Thanks. I'd appreciate that a lot."

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

Silver gazed out the window of the airplane in Mistralton as the plane prepared to take off. Many thoughts stewed in his mind. What was the estate like after all these years? Would people remember him? What would they do if they remembered him? His fingers clenched tightly to the seat out of anxiety.

It was enough he didn't notice a tall man in a labcoat board the plane and sit down the way.

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

Silver stepped out from the airport into the fog. It was dark, late, and there weren't many others around. At least, not that he could see.

It was then he heard a noise. And breathing.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Altamura?"

Silver whipped around to see a tall blond man with a labcoat and glasses staring very intently at him.

"...Alti-mira."

"Well then!" said the man. "It's wonderful to meet you, I've heard so much about your work."

"And you are...?"

"Colress! Researcher of Pokemon power."

"Uh-huh. What are you doing here?"

"There's been reports of Mega Stones being found in the Kanto region! I need to investigate them straight away!"

He looked around.

"Problem is I don't know where to start... Also I don't have a place to stay."

Silver sighed.

"Here's the deal. Since you're a fellow scientist, you can stick with me until you find a place to stay. But don't make my time any harder."

Colress beamed, specifically in a fashion which did not give Silver much confidence his act of kindness was a good idea.

"Thank you! There's so much to discover here... Having your assistance will be beneficial, surely!"

Silver rolled his eyes, and not in an attempt to see the back of his skull. "Yes, yes..."

His gaze then diverted to the large blue... cowlick? Extending from the rest of Colress' hair. "You know, I had a stint as a tailor... I could probably take care of that swirl for you."

"What swirl?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"...Never mind. Let's get going."

Silver set off, Colress trailing after.

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

The two eventually got to a bus stop, waiting patiently in the fog for the bus to roll up. Eventually it did, and Silver and Colress stepped aboard.

There weren't many people on the bus at this hour, so the pair had no trouble finding seats. It was then, however, that Silver noticed a woman with dark hair and magenta clothing eyeing him oddly. He elected to ignore the woman at first, up until he heard a voice in his head.

~You.~

Silver jumped in his seat a bit, naturally earning him a few more looks from the other people on the bus. After a second he attempted to think back.

Who the hell are you?

~Not your concern right now. You know about something I'm looking for.~

And exactly what is that?

~The Altamura estate. Namely how to get in.~

Silver gulped. How'd you get that idea?

~I'm a psychic. I just know.~

Silver paused, took a deep breath. The auric spectrum was a well-documented phenomenon, there is no harm being caused to his brain by this woman poking at his though-

~If I wanted to fry your brain I'd have done it already.~

Silver turned white.

~Now. I want to accompany you to your estate.~

Why?!

~I need to check if the place still has anything nasty left over from the Rocket days. I don't intend to do any harm. At least if you don't get up to anything shifty.~

I intend nothing of the sort!

~Then we should be fine.~

...Fine. But as soon as you get what you want you're leaving with Colress.

~Fair enough. Though since you're helping I'll tell you my name. It's Sabrina.~

...Wait, you're the Sabrina? Saffron City gym leader?

~That's me.~

What have I gotten myself into?

~Hopefully not much. Hopefully.~

----------

The bus came to a stop at the end of a long, winding trail. Silver, Colress, and Sabrina got off and looked around as it sped off, as if in a hurry to get away from the place.

"Colress? Sabrina here is going to be accompanying us for now," said Silver.

"Oh? You're Sabrina? The Pokestars celebrity?" said Colress

~That's me.~ said Sabrina.

"Wonderful! Your unique perspective could help our research!"

"Don't get too cozy," said Silver. "You both are leaving as soon as I get situated and Sabrina checks out the place."

With that, they made their way up the trail, passing through dark trees with wild Pokemon making eerie noises within - for ambience, obviously. Eventually the trio cleared the trees and came across an impressive sight.

A castle reached upward into the dark sky, its spires seeming to touch the clouds. Faint light shone through the windows, but it seemed less inviting and more foreboding.

"This is... The estate," said Silver. "I remember it a little too well."

"It looks suitably ominous!" said Colress.

