#the inspector had done a good job

[amypihcs]

Holmes... my dear man. Watson already loves you. You don’t need to flex those deductions extra hard just to impress him (and also Gregson, i believe?). Let poor inspector Baynes have his moment of glory 🤣🤣🤣🤣

[acewritesfics]

Hopelessly In Love | Tommy Shelby

⚠️ THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY MAIN BLOG @/DLMLUFICS. UNFORTUNATELY, I HAVE TO DO IT THIS WAY. MORE INFO IN MY PINNED POST.

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: No

Fic Type: Imagine

Warnings: Sarcasm, teasing, two idiots in love.

Word Count: 1,821

TOMMY SHELBY MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

“I need you," Y/N hears from behind her and turns around to see her best friend standing there, looking exasperated. 

“Good afternoon, Y/N. I sincerely hope your day is going well,” she begins sarcastically as she finishes hanging her mother's latest shipment of dresses on the racks.

Y/N works in her mother's boutique. A boutique in Small Heath sounded ridiculous considering the surroundings but her mother had opened the store, claiming that women needed a nice place to shop among the smoke and grime. “Well Thomas, it’s going so well that I’m sure nothing will bother me for the rest of the day, even when my best friend storms in like some neanderthal claiming he needs me like it’s a matter of life or death.” 

Tommy stood there, his hands in his pocket, looking at her unimpressed, his brows creased into a frown. A smug smirk stretches across her face. 

“What can I do you for, Tommy?” She asks, moving back behind the counter. 

“I need you to go to the races with me,” he tells her removing his hands from his pockets and stepping closer to the counter.  

“What? Has Hell frozen over or is it finally the day women have stopped throwing themselves at Thomas Shelby’s feet?” She teases her childhood friend. “Oh, Tommy, it must be hard,” she says pouting, giving her him a look of false sympathy.  

“Shut it, you,” he glares at her, elbows resting on the counter as he leans forward. “I’m being serious.” 

“Why do you want to take me to the races?” She questions him. They hadn’t been to the races together since before the war. It was sort of their tradition, one that was so easily forgotten when the war was over, and Tommy had thrown himself into making a better name for the Shelby’s. Instead of making the name better, he also made it fearful. “Why don’t you take that pretty barmaid you seem so smitten with. Or Lizzy, who’s more than eager to have a proper date with you.” 

“Why should I take them when I can take you, eh?” he asks, watching her as she busies herself with the clutter on the counter. She looks unsure but Tommy can tell that she’s thinking hard about it. “What are you afraid of?” 

“That you’ll forget all about the barmaid and fall hopelessly in love with me again,” she quips with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just like when we were kids. You could never resist my charm and we don't want to break the barmaid's poor treacherous heart.” 

Y/N couldn't deny that she did like Grace, the barmaid Harry had hired, at first. She seemed lovely and got along quite well with her until she realized Grace was asking her a lot of questions about Tommy. At first, she thought the blonde woman fancied her best friend and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Grace wasn't the first woman to end up with a crush on the blue-eyed devil. Tommy wasn't hard to fall in love with. But when she started asking her about the Shelby family business and the Peaky Blinders, she became suspicious that Grace's interest in Tommy wasn't as genuine as she made it out to be. And then there was the time she caught Grace eavesdropping and snooping around. She began to put two and two together. 

An Irish inspector and a pretty Irish woman, step foot in Small Heath at the same time. The barmaid, who's never actually worked in a pub before now, conveniently gets herself a job at the Garrison, the pub the Shelby Brothers frequent often and just so happens to set her eyes on the leader of the Peaky Blinders.  

She'd tried to talk to Tommy about it, but the stubborn man wouldn't hear any of it so she went to Polly who had also done the math. For a man who claimed to be smart, he became the stupidest idiot she's ever met when it comes to a pretty face. 

“I knew that love tea would have consequences,” he smiles thinking of the times they sat with his mother while she did what she called magic. He purposefully ignores her comment about Grace. He didn't want to talk or think about her right now. His sole focus is on convincing Y/N to go to the races with him, like old times and how he'd promised her all those years ago. “Maybe it’s why I never stopped being hopelessly in love with you.” 

"Don't tell Grace that," she says looking back at him before moving on to inspect the next dress, a pretty deep forest green with black beading and a black lace hem. 

"Fuck Grace," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "This is about us." 

"There is no us, Tommy," she sighs and moves on to the red dress that's not as pretty as the green.  

"Just come to the races with me," he begins. "I haven't taken you in a while. Let me take you again." 

"Do I have a choice?"  

He shakes his head, "No." 

She looks at him, her brows creased into a frown showing her frustration.  

"Wear the green one," he adds, dropping £7 onto the counter.  

"It's only worth £5," she informs him, knowing there is no point in arguing with him. Once Tommy was set on something, there was no stopping him. 

"Buy something to go with it," he suggests. "Maybe some new shoes," he adds as he takes the dress off the mannequin and hands it to her, placing a soft kiss on her cheek before he starts making his way out of the store. "I'll pick you up at 8:30 tomorrow morning." 

"I despise you, Thomas Shelby," she calls after him. 

"And I love you, Y/N L/N" he says when he reaches the door and turns to look at her once more. "Hopelessly love you." 

Her smile goes from ear to ear this time as she watches him leave, with a slight shake of her head. She turns to go back to the counter to wrap the dress up and startles when she sees her mother standing there, a knowing smirk on her lips.  

"It's about time that boy made his move," her mother says, taking the dress from her and folds it neatly on the paper they use to wrap the clothing in. "Better late than never, I guess." 

"It's not like that, Mum," she says picking up the £7 Tommy left and placing it inside the till.  

"Of course, it is," her mum argues, walking towards where the shoes are and picks out a pair of black t-strap heels, to match the beading on the dress and brings them over to the counter. "Thomas Shelby has been in love with you since you were both five years old and you've been in love with him for just as long," she adds placing the shoebox on the counter next to the dress. "Don't waste any more time, Darling." 

"I do love him," she admits. "Some days I wonder why." 

"And you'll have plenty more of those days," her mum chuckles. "Now get out of here and go rest up for tomorrow."  

"I love you, mum," she says hugging the woman who gave her life.  

"I love you too, sweetheart." 

"I must admit, I did miss this," Y/N says, sitting across the table from Tommy as they sat in the VIP area of the racecourse, in the forest green with black beading dress he paid for and heels her mother picked out. 

After a successful day at the races, they made their way up to the VIP lounge where they got a drink, a meal and did some dancing. Tommy was unable to keep his eyes off her from the moment he saw her standing on the curb waiting for him to pick her up. It made driving a little difficult since he tried his hardest to concentrate on the road and not the beautiful woman sitting next him. And then when they got to the races, he glared down, silently threatening the men who dared to let their eyes linger on her.  

"Do you remember the first time we snuck in here?" he asks her, a soft smile on his lips. Leaning back, he watches her as she thinks back to it.  

They were 16 at the time and she had come along with him, his brothers and his father. He'd been to the races plenty of times before, but she'd never been until that day. They both got dressed in their finest clothes back then, which were nowhere near the standard of clothing they were in today. Tommy had tried to talk his way into the VIP section, using that silver tongue of his that he had been born with. Unfortunately, it didn't work, and they had found a space in the back that they could use to sneak into the elegant area reserved for the wealthy.  

They'd spent 10 minutes in the area before they were escorted out and off the grounds of the racecourse and were made to wait there until his dad returned from being inside. That night Tommy had made her a promise. 

"I promise that one day, I will buy you the prettiest dress and we'll go back there, and they'll let us in. When they do, we'll spend the night dancing and when I take you home afterwards, I'll kiss you goodnight." 

She feels her heart skip a beat as she remembers word for word what he had promised her. As she got older, she had always played it off as a silly childish promise that held no real meaning.  

Tommy stood up from his chair and moved round the table, standing beside her as he held his hand out towards her. "Let's go home, Love." 

Y/N takes his hand and stands up, grabbing her clutch off the table and lets him lead her back to his vehicle.  

Once they arrive at the passenger's side, Tommy decides he can't wait until he drops her off home. Stopping her from getting into the car, he pulls her close, a hand on her waist and the other caresses her cheek. 

"Tommy," her voice comes out as a whisper as her heart jumps into her throat at the little space left between them.  

"I can't wait," he breathes, his voice soft as he plants his lips to hers in a soft and sweet kiss. Both their eyes flutter closed as a rush of warmth envelopes them as they pull each other as close as they can, deepening the kiss. 

Tommy is the one to end it when they start to become breathless. "I am hopelessly in love with you." 

"I know," she says, unable to hide her grin as she kisses him again. "I am hopelessly in love with you too, Thomas Shelby." 