~I dig the aesthetic.~ said Sabrina.

"...Okay, neither of you get it, let's just go in."

Silver sighed and knocked on the door.

It slowly creaked open. As it opened wider, it revealed a visage that made Silver and Sabrina's eyes widen.

"...Agatha?"

~Agatha?~

Nearby several Mudsdale neighed in fear at the name.

"Hello, you three."

"Agatha," said Silver, wincing as the Mudsdale neighed in horror again, "how are you even ali- er, what are you doing here?"

"After your father was deposed as the head of Team Rocket, it was decided I would help take care of the estate in his stead, and so with that I resigned from the Elite 4 to pursue a nice little retirement. That is until you all showed up."

"Pleasure to meet you Agatha!" said Colress to further Mudsdale neighs. "It's an honor to meet someone so esteemed in this region!"

~Agatha,~ said Sabrina, being very careful not to broadcast her message to the Mudsdale, ~Are things... all right?~

"Splendid. There's no one here to bother me. Aside from old man Beaufort and he's... You know."

"Er, yes," said Silver. "Can we come in now?"

"Certainly, my dear," Agatha said.

Silver did not like the way she said "my dear", or the longing look in her eyes when she said "my dear", or that she had said "my dear" at all, but he headed in anyway, followed by Sabrina, then Colress. Right before the door closed, however, Colress poked his head out.

"Agatha!"

The Mudsdale neighed in fear as Colress snickered and closed the door.

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

Inside the estate, it was about as lavish as you'd expect a damn rich person's home to be. Fancy chandeliers, paintings all over the walls, and lit candles, among other things, decorated the entire place.

"Come now," said Agatha.

She led the three through the estate into a massive library.

"Amazing!" said Colress.

~What's in these books anyway?~ said Sabrina.

"History and literature from where my ancestors came from," said Silver. "Scientific treatises. Books on Ground-types."

"I've been taking good care of it while the family's been gone," said Agatha. "Follow me, please, Silver."

She started leading him up a winding staircase. They eventually got to a large, imposing door, which Agatha opened to reveal a room containing a bed and a second library, and large portraits of Beaufort, Madame Boss, and Giovanni.

"This was your great grandfather's room. It's yours now."

"I see..." said Silver.

He started inspecting the books.

"...Where's the private library?"

"Hmm?"

"These books, they're all the same sort you'd find downstairs, just a bit more esoteric. I know my father and grandparents had a bit more than these to hide."

"Those are the only two libraries I know, Dr. Allymeera."

"Alti-mira. And I think I need to go to bed."

"Would you like brandy?"

"Er, no."

"Warm Moomoomilk?"

"No thank you."

"Ovaltine?"

"...They still make that? Ack, I just want to go to bed."

"Very well. Goodnight."

Silver headed off to another corner of the room to unpack his pajamas, only to see Agatha kissing the Madame Boss portrait and telling it goodnight out of the corner of his eye.

He stood stock still until she left the room and then hurried to bed.

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

Silver tossed and turned in his sleep, muttering to himself.

"No... I'm not like them... I can't... I'm a scientist, I don't believe in fate... no, I can't say it, I can't-"

He started singing. "Destiny! Destiny! No escaping that for me! Destin-"

A telepathic slap. Silver woke up. "Huh? What was that? How-"

Sabrina walked in the room. ~Next time, have less loud nightmares. I'm trying to sleep too.~

"Fine, fine."

~Also could you turn off your easy-listening muzak?~

"What muza-"

Then he heard it. Slow, soft, quiet, but unmistakably some kind of string instrument. Silver didn't really know his strung instruments, granted, but he could recognize one dammit.

"I'm not making that music."

Sabrina blinked, then looked around. ~Hmmm. It seems to be coming from behind this bookcase.~

"Behind it? That can't be right..."

He got up to look. Sure enough, the music came from behind the wall.

"Hmm."

He removed a book from the bookcase. Nothing. "Let me try closer to the noise..."

He started looking over the books on the other side of the bookshelf. "Hand me that candle so I can see, will you?"