TAGGED: @chapter-in-my-old-diary - @hanawrites404 - @goblinjnr - @halsteadbrasil - @rainydayteacups - @alexxavicry

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[yuri-is-online]

haru nsfw headcanons hand them over

(╯°▽°)╯ ofc friend this damn near wrote itself. This is meant to be very general, I might try writing a fuller fic for him the future since he and MC deserve some alone time. Maybe they can leave the kids with Hyde for the weekend since he's supposed the be the advisor, make that loser do his damn job for once.

notes: they/them used to refer to mc, I have 0 experience writing smut so sorry if this is bad. I tried to keep things gn but a reference is made to face riding x-x this is harder than it looks. much like Haru-

I think Haru would be OK with casually hooking up, but the sex would be a lot less playful?  You're doing this to de-stress and don't have a lot of time so no need to do anything extreme. It still feels good, Haru would hate to leave you unsatisfied, but there's a lot less experimentation and he doesn't laugh or crack jokes like he would with a long time partner. There is also the prosthetic to consider; if he has one I don't think he'd want to get fully undressed with someone he's just hooking up with.  What happened to his arm is a sore spot even if he acts like it's not, so he doesn't really want to talk about it in a fwb situation even if you are close friends.  That's not to say that he would never tell you about the prosthetic and the story behind it, it's just not something he wants brought up during casual sex. If he doesn't have a prosthetic then I don't see him having any insecurities about taking his clothes off with a casual partner, though he probably still ends up staying half dressed just to save time.

If you're dating and he has a prosthetic arm, Haru still needs to work up the courage to take off all his clothes even though he really really wants to. Part of him is afraid you'll think he's broken or ugly, he doesn't think of himself that way but it would really hurt if you did. Praise isn't so much one of his kinks as it is a key part of his personality, he wants you to know that he's with you because he is attracted to you and he loves you. He wants you to say it back to him, needs it really; please tell him how in love you are and how attractive you find him. Want him as much as he wants you and watch how much he gets off on your need.

Loud whiner Haru is so real, he knows he can be loud he's just not ashamed of it at all. He's seen those posts about it being sexy when men moan and he already thinks he's a total catch, that just solidifies it. It ties into his praise kink, he's super sweet during foreplay but he almost always loses the ability to speak once you start fucking, so to let you know how good you are making him feel he just has to make some noise. He only really cries if he's had a really bad day or you've been away for a long time, he missed you ˙◠˙ so let him hold you as close as physically possible.

He's stupid easy to turn on. Laugh at his jokes, pull him around by his tie, even smiling at him will get him hard if he stares at you long enough. The fastest way to get him up is to wear his clothes, it's not smart for an inspector to declare a house allegiance but you will be literally cold before you stop wearing your boyfriend's jacket and he loves seeing you tie yourself to him. It can be sort of hard to tell when he's horny unless he outright tells you because he can hold onto those thoughts for a scarily long amount of time. He'll see you snuggling his shirt while he's on his way out the door to milk the cow and think about that all day until you're done with classes and he can have you to himself. This also means he's really easy to tease, do anything mildly suggestive, he'll start whining and won't even punish you for it later. Unless you want him to of course.

Haru is very big on service, he wants to be the one giving you pleasure but he's not picky on how he does that.  If it’s something you're interested in he's willing to try it at least once, but I can't see him being into harder bdsm/kink mostly because it takes too much time to set up.  He's been busy and away from you all day, he doesn't want to wait to fuck you.  Same with roleplaying, he gets the appeal but it's a lot of work especially if you want to bring costumes or cosplay into it.  He also kind of sucks at roleplay, he really likes making you laugh so he accidentally turns things into a joke. It doesn't turn him off at all, but he understands that's not really what you were going for so it might ruin the mood. His one hard no is anything that could injure either of you, he doesn't like seeing you hurt or worrying you when he's hurt.

Or so he says, but if you sit on his face and break his neck he's not going to learn a single lesson from it and will brag about it to Rui and Romeo.  He probably brags about a lot of things once he gets drunk actually, in the off chance you were wondering why Romeo isn't making eye contact with you anymore. Everyone in Darkwick knows you rode Haru's face like a bicycle seat and that he wants you to do it again, he has enough sense to know he maybe should pretend to have some shame but he can't bring himself to do it. You want him to be ashamed of making you scream that loud? Please it's not happening he loves you too much. I don't think he'd be super into exhibitionism either, he takes his job as Anomaly Ranger/Tamer really (too) seriously and getting frisky in front of the animals would be setting a bad example! He's less embarrassed about other people seeing, it's just that he really values his alone time with you and doesn't want to share it with anyone.

Other than those two things he's not picky. Want to fuck him in the ass?  Just make sure you prep him first. Ride his dick until it falls off? His place or yours? Probably safer at yours. Having a horrible day and want to suck his dick to feel better? How did he get so lucky, you're the best MC. Want him to rearrange your guts remove your ability to walk? He'd love to! But with how overworked he is that last one might be sort of rare. Haru is a very go with the flow kind of guy so if you want him to take a more dominant role he can, but he really appreciates it when you take care of him. Especially with how things are in Jabberwock right now, you gently insisting on taking charge is so sexy of you he might cum without you even touching him.

I could see him maybe liking it if you tie his hands back or above his head with your tie. He'd like to do the same to you too, it's just the impromptu nature of it that he finds really sexy, and again he likes seeing you in his clothes. If you were to tie his hands back while wearing his uniform shirt unbuttoned just enough for him to stare at your chest he'd skip the praise and go straight to the whining; he'd really love to have a picture of you sitting in his lap dressed like that. He's also a big fan of lingerie, but more on his partner than himself and not anything that takes too much time to get off. If you want to put him in a set he won't protest, but he'd prefer you pick it out for him since he's not the best at that sort of thing.

Despite how single mom core he is I don't see him having a breeding kink himself. He likes cumming inside, but more because it doesn't make as much of a mess than because he wants to get you pregnant. He's very good at playing into it if you have one, and if things stabilize in his life to the point he can think realistically about giving Peekaboo siblings then he could really easily develop one, but for now that'd be way too stressful for him to think about.

He gets really tired after sex but takes aftercare super seriously, I keep saying it but he really does want to take care of you. To him sex is another way of saying he loves you, and he doesn't want you to feel like he only loves you by halves. It's not unsexy to him to clean things up, but he doesn't rush it either. He likes being there to hold you, and is always pleasantly surprised when you are the one holding him. If he had more time he'd like to stay like that longer, maybe kiss you awake for a second round in the morning but he knows he can't stay away from Jabberwock for too long. If you're ok with it he takes pictures of you naked in bed together to go with all the ones of you in his shirt, if he's having a bad day he just looks at them and he instantly feels better. He'll never show those ones to anybody even if you would be ok with it, their his little alone time treats.

He's shown everyone that picture of him with his neck brace on when you broke his neck though.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

from a trans guy stuck in florida, do you have any advice on getting out of here? I saw that you moved to new england which is, coincidentally, the place I'm trying to go too. i feel like I either oversimplify or overcomplicate moving away until it's just not possible in my mind. how did you manage to do it?

I played a long game wrt my exit strategy. I left my toxic industry (advertising) of 20+ years behind in 2018 and built up experience over the next 4 years in a new field (civic tech) where remote work was the norm. Once I landed a fully remote job, I kicked off the moving plan.

Once I had a new, remote job secure, my partner and I started looking for homes and eventually were referred to a Realtor who specialized in remote sales. I had to trust her and the inspector to give us an honest assessment of a house I wouldn't see in person until the day we moved in. It was stressful, ngl.

I was very, very lucky in that I could move in with my mother in Orlando for several months, which let me sell my old place, first, and be flexible on move-in dates. The actual move was done via a few container services.

So, my advice for initial prep:

Start downsizing, both in terms of stuff and places where you may be overspending.

Get job prospects in sight

Save for a down payment / deposit

Get your credit to "excellent," if possible. (I learned my name change fucked up my score, so had to spend a lot of time fixing that)

Research multiple towns based on your needs

Find someone in that area to house hunt for you and figure out a budget

Downsize your stuff again. More. No, more than that.

Prep for moving costs

Start packing the stuff you won't need for a while. Keep packing until it's time to move.

Hire a container service that isn't PODS. (U-pack was good to me.)

Get your pet logistics in order (if you have any)

Get your vehicle in order

I had a lot of spreadsheets and checklists t9 get me through the sale of my old place and everything I needed to do to buy and move into a new one. Maybe similar is a good place to start, because there are little things (like downsizing) you can do, now. Good luck.

[scarlettohairdye]

Home Ownership Was a Mistake

This is for @trickybonmot, who may or may not use some of these stories in a fic.

Okay. So.

In the year of our lord 2010, my wife and I were lucky enough to be gifted $20k by my parents, which in those days (given it was a historically low point for real estate prices in Seattle) was enough for a down payment on a house. It was an astounding confluence of luck and privilege that led to us being homeowners, because if they gave us the same money now it would go precisely nowhere.

Anyway, it was not enough money for a large house, or a fancy house. We looked at a lot of places, only some of which were move-in ready (and one of which was absolutely just a tear-down) and eventually settled on our current place, which is a 1910 bungalow with a detached garage that was finished and turned into a studio.

Was it the most aesthetically pleasing house when we bought it? No. The walls were white, the carpet was light beige, and the paint had seen better days. That said, it was move-in ready and the owner was pretty desperate to sell, so we took it!

The inspector let us know that some of the wiring was still the old knob-and-tube, so we'd want that updated sooner rather than later, but it looked pretty good. About half the outlets were grounded, so it didn't stop us from plugging in three-prong appliances. We just had to use more extension cords than maybe we'd prefer.

The Electrical

The first big house thing we paid for was to have the entire place rewired. Our circuit breaker was a mystery, we didn't have enough outlets, and we were tired of being stuck with specific layouts of our stuff due to the lack of grounded outlets. We were expecting about half the wiring to be up to code, and the rest would need an update.

Spoiler alert: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

The rewiring took about a week, and every morning the electrician sat down with us and told us what new fire trap he'd uncovered.

"Yeah, so the knob and tube wiring going to the lights in the ceiling? Knob and tube gets hot when it's running, and yours is under three layers of insulation."

"You know how you thought your outlets were grounded? They weren't, actually, the ground wire just went elsewhere into the house and wasn't connected to anything."

"So there's wiring in your crawlspace? Whoever put that in nailed some sheets of wood paneling over it, so we had to rip the wood paneling out to access it."

I think the job was about $15k when it was done, we had many many more outlets, and our house was no longer one bad day from lighting itself on fire. Victory, I guess?

The Studio Window

This was leaking a bit, and we knew it was leaking when we moved in. (South facing walls get all the weather in our region.) We were not handy enough to replace it ourselves at the time and we also didn't have money because I got laid off shortly after we bought the house and was making my living doing costume commissions. Solution: Trade costuming work to an acquaintance who did carpentry.

The window, we discovered, was not so much a finished window as it was a single sheet of glass sandwiched between some boards.

Badly.

The carpenter was not entirely she that she was qualified for the job, but she did manage to remove the single sheet of glass and replace it with a window that was insulated and actually capable of opening. She used caulk around it. It was way better than we had before. Maybe someday we'll have both studio windows replaced by a contractor who actually does windows, but this is not that day!

The Siding

The cedar shingles were no longer cutting it at a certain point, so we had the house resided. (Houses are money pits, in case you didn't know.) This was a $30k job (MONEY PIT!) and had several layers of badness.

Bad: Our house had no insulation. It was cedar shingles over the original siding, with nothing in between that original siding and our INTERIOR WALLS. There was occasionally a newspaper. Our PM asked if we wanted insulation? And we said yes, please!!! We did not have a lot of time to think about insulation or research the best type, so it's just sheets of the pink fiberglass stuff in there, but it exists and we have it now!

Worse: Underneath our laundry room was a horrorshow. The laundry room is an addition that was added to our house probably sometime in the 50s? And, uh...

Well, the siding guys pulled off the siding, took a look at what was under it, and immediately called the project manager. The project manager came out, took a look, and then called us. He said that the siding guys thought it really needed to be reinforced and stabilized before they re-sided it, which is very fair, because I think the people who built it originally were drunk when they did it. It was a fucking Wild West cowboy construction situation under there.

Yes, you heard that right: A LOAD-BEARING SHINGLE.

Our project manager also informed us that the siding guys couldn't do the reinforcement, because they're just siding guys. They don't do structural. This is very fair.

It also needed to be done by Monday so we could stay on schedule for the siding work.

We learned this on Friday.

I immediately called my general contractor dad and got his voicemail, because (I remembered belatedly) he was in Mexico getting dental surgery. There was absolutely no way we could get another contractor out to do the work over a single weekend.

It was up to us.

My wife and I (mostly my wife) went HAM on it. We rented big jacks from the tool library to prop the laundry room up while we replaced one of the entirely rotten support poles. One of the big telephone poles was so wrecked with dry rot we could kick it out of place. (It didn't even touch the BIG ROCK that was supposed to be its foundation!!! It was floating!!!) Several of the joists were also fucked, so we ran new joists alongside them and married them together. My wife dug holes while crouched in a 4' high space, filled the holes with gravel, compacted it by putting a piece of wood on top of it and hitting it with a mallet, and then installed an entire additional support system from 4x4s and deck blocks. She actually attached the support system TO THE FUCKING HOUSE, which was a big improvement from the way it was originally held on by vibes and paint.

Here's a tasty little before and after:

(Yeah, see how that visible joist at the front just... stops at the far left? There's a new joist right behind it now.)

This was completed with resounding cries of, "Good enough!" and "It's better than it was before!" The siding guys thought it was fine and sided over it. Someday hopefully we will be able to afford to tear the whole thing down and rebuild it with a properly poured foundation, but in the meantime the spin cycle on the washing machine no longer shakes the whole house. Victory?!

Ridiculous: The purple paint saga. My wife and I are lesbians who tend toward maximalism in our decoration style. Construction companies find this baffling. We paid extra to our siding company to get the extended color choices (if you order the siding with the color baked in it lasts longer, but you're limited to a particular range of colors) and spoiler alert: 90% of them are boring as fuck. We basically paid extra to have access to 400 shades of white and 400 more shades of beige. There were like three saturated colors in the whole book. Pathetic.

Anyway, we chose the one nice teal that was available and decided we'd paint the door purple, since all the purple colors were gray at best. The project manager then forgot to put in our order, and when he remembered he'd forgotten, ordering our siding through his company would have pushed back the start time by six weeks. We could still make the original start time if we ordered through a different company doing the same thing, though!

Me, immediately: And we wouldn't be restricted to your color palette, right? Him: Yeah, they can do custom colors. Me, slapping down a color card called "Fully Purple": MAKE IT PURPLE.

Bless this man, he went to the siding company and asked for Fully Purple. They told him they couldn't do that color, and also is he sure anyone wants this color? He called them on the phone and informed them yes, we did want that color, and also that he'd worked for them and he knew damn well they could do that color, they'd just have to custom mix it, so they needed to do their fucking jobs. Suitably chastened, they finally sent us a sample of the siding, and it was... okay. It was purple for sure, but a little de-saturated. Not the purple of our hearts.

I asked if they'd actually started manufacturing our siding yet or just sent the color sample. The project manager confirmed they hadn't, and if we ordered this imperfectly-purple siding now, it would be several weeks before we could get started.

"We're gonna paint," I decided, and our project manager put in the orders.

The paint store called him and said, "Hey, are you sure you want this color?" Yes, he assured them, that's the right color.

The guys doing the painting opened up the can and then called him and said, "Are you sure this color?" and he told them yes! They want that color!

At this point I told him he should just start responding with, "They're lesbians!!! Yes! They want the purple! They're lesbians!!!"

Eventually we cleared every hurdle god and the construction industry put in front of us, and now our house is Fully Purple.

It also has insulation, wiring that won't kill us, and a laundry room that hopefully won't collapse anytime soon. We got a heat pump installed that took shockingly little time and worked immediately, and our next project will be having the roof redone. Check back in to find out what fresh horror awaits us then! I think it'll be a second roof under our existing roof made of lead and asbestos tiles, probably!

[joezworld]

Hey everyone seems real sad for some reason. Could not imagine why.

Anyways if you squint real hard you may notice a similarity to Thomas and the Jet Engine. That is intentional.

You can also squint and notice some similarity to several Traintober prompts. That is intentional.

Also, if you notice any similarity to any of SiF's character names... that's right! That is intentional. I did that and it's on purpose and I'm making fun of them. If you're from SiF either recognize that it was a dumb name or die mad about it.

Pip and Emma at The Top

2021 - The Summer

It was the longest summer since the last one. There weren’t any tourists - obviously - but even the inter-island traffic had died down considerably. The government on the mainland was skittishly enacting and then subsequently revoking plans to allow gatherings again, and the people of Sodor were prudently trying to keep the Island’s activities out of London’s sphere of notice. 

As events were curtailed and people limited their own travel, the railway cut back on services, as they’d done several times before. Pip and Emma were the first to be relegated to the yards; while they could run a much shorter train - and often did - a shortage-related spike in the price of diesel fuel meant that it was more economical for James or Henry to take the two diesels' trains instead. 