Sabrina plucked an old-fashioned candle from the wall and suddenly the bookcase did a 180 rotation, trapping Silver on the other side.

"Ack! Put it back, put it back!"

~Hmm, I think I'll just leave you here,~ said Sabrina.

"This is serious!"

Sabrina pouted. ~Fine...~

She put the candle back. This time the bookshelf did a 360 spin, still trapping Silver on the other side.

"I'm going to have to block it with my body!" said Silver.

~Bad idea but OK.~ Sabrina removed the candle again, Silver trying to wedge his way through only to get stuck.

"Okay maybe just push it?" said Silver.

Sabrina sighed and sent out her Alakazam. ~Fix the bookshelf for the yakuza brat.~

~Most certainly,~ said her Alakazam, locking the bookshelf in a sideways position, Silver stumbling over to Sabrina's side as she gazed in.

~Yep. Hidden passageway.~

"And the music's coming from it..." said Silver. He paused. "We should probably go in."

~I definitely should. This has Rocket all over it.~

Sabrina recalled her Alakazam and the two descended down the passageway.

---------

There were Spinarak cobwebs and Rattata everywhere as they descended. Eventually they reached a door; Silver took the handle in his hand only for it to break. He sighed and pushed the door open; beyond he found strange bottles and tubes and a display of preserved human and Pokemon remains.

"Gross..." said Silver.

He looked down a row of preserved, labeled human heads. Three years dead, two years dead, six months dead, freshly dea-

"Hello!" yelled the freshly dead head, causing Silver and Sabrina to jump back and yell only to realize it was Colress.

"I want to be the very best, like no one ever was-" Colress sung.

"Colress! Enough fooling around!" said Silver. "How'd you get down here?"

Colress removed himself from the display to join the other two. "I came down through the dumbwaiter! I heard the most lovely music, and I headed after it so it could be a source of scientific inspiration! I'm just a hair away from finding it!" he said, pointing to his swirl.

"Wait I thought-" Silver started to say.

~So it wasn't you. Not that you seem to be the musician type.~

"...So someone else must be down here. And the only other door's that way."

"Looks dangerous..." said Colress. "You two go first, I'll do my scientific duties from the rear."

Silver groaned as the group headed onward, to another door. Silver opened it to nothing but darkness. "Are there any lights in here?"

"I see a switch, but it looks dangerous," said Colress.

Silver pulled the switch only to yell as sparks flew.

"Told you!" said Colress.

The switch, thankfully for Silver, did successfully turn the lights on. The group started out in awe at what they saw.

A massive laboratory lay out before them, with test tubes and beakers and strange cylinders and equipment all around. Silver's eyes widened as he recognized flash cloning technology among it all.

"It can't be..."

~The rumors were true after all,~ said Sabrina.

"Rumors?"

~The lab on Cinnabar wasn't the only lab Rocket had. They had this backup the whole time... and probably used it to test prototypes of the Mewtwo project.~

"Exactly," said Silver. "To think it was here this whole time..." He looked around. "It's pretty messy."

"Well, scientific environments need to be sterile but if you want to renovate the place maybe some flowers, throw pillows, Pokedolls..." said Colress.

"Wait," said Silver. The music's stopped, but there's a light behind that door..."

The group crept down and opened the door, only to find a room full of books and papers. Silver looked around to find a violin resting on the table. "Well the music must have been coming from this..."

~What even is this side room though?~ said Sabrina.

"Music room, I guess?" said Colress, inspecting the violin.

Silver inspected the books. "Wait... It can't be... It is! This is the private library!"

He started shuffling through the books and papers, until he came across one book in particular -

How We Did It, by Dr. Fuji and Giovanni Altamura

"...My father and his colleagues weren't ones for subtlety."

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

It was even later into the night. Sabrina and Colress were fast asleep, heads on the table, but Silver was engrossed in the book.

"These formulas and methods and hypothesis... They all seem like the ramblings of a madman to an outside observer but if you dissect them carefully they're almost genius..."

He gave a manic grin, a dangerous light in his eyes.

"I see how it all happened... And how it all failed. Yet I don't want to stop here..."

"...I want to do one better."

***