Henry had tried to make sense of how the economics on that worked out, but numbers were not his strong suit, and so he instead passed along his sympathies every time he passed the twins in the yard. 

James (and no-one else) thought that he was being rather magnanimous by not endlessly laughing about how he was cheaper to run than a diesel. Several cutting responses had been prepared if he ever got too full of himself, but shockingly he’d kept the snickering to a bare minimum. 

As the days stretched on into a week, and then two, a bigger problem soon began to present itself:

“I’m bored, Pip!”

“Me too!” 

Pip and Emma were getting restless.

“WILL YOU TWO KEEP IT DOWN?! IT IS THREE IN THE MORNING!”

And they were more than willing to make that everyone else’s problem. 

-

A few days later, and the diesels were overjoyed when an inspector came to them with instructions to report to the works. 

Equally overjoyed were the engines in the big shed. 

-

Pip and Emma arrived at the works in a right state, having been held up by trackwork along the main line. 

“Two hours! Can you believe it Emma?”

“I don’t like running light engine, they can push us around too much.”

“Right? We’re express engines, not a train of old rubbish!” “I think they prioritized the rubbish train over us, if that smell at Kellsthorpe Road was anything to go by.”

“Ugh!”

-

Mr. Tedfield, the Works Manager, eventually arrived, bringing an end to their complaining. “Right you two. Seems like we’ve got some work for you.”

“Here?” They chorused. 

“No,” he said quickly. “But the work is going to be a lot different from your usual job, and we’re gonna have to do some modifications.”

“Oh no,” Pip cried. “It’s going to be buffers, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” The man was baffled. 

“It’s the only thing it could be, sir.” Emma explained. “That’s what they said on the Eastern Region, back in the 1980’s. ‘Just some little modifications!’ and they came back from Derby with the ugliest buffers ever!” 

“It was a hatchet job!” Pip agreed. “All their lower valances, gone!” 

“Easy, easy!” Mr. Tedfield yelped, not expecting that sort of response. “I’m sure that we can do a better job than that!”

“Promise?” they said in worried unison.

“Promise.”

-

A few days later, and the twins were relieved to discover that the works were as good as their word. Unlike the Eastern Region “hatchet jobs,” they still sported all their bodywork. Holes had been drilled through the lower valances, and buffers, couplings, and air hoses now poked through. The fibreglass was a little rough around the edges, but everyone agreed that it could also look a great deal worse. (Apparently, custom fibreglass was one of the only things the works staff couldn’t do in-house, and there was a concerning amount of murmuring from the staff about how they’d change that.)

Rolling out into the sun for the first time since they were “slightly modified,” they blinked the light from their eyes to find Mr. Tedfield, the Fat Controller, and another man who they didn’t know waiting for them. 

“Well,” Started Mr. Tedfield. “I’m glad to see that our concerns were unfounded.” 

The twins knew he was being diplomatic in front of the Fat Controller. He’d already said “I told you so!” several times earlier in the day. 

He continued. “So now we should probably tell you what we would like you to do!”

“Because somebody forgot to mention it earlier…” The other man muttered under his breath. 

The Fat Controller looked from one man to the other, and shook his head slightly. “Pip, Emma, as I’m sure you’re already aware, we are not going to be running the Express to London anytime soon. So, with that in mind, you two are going to be assigned to mixed traffic work until passenger numbers allow us to put you back into normal service.”

“Mixed traffic work?” They said as one. 

“Oh yes!” The Fat Controller looked quite pleased with himself. “We have quite a lot of cargo traffic coming in through the ports right now, and you two will help take the strain off everyone else.”

The man they didn’t know coughed slightly. 

“Of course, how foolish of me,” The Fat Controller rolled his eyes. “I also recognize that you two have some… special abilities that the other engines lack, namely your high-speed capabilities. With that in mind, Mr. Hargrave, from the coach and wagon department here at the works, has had an idea.”

“Yes, right.” Mr. Hargrave said with pride. “So, back when we first started coming back to work after the lockdowns, the government gave us a whole pile of Levelling-Up money, to “get us back on our feet.”” He paused, bouncing on his heels. “Thing is, we’d already fixed up everything beforehand, because we didn’t want anyone locked away in the works during the end of days with their bits in pieces, so we didn’t have anything to spend it on, but we had to spend it, otherwise they’d take it back!”

“Government logic at its finest…” Mr. Tedfield said under his breath. 

“Ain’t that the truth.” Mr. Hargrave agreed. “So anyways, we decided to just make everything as perfect as we could make it.”

He stopped for a moment, long enough for the Fat Controller to look at him. “Such as…?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes, the container wagons!” He said all at once. “We took all the container wagons that were sitting around idle - and some other stuff besides - and we took them and fitted high speed bogies and bearings to them.”

Pip blinked slowly. “High speed bogies?”

“That’s right! They ride like coaches now.” He said with childlike joy. “And they won’t weigh much more than them either, so it shouldn’t be much trouble for you two. High speed containers, all the way to the mainland!”

Pip looked at him, then at the Fat Controller. “Sir, why are we doing this?”

The Fat Controller looked much more reasoned. “Quite a few companies are willing to pay a premium for their shipments to arrive as quickly as possible. There’s a lot of congestion at the bigger ports in the south, and Liverpool is operating almost at capacity, so we have an opportunity to get some very lucrative traffic.” He smiled knowingly. “And if we play our cards right, some of the companies, like Amazon, might build a few warehouses just across the channel on the mainland, and then we can serve those in perpetuity.” 

The twins slowly digested this. “But sir, will it matter if we can go that fast?” Pip asked. “Once we cross the bridge, we’ve got to deal with Network Rail, and they don’t know anything.”

The Fat Controller looked as pleased as punch. “But you’re not dealing with Network rail.” He said with a satisfied smile. “Our contract for this ‘express freight’ is to get it as far as Barrow-in-Furness. If Freightliner or Colas Rail happen to be tardy after that…” he made a gesture with his hands. “That’s of no importance to us.”

Pip and Emma blinked slowly. “So, you want us to go as fast as we can?” Pip said with an expression that was rapidly passing “gleeful.”

“I do.” The Fat Controller agreed, before walking away.

---

Across the Island, the trucks and wagons shuddered.

--

A few weeks later

Pip and Emma fit in surprisingly well on goods trains, and could soon be found on everything from trundling pickup goods to the Flying Kipper. The Works really had made every truck as “perfect” as they could make them, and so every train, regardless of what it was or who was pulling it, was rolling on new bearings and freshly-trued wheels. Bear, BoCo, James, and Henry claimed it was some of the easiest work they’d ever had, and even the trucks agreed with them!

Pip and Emma, however, were mostly focused on one thing: speed. They’d been promised the ability to go as fast as they liked, but there was a significant obstacle to it:

“Oh come on! How long can it take to re-lay one set of points!”

The Permanent Way and Signaling departments had also received a great deal of this “use it or lose it” government funding, and were furiously working to replace, re-lay, and re-wire seemingly the entire island. 

Fortunately for the twins, the work was almost at an end, and as the summer began to wane, they soon found that more and more of the line was back up to full capacity. Shortly thereafter, the “Container Express” was a regularly scheduled train on the main line, running twice a day between Tidmouth Harbour and the yard in Barrow. Keen-eyed observers of the timetable would note that it was the exact same pair of slots previously occupied by the Wild Nor’Wester, which had last run in March of 2020. 

The Fat Controller promised anyone who asked him that it was absolutely a temporary measure, and most believed him, save for one group in particular…

“Lads,” A voice murmured in the container yard one morning. “I think this is forever… ‘s our purgatory for whatever it is we’ve done to the engines.”

“Nah, this ain’t purgatory,” whispered another, as a two-toned horn blasted in the distance. 

“Hi everyone!” “Ready for the trip?”

“This is hell. We’re in hell.”

  -

A few days later - Barrow

The lift bridge over the Walney Channel operated very differently than it did pre-COVID. A train would arrive at the Vicarstown side of the bridge, then it would lower. It would stay down while the engines were turned round, or were uncoupled from their train and connected to a new one. Then the train would leave, and the bridge would go back up. 

This happened two to four times a day, now that the lockdowns had lessened, but there was one constant - the same train that left the island would be the one to return to it. 

Then, one evening in the late summer, the bridge rolled down for a train coming from the mainland. 

There was a very familiar two-toned honk-honk as it rolled over the bridge and onto the Island, wheels click-clacking across the bridge joints in great numbers. 

The rear power car vanished with a roar of sound and a whoosh of diesel exhaust, and then the train was gone into the distance. 

The bridge slowly cycled back up. There was a new train on the Island of Sodor. 

-

The next morning 

Pip and Emma woke up much later than usual - the main line was undergoing its final “track geometry inspection”, and freight services had been curtailed for most of the day to allow the inspection to be done as quickly as possible. 

Eventually, they were rolled out of the diesel shed mostly on BoCo’s urging, (“You two are not allowed to get bored in here.”) and made their way to the platforms of the big station. 

“Oh, this is weird!” Pip exclaimed as she backed down onto a set of coaches. She and Emma had been coupled back-to-back for over a month now, and it seemed like nobody was in a hurry to position them “normally” for a short run down to Suddery and back. 

“Not as weird as your- oh my goodness it’s you two.” James started his sentence with a considerable amount of venom, but squeaked halfway through his sentence before stopping altogether. 

“What was that?” They both looked at him funny. 

“Nothing!” He said quickly. “Nothing at all. I, um, I thought that you were somebody else!” 

He vanished as though by magic, and neither Pip, Emma, nor the coaches had any idea of what to say until the guard waved his flag. 

-

Making their way down the line, they encountered several other engines, each of whom gave them some kind of funny look. As they headed down Edward’s branch line, it was all they could talk about.

“Maybe it’s just how strange we look back-to-back?”

“It can’t be, Pip! You saw how Edward looked! I think he was actually upset!”

“Goodness, I hope it wasn’t anything we did.”

“I don’t think so. They all seemed to stop once they saw us.”

“...”

“What?”

“I just had a thought.”

“What?”

“Who looks like us, but can make everyone hate them in no time flat?”

“Oh no!”

-

Later, they arrived back at Wellsworth station with the return service. The train terminated here, instead of returning to the big station, so once the passengers had disembarked, they had to shunt the coaches out of the way. It was somewhat novel for them, and Pip took great joy in being shown how a shunter’s pole worked. Emma, on the other buffer, was busy eavesdropping; Edward was getting ready to bank Bear’s goods train up Gordon’s Hill, and he was fuming about something to the stationmaster. 

“-that damn banana shows its face here again I will show them what for!” he hissed sternly, before puffing away in a huff.

The stationmaster didn’t say anything that Emma could hear, but he seemed to look very intently at the signals outside the station. There was one signal set for an arriving train. 

Emma didn’t like that, it felt very ominous. “Pip, look sharp. I think we’re going to have trouble soon.”

Pip didn’t have time to respond, because at that instant, the two-tone horn of an HST rang out in the near distance. The rails hummed with the noise of an approaching train, and a 5-coach HST set pulled into the station. 

The train was safety-yellow, and bristled with cameras, sensors, lasers, and measurement equipment of all kinds. Large “NETWORK RAIL” logos were plastered on every coach and both power cars, right next to the words “NEW MEASUREMENT TRAIN.”

 It was glossy. It was shiny. It was freshly washed. 

“Oh, must we dawdle around this dump? I know what sort of conditions this lot keeps!”

It was rude. 

“Will you stop already? I would like to not be thrown off this island, thanks.” 

Well, half of it was. 

Pip closed her eyes to steady herself. Emma ground her teeth audibly. Of course it was them. 

Quickly, quietly, they tried to reverse out of sight, but the camera-studded train saw all, and criticised everything. 

“Oh I say!” The lead power car laughed mockingly. “I thought those rumours were wrong but look at that! You two really have been demoted to common shunters!”

“Hi Pip. Hi Emma.” The rear power car said, utterly defeated. 

“Hi John,” They chorused, equally displeased. “Hi, Obs-”

“Do not use that name!” The lead power car snapped brusquely. On his side there was a big brass nameplate that read “The Railway Observer.” “Use my real name.”

“Not this again…” The rear power car moaned. He had “John Armitt” bolted to his side. “I know that you think it sounds better but I promise you it isn’t-”

“I’m sorry,” The lead power car snapped. “But are you undermining me in front of outsiders?”

“They’re our sisters, you numpty.”

“And they shall refer to me by the name of my choice!” 

“It’s a stupid name!” 

“It’s a regal name!” 

Pip and Emma observed the bickering train with muted resignation. “Why couldn’t he have been at Ladbroke Grove?” Pip said to nobody in particular. “Would’ve done the world a favour.”

Emma just wanted to get this over with. The coaches had been safely shunted away, so it was just a matter of getting out of the yard - then they could go down to Tidmouth and get their next train. “And what name would you like us to call you?” She said eventually. 

The lead power car puffed himself up like a self-important cockatoo. “I,” He proclaimed regally. “Am Murgatroyd. It is a noble name, with a rich history, and-” 

Pip almost swallowed her own tongue from the sudden outburst of laughter, while Emma couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. “Oh my god, that is the worst name I have ever heard of,” She said, barely audible over Pip’s gale-force guffaws. “Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you do that to us?” 

Murgatroyd turned red with indignation (which, thanks to his yellow paint, was actually a shade of orange) and started shouting. “How dare you, you- you- you low-class harlot! This is a regal name, chosen to signify-”

“How much of a pretentious twat you are?” John scoffed from the other end of the NMT. “Usually people can tell when you talk.”

The retort that followed was unprintable, and a vicious three-way argument soon struck up, lasting until Pip and Emma left Wellsworth for the harbour at Tidmouth. 

The New Measurement Train left a few minutes after that, an argument trailing in its wake. The yard was silent after that.

BoCo, who had been trying to nap in the shed, looked around the yard. “I don’t think anyone will believe me…” he said to himself. 

-----

At the harbour’s intermodal yard, Pip and Emma found their train already waiting for them… although it was slightly different from usual.

Fifteen container trucks sat mostly empty, with just a few loaded ones up at the front. Ahead of those were two low-loaders, one empty, the other… not. 

“Finally!” Thomas the Tank Engine groused from atop the front low-loader. “It’s been ages!” 

“It’s been two hours.” The low-loader rolled his eyes. “We left at 11:00. It’s barely past one.”

“Well, who asked you?!” 

Pip and Emma were surprised, to say the least. “What’s he doing here?” They asked the yard supervisor. “Can we take him on this train?”

“As a matter of fact,” He consulted his clipboard. “You can. I spoke to the works, and they’ve “improved” some of the flatcars with the high speed bogies they had left over. Should be fine.”

“Should be?” 

“That’s what they said.” He shrugged, flipping through the clipboard to a printout of an email. “They put it in writing.” 

Pip had to squint to see the small text. “I don’t like that they put “It should be fine!” on an official email…”

Behind her, Emma rolled her eyes, in the process noticing something above them. “Wait, what’s that?” 

The supervisor looked up. “Oh, that’s a jet engine for an airplane. Rolls Royce rebuilds them down in Derby.”

“Why is it here? This isn’t the airport.”

“Airport’s closed for a few days because they lost their electric transformer - surprised you didn’t ‘ear about it. Rolls didn’t wanna wait, and we’re quicker than a lorry it seems.” The man smiled at the last part. Everyone in the freight division was very pleased that this “hare-brained, half-baked, absolutely ridiculous” concept (as some “industry observers” had remarked) was proving successful.  

Emma watched as the jet engine was craned onto a flatcar behind Thomas. “Oh great!” He scoffed as it was chained down to the car. “Not only am I getting shuttled around this Island like a piece of lost mail, but now it’s air mail at that?”

“Oh shush!” Pip said, somewhat bemused by the whole situation. “We’ll get you to Barrow double quick!”

“Barrow?! I’m going to the works!” Thomas was irate. 

“If you ever listened,” The low-loader started. “You’d know that they don’t stop there, so we’re going to Barrow, and then back to Crovan’s on the pick-up goods.”

“Oh! Wonderful! I am a lost parcel! This is all Toby’s fault, the square-”

“Thomas,” Emma cut him off kindly. “It’ll be fine. Think about it this way - you can say that you went there on the Express! Won’t that be fun?”

“I’ve been on the express before…” Thomas said darkly.

“See? Then you know how fun it is!” 

Thomas looked like he wanted to say something else, but before he could, the shunters allowed Pip and Emma to back down onto the train, and connected the coupling chains and air hoses. 

Emma winked at him reassuringly, something which he felt was only unintentionally patronizing.

And then the train set off for the mainland. 

-

Leaving the port was a slow affair - the container yard was off to one side, and they had to dodge Marina and Salty as they shunted cars into the bulk terminals by the yard throat. There were a lot of low-speed switches to navigate as well, and the train rocked from side to side as they crossed over. Thomas thought about saying he was getting seasick, but chose not to tempt fate after the seventh such switch made him actually feel a little nauseous. 

After reaching the end of the harbour tracks, they came to a complete stop, and waited for several trains to leave the big station. 

First came Gordon, who stormed out of the station canopy with the mid-day semi-fast behind him. His expression was thunderous, as were his clouds of smoke and steam. He passed by with a roar and a clatter and vanished into the tunnel towards Knapford. 

Edward was a few minutes behind, with a train of ballast from the Little Western. The expression on his face was neutral, almost intentionally so - a clear sign to anyone that knew him that he was blisteringly furious. 

“Oh no…” Emma sighed. 

“What?” Thomas asked, watching Edward’s brake van disappear into the tunnel. 

“Not what, who.” She said, resigned. “And you’ll find out soon enough.”

Up front, Pip grit her teeth and waited. 

She didn’t have to wait long - another minute, and an unusual signal dropped into place: an up-bound train cleared for the down slow line. A very familiar two-note honk-honk sounded from inside the station, and then Murgatroyd appeared, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. 

He roared out of the station, New Measurement Train shining brightly behind him, John on the tail end calling apologies to someone. It would have been a rather splendid sight, had there not been a massive cloud of sooty clag hovering over the station entrance, and trailing in his wake. 

Pip smirked with a hint of schadenfreude - John wasn’t trailing any sooty exhaust smoke, and five empty coaches were not that heavy, so somebody was ignoring his fitters it seemed…

She would have been content to sit there smugly, her well-tuned engine firing cleanly on all cylinders saying more than she ever could with words, but naturally Murgatroyd had to make things worse. 

“Oh good god!” He bellowed in mean-spirited mirth, his mouth twisting into a cheshire-cat smile. “Look at that! They really are Valenta freighters now! And they’re slumming it with a tea kettle! I thought that I had seen it all!” 

He vanished out of sight before he could say anything else, the coaches streaming by in a yellow blur. 

Pip could just see her reflection in the passing windows - they moved so fast it looked like a solid mirror - and it was not a pretty sight. 

Emma, who’d heard everything, reckoned that if he’d gone on for one more sentence, her sister would be spitting fire and roaring loud enough to be heard in Cornwall. 

Thomas, who had said worse to Toby and Daisy just this morning, suddenly felt a great sense of unease…

-

A few tense minutes later, and the signal finally raised, giving the train access to the main line. Pip set off with a roar, Emma reluctantly following her lead through the multiple unit connection. Thomas choked and spluttered from the wave of hot exhaust gases going right into his face, and barely noticed as the train rocked and rolled onto the Up Fast line. 

Blinking and tearing up, his vision finally cleared just in time to see Pip’s cab roof disappear into the darkness of the tunnel to Knapford. It was much closer than it usually was, and with the train rapidly increasing in speed, Thomas yelped as it cleared his funnel by mere inches. “YIKES!”

Emma laughed, eyes shining in the darkness, and Thomas knew that the sooner he got off this train, the better!

-

After that, for a little while, the trip continued smoothly. Knapford, Crosby, and Wellsworth stations all slid past without issue. Traffic was extremely light, and they didn’t pass any down-bound trains in the entire period. In fact, if it weren’t for the occasional blot of Gordon’s smoke on the horizon, it would have seemed that they had the entire main line to themselves. 

-

It was just past Maron station when the trouble began. 

As they crested Gordon’s hill, the first signal past the summit had fallen to “approach” almost as they passed it, and some quick shouting at “control” on the radio had revealed that the last of the permanent way crews were taking longer than usual to clear the main line near Kellsthorpe Road station. 

This meant that Pip and Emma were practically at a crawl as they reached Maron, and the train eased to a stop at the signal bridge just past the platforms. 

Pip, still hot under the buffers from her encounter with Murgatroyd, was not exactly thrilled at the idea of “dawdling” in stations, and audibly fussed as they came to a halt.

Her poor temper didn’t help her train handling skills any, and the train lurched inelegantly to a halt, causing the slack in the couplings to run in, and the entire train banged against her and Emma. 

There was much shouting and complaining from the trucks and Thomas at this, and Pip growled menacingly.  

“Oh, well.” Emma said quickly, trying to put a positive spin on things. “At least it’s a nice day out-”

CLONK

Before she could even say anything, the signals rose to the “approach slow, expect stop” aspect. This meant that they were getting moved forward exactly one signal block, to the Cronk home signals near the Hawin Ab Viaduct. 

“Oh come on!” Emma cried in frustration. 

It was abundantly clear what was happening now: they were going to be yo-yo-ed up and down the main line. Yo-yo-ing was what happened when a fast train was stuck behind a slow one, and had to constantly stop at each signal and wait for it to clear. It was hard on an engine’s brakes, worse on their buffers and couplings, and worst of all, was annoying as sin. This was exactly the sort of constant, low-grade irritation that she (and Pip) did not need right now.

Pip’s driver was entirely unaware of this, though, and so he increased the throttle and watched with some bemusement as Pip let her engine furiously rev all the way to the top of the tachometer right from the jump. 

She and Emma lurched forwards, and the entire train crashed into motion, each car yanking the one behind it as they all set off. 

Thomas rocked back and forth against his tie-down chains. “Careful!” he shouted. 

“Shut up!” Pip and Emma scowled. 

Thomas frowned, ready to give them a piece of his mind. 

“It’s no use,” tThe low-loader sighed. “They’re in a strop right now - best you can do is make them forget that you’re here, til they calm down.”

“When will that happen?” 

“That, lad, is something that the smartest trucks in all the land have been searching for an answer to for many years.”

-

To add insult to perceived injury, Pip’s driver didn’t bother accelerating to any real speed, since they were only going one signal down the line. Pip and Emma stewed in their own irritation at twenty-five miles an hour as they rolled up the line towards the next signal. There was very little that could be done to make them more upset, but of course when there’s a will, (and a Murgatroyd) there’s a way.

-

“Oh, no…” John murmured to himself. 

The New Measurement Train had been caught at a signal for almost thirty minutes, as the Island’s P-Way team cleared out in front of them. The positioning of this particular signal was not ideal, as it left the tail of the train caught on the exposed tracks of a windy viaduct. Furthermore, the signal, like all signals on Sodor, was a relatively vintage semaphore design that still used colored filters over a white light. He knew this from experience, having been all over this island for the last day, however he was hearing all of it now because his royal Murgitude had been griping and whinging about it literally since the moment they stopped. 

And now, look at who was coming up to the signals on the fast line… 

“Hi Pip, Hi Emma,.” he said weakly. 

He almost wanted to tell them to stop further back, and be near him - away from the irritating mass at the front of the train - but looking at Pip’s enraged visage gave him pause. He stilled his tongue, and let them roll up to the signal mast next to Murg.

Judging from the way that the train screeched and bashed to a halt, Emma wasn’t happy either. A smart engine (or one with a functioning self-preservation instinct) would have kept quiet at that stage, however Murgatroyd was neither self-preserving nor intelligent, and John could hear his mocking tone from five coaches back. 

Pip said nothing, and at first neither did Emma, but as Moron-a-troyd went on and on and on, John could feel a shift in the container wagons next to him. It was almost like they were cringing, trying to keep themselves as far away from whatever was about to happen next. 

Finally, he could take the suspense no more. “Is it bad?” he asked the nearest truck. 

“SHUT UP. I AM TIRED OF HEARING YOU SPEAK,” Emma bellowed, loud enough to be heard clearly at the other end of the train. 

“It’s awful bad,” the truck whispered. “You can tell he’s never dealt with real engines before. One of us acts like that and we’d be the next Scruffey within a month!”

John didn’t know who “Scruffey” was, but he understood the sentiment regardless. 

Silence reigned after that… for all of ten seconds, before Murgatroyd said something about “decorum” that set off a screaming row between all three of them. 

It was bad enough that the Network Rail crew inside the coaches started making a fuss on the radio, and within a minute, the container train roared away, leaving the New Measurement Train in windy silence yet again. 

After a few short seconds, John felt a “poke” over the multiple unit connection. Clearly Murgatroyd wanted to say something. 

“Well,” he said, voice warbling from some damage in the connection that John hadn’t ever told anyone about. “I think they said their piece didn’t they? I tell you what John-old-boy, but this island produces some of the worst examples of engine-kind that I have ever seen. I think that one was breathing fire!”

-

At Cronk station, Pip and Emma were idling so loud and so roughly that the stationmaster radioed the crew to ask if something was wrong. 

“That damned flying banana got them in a state, that’s what’s wrong,” The driver snapped over the radio. That awful measurement train had been nothing but problems since it showed up on the island, and he was willing to do anything to see them gone. Heck, if it wasn’t likely to make his engines even angrier, he’d give that train his path to the mainland, just so it’d be gone faster. 

What they really needed was a good fast run, to get them back into their usual state, but with the P-Way team taking their sweet bloody time of it, it didn’t seem likely. 

“If they keep going like this, they’re going to burst a manifold somewhere,” the guard poked his head into the cab. “We’ve got to calm them down.”

“I would love to see you try!” the driver retorted. “They’re not gonna stop until they’re good and ready.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Pip huffed. 

“And? Are you going to calm down?” 

A slow growl that shook the entire cab was his only answer. 

“Go put the radio on,” he said to the wide-eyed guard. “They need something to keep their minds occupied.”

“Radio? Like, to control?”

“No, you nit! Like the radio radio! With music! There’s a circuit breaker on the electrical panel. Bottom row.”

Confused, the guard retreated from the cab and made his way to Pip’s electrical cabinet. Opening up the “low voltage” door, he traced his finger down the rows of breakers until he found what should have been immediately obvious: a handwritten label on some sellotape next to the last of the breakers. It said “TUNES” in shaky handwriting, and was one of the only ones not turned on. Hesitantly, he reached out and switched it on. 

“-and that was “No Diggity,” by Blackstreet, here on ManxPirate, the eternally annoying voice of the Sudrian Sea. Catch our sound wherever you are, on 107.9 FM, 927 AM, 13.68 Shortwave, DAB, DAB+, and online at ManxPirate.co.im. 

“Oh come on!” Pip groused. “Now they’re gonna do the adverts! This isn’t any better than listening to the moron!”

“And now that brings us up to about five minutes til’ the top of the hour, so we’re gonna run some adverts so we can keep the lights on. We’ll see ya on the flipside with DJ Geordie Poppers, who’s gonna run a very special block of music for us, right here on ManxPirate.”

“How often do they listen to this?” the guard asked with some astonishment. 

“Too much, if I had any say in it…” the driver mumbled.

“Are you tired of your washing up smelling like mildew? Are you sick of having to pull down the drying lines at the first sign of rain? Then the new automatic clothes dryers at B&Q are just for you…”

The radio continued on with an inane advertisement about tumble dryers, and the driver put his head in his hands. “We’ve just got to make it to a song… I hope.”

Pip and Emma continued to stew in their own irritation. 

-----

Far away, at Kellsthorpe Road station, the last of the P-Way Gang hauled their equipment off of the line, sharing a celebratory high-five as they did so. There was due cause for celebration: once the NMT traveled over this section of line, their yearslong work of relaying the entire main line would be finally over. In the station’s car park, a champagne bottle was popped, and the foreman revealed that he’d brought real crystal stemware for the occasion, instead of plastic.    

Presently, a radio handset buzzed. “Is that the lot of you off, then?” 

It was Control, sounding less than pleased with the delay… 

----

At Cronk, the signals for the down slow line rose into the “all clear” position, while the up fast signals remained red. 

Pip ground her teeth noisily. 

“HI, I’M BARRY SCOTT, AND I’M HERE TO TALK ABOUT THE ALL NEW CILLIT BANG UNIVERSAL DEGREASER! NOW WITH NEW FORMULATION! SAY GOODBYE TO LIMESCALE AND RUST STAINS…” 

The radio continued to play adverts.

Thomas was growing increasingly fearful of the look on Emma’s face. 

--

A few minutes later, as an insufferably bad advertisement about comparing your car insurance provider finally faded out, a two tone honk-honk sounded behind them, and the New Measurement Train roared past in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Pip and Emma didn’t say anything, or even look in the general direction, but the raucous laughter that trailed in its wake said enough. 

Mercifully, the radio had begun playing something else. “All right then, got those ads out of the way. So what’s up listeners? It’s DJ Geordie Poppers in the hooo-use, coming to you LIVE from our studios on the ever so beautiful radio ship Tharos out here in the Sudrian Sea. We’ve got a very special bit of music for you coming up now in the upcoming hour - it’s a rare daylight sighting of our After-Dark Eurobeat Power Hour! I’m gonna be spinning some CDs and MP3s with the most pulse-pounding beats this side of Mount Akina - so if you’re driving right now, sorry about this.”

As John got smaller and smaller in the distance, the music began to fade in, very gradually. 

“And a bit of housekeeping here - we’ve heard from the artist and they’ve had a bit of a name change. Out goes Ken, and in comes Kendra. This is the extended version of “The Top,” by  Ken (short for Kendra) Blast.”

Slowly, a piano track began to fill in. 

Pip raised an eyebrow, irritation momentarily sidetracked. “Is this really the Eurobeat block, Emma?”

“I think it is,” she said, starting to go along with the intro.  

Thomas, who couldn’t hear Pip or the radio, had no idea what she was talking about. He didn’t like the look on her face. 

The trucks didn’t either. 

“Lads,” the lead container wagon said with gravitas. “We may not make it through today unchanged. It has been an honor serving with you.”

“What?” The low loader that carried the jet engine coughed as the container wagons murmured about honor. He was relatively new, and this was not how he expected his day to be going.

“Laddie,” Thomas’ low loader said gravely, understanding at once what was about to happen. “You’re about to experience something that you’ve never been through before. I’d recommend preparing yourself.”

“What?!” Thomas yelped. 

---

Back in Tidmouth, the people in “Control” were staring at the “big board.” For weeks now, the section of line near Kellsthorpe road had been a mess of green, yellow, and red lights, as the P-Way gang slowly finished the banked curve on the station’s east end. Trains, represented by little markers on the computer screen, waited for a free path, oftentimes with large delays, which showed up in flashing red and white boxes. 

Now, though, their frustration was finally at an end. The last of the yellow was disappearing, section by section, as the P-Way gang reported that they were clear. Three of the four lines were bright red - clear but with no train signaled through - while the down slow line was a green and yellow stripe. It was getting shorter and shorter, as the little marker labeled 1Q01 moved steadily eastward. That was the New Measurement Train, finishing its final pass of the system.  

Behind it, with the box flashing red and white from the delay, was 1B07 - the “Container Express,” already twenty minutes late. More trains were lined up behind it and the NMT, and others were queuing in a line that started at Kellsthorpe Road and went all the way to the mainland. 

The yellow segments were almost entirely gone, with just one signal block outside of Kellsthorpe Road left. 

There was a five minute safety delay coded into the signal control computers, specifically for when crews were working on the line. 

It had been four minutes and fifty six seconds since they’d reported that they were clear. 

Four minutes and fifty seven seconds.

Four minutes and fifty eight.

Four minutes and fifty nine. 

---

The signal in front of Pip raised with a clonk. 

There was still a slight haze to the air from Murgatroyd’s exhaust. In the distance, the plume of sooty white smoke he was making stood out against the clear blue sky like a signal fire. 

“Emma?” Anyone with sense would recognize the danger in her tone.

“Yeah?” Unfortunately for everyone else on the train, they couldn’t do anything about it.

“I think we should catch him.”

“I think you’re right.”

--

In the cab, the driver looked nervously at the rev counter, which had started to climb rapidly. 

“Here goes nuthin’,” he said quietly to himself, before advancing the throttle.

--

The music, which had been slowly building over the last twenty seconds or so, abruptly kicked into a high gear, with a frenetic electronic beat that belted along at 160 beats per minute. 

White exhaust belched from the twins’ exhaust, before quickly turning black under the load. Their engines ramped up to an ear-piercing howl, obliterating any sense of quiet at Cronk station.

Thomas once again got a face full of noxious choking clag, and his eyes watered while his hearing was momentarily deafened by the noise of it all. 

The train began to pick up speed, and the container wagons groaned in fatalistic anticipation. “It’s all downhill from here!” one of them shouted. 

“What?” Thomas hacked from inside the cloud. He couldn’t see anything, and his hearing was ringing like a church bell. 

In front, Pip could feel the unrelenting wave of horsepower and diesel surging through her system. She laughed joyously, with Emma soon joining in. 

To everyone else, it seemed somewhat maniacal. 

🎶 Final lap I'm on top of the world

And I will never rest for second again!

One more time I have beaten them out

The scent of gasoline announces the end! 🎶

--

The train vanished from sight, on its way towards Killdane. The stationmaster poked his head out of the station door. 

“There goes trouble…”

--

The New Measurement Train rolled through Killdane with fleetfooted ease. The rails were clear and the light train was aided by the downhill gradient. From his position on the rear, John felt like the entire consist was weightless, with barely any effort required to keep the train at speed. 

“You think we should go any faster?” he called up the multiple unit connection to Murg. They usually ran at well over 120, but today they’d barely crested 90. 

There was a cough over the connection. “Oh, not today. We’re still the fastest train on this backwards island!” 

Ah yes. A sudden excuse. Surely that was completely unrelated to the plume of smoke trailing in their wake. 

“So, how’s cylinder four feeling today?”

“Shut up.”

John smiled pettily to himself. 

In the distance, Killdane got smaller and smaller. A small dot of yellow could just be seen…

---

🎶 They all said I'd best give it up

What a fool to believe their lies!

Now they've fallen and I'm at the top

Are you ready now to die-ie-ie?! 🎶

---

At Killdane, the sounds of the NMT had scarcely faded before the sound of howling diesel engines filled the air. Heads turned to the east just in time to see Pip and Emma hammering around the curve into the station at full throttle. 

The curve was banked, but not nearly as steeply as the ones to the west, and there was a piercing screeeeeech of steel on steel as the train whipped past. 

“Slowdownslowdownslowdownslowdownslowdown!” There was also a piercing screech coming from the train’s cargo, as Thomas the Tank Engine felt himself rock back and forth atop the low loader. It really did feel like he was going to fall off! 

Pip had a very determined look on her face, eyes focused well into the distance, but those who saw Emma in the brief moment she was in view noted an almost demented smile on her face. She was laughing. 

All this happened in just a moment, and then the train was gone, roaring off into the distance at just below the line speed limit. The wind from the train’s passage rattled a lineside sign. It was a white circle with several thin diagonal slashes through it. 

It was an “end of speed limit” sign.

--

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top?🎶

--

John noticed that the small yellow dot in the distance was getting bigger. Squinting, he couldn’t quite see what it was. 

Whatever it was, it was slowly gaining on them.

Hang on…He thought. 

The cameras that were blanketing his sides were supposed to be recording the lineside for defects, but nobody ever cared about the “going away” view. Very quietly, he “looked” through the lens mounted just above his eyes. It had a nice zoom, and could see much further than he could. 

What he saw made him blink and look again. Then a third time. Then a fourth. After looking for a fifth and final time. He finally wrapped his mind around what exactly he was seeing. 

“Hey Murg?” he said innocently. 

“Yes? What is it?” Murg sounded far more irritated than he should be. 

“Think you can get us into the triple digits? Some of the boffins are worried about their readings not being calibrated right.”

“Oh damn them all.” Murg cut the connection with a pained cough. John had a distinct feeling that the Infallible and Most Invulnerable King Murgatroyd was hiding exactly how bad cylinder four really was from everyone, lest he be seen as “weak” or “mortal” by his inferiors. 

Well, he thought to himself with a hint of smugness as the train slowly began to increase speed. If he wants to play the perfect king, he’ll have to deal with the locals.  

Behind them, Pip and Emma continued to get closer and closer…

---

James and his coaches had been waiting on the dratted P-Way gangers for over half an hour at Kellsthorpe Road, and set off with a will when the signal changed. 

Of course, the signaling was all out of sorts, and he was running “wrong main” on the Up Slow line, but he didn’t much care. There wasn’t anyone in front of him, and was making “good” time on his way to Killdane. “Maybe we’ll still make it to Tidmouth before tomorrow!” he joked to his driver, who had long since given up on making light of the situation. 

They leaned into the curve heading towards Killdane, and that awful banana of a measurement train streaked by in the other direction. James whistled derisively at it out of reflex more than anything else, and was quietly grateful that the unpleasant train had nothing to say in return. 

In the distance, a giddy-sounding honk-honk drew his attention back to the line ahead, and he had just enough time to make out something streaking on the next line over before something-

Honk-Honk! Honk-Honk!

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

-ripped past them with a honk, a roar, and a scream.

“What was that?!” He yelped as the wind buffeted him. 

“I think that was Pip and Emma!” his driver said, looking backward. “With a container train!”

“What?!”

---

🎶 One more turn and I'll settle the score

A rubber fire screams into the night

Crash and burn is what you're gonna do

I am the master of the asphalt fight 🎶

---

John watched as Pip and Emma got closer and closer. In a macabre way, he felt giddy about it. At their current speed, they were going to eat Murgatroyd for lunch and still have room for tea afterwards. 

He had been paying such close attention to the rapidly-closing distance between the two trains that he completely missed the start of the banked curve until he was leaning into it. The rails bent underneath him and the ties whipped past at an odd angle as the whole world tilted a few degrees. They weren’t going slow, by any means, but the sensitive equipment in the coaches (and his years of experience) told him that they could have been going much faster. 

“Oh Murg… you might want to speed up…” he sing-songed. “They’re gaining on us…”

“Who’s gaining on us? What?!” Murgatroyd was oblivious, as was his wont. 

John wanted to say something else, but his voice failed him as he watched the container train, with low-loaders on the front, rocket through the curve at speeds that he didn’t even want to contemplate. 

A train passed on one of the other lines, and he watched the smoke from its stack get whipped and roiled by air currents of the two trains passing each other. 

Seconds later, Pip and Emma passed the train, streaking through the remaining smoke, and the force of their passage tore the cloud to ribbons. 

---

🎶They all said I'd best give it up

What a fool, to believe their lie-ie-ies!

Now they've fallen, I'm at the top

Are you ready now to die-ie-ie?🎶

---

Pip was high on speed, and she was loving every second of it. 

Emma was right behind her, literally and metaphorically; the sensation of pure motion and velocity was coursing through their systems like a drug. 

In front of them, so close one could almost reach out and touch it, was the New Measurement Train. John was watching with restrained giddiness as they started to draw abreast of him. He said something, but the wind whipping by erased all sound. There was just speed, and that was more than enough. 

Slowly, they pulled even with the coaches, and with each window they passed, another Network Rail employee could be seen looking up in astonishment. 

In Pip’s cab, the driver was holding onto the controls with a white knuckle grip. Officially, he was the driver, he was in control of the train. Realistically, he was nothing more than a rider on a bucking bronco. He surveyed the line ahead, and gulped. 

Behind Pip and Emma, Thomas’s eyes were right in the most turbulent part of the wake that followed the diesels. Air, superheated and filled with grit and soot from twin exhausts, poured into his eyes and swirled around his face. He couldn’t hear, he could barely see. 

Behind him, the wind whipped through the turbine blades of the jet engine on the next low-loader. It had been secured for transport, so the blades didn’t move, but the wind rushing through it created a high-pitched howling noise that simply added to the cacophony. 

Lost in the chaos of the wind and the noise and the exhaust, the container wagons and the low-loaders were holding onto each other for dear life. 

“I’m not designed for thiiiiis!” one of them shrieked. 

“None of us are!” the wagon ahead of him bellowed. “Just keep holding on a little longer!” 

--

At the head of the NMT, Murgatroyd was trying very hard to ignore the slight off-beat throbbing coming from cylinder four. Something was amiss with it - what it was, he didn’t know for certain. Driver didn’t know either - blasted man hadn’t turned a wrench a day in his life; wouldn’t know the difference between an allen key and the keys to a house! 

Of course there weren’t any fitters on board - “economic savings” kept them at home base - so he just had to deal with it. 

Just so long as the underlings didn’t notice, everything would be fine-

“Oh Murgatroyd…”

“Yes, John?”

“You might want to look around...”

He looked off towards the Up lines, and was rendered momentarily speechless by the sight of Pip smiling wickedly at him. 

“T-that’s not possible,” he said once he found his tongue. “That isn’t possible!” 

---

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive...

I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top?🎶

----

Moments earlier

“So how late do you think we’re going to be?” Percy asked as the train rumbled through Kellsthorpe Road station. 

“Oh,” Henry pondered. “We’re only allowed to do 45, and we’ve got to drop off the aluminium at Killdane, so probably two or three hours if we lose our path at all. Which we will.”

“Thomas is going to be absolutely livid when I get back.” Percy said from atop his low loader. “He was supposed to go in for his new cylinder block today, so if I’m not back, they’re going to have him stay in steam all day.”

“Oh, he won’t be thrilled about that.” Henry chortled. “I swear, he’s the only engine who likes going to the works.” 

“They treat him the same way James treats himself. Of course he likes going there!”

“Hah! I hadn't considered that-oh dear…” Henry trailed off mid-sentence. 

“What?”

“It appears that we’re about to go down the middle between Pip and Emma, and their favorite siblings.”

“What? The banana? Oh great.”

“Yes, they- oh goodness they’re quick-”

Anything else Henry said was lost to the deafening thunderclap made as the New Measurement Train and the Container Express roared past on the opposing lines. The wind felt like it was going to knock him clean off the rails, and Percy yelped in surprise as debris and exhaust fumes swirled around him like a hurricane. His boiler, a stout construction that could hold hundreds of pounds of pressure, felt like it was flexing and bowing from the vibrations in the air. He watched in open-mouthed shock as Henry’s cab windows were sucked out of their frames from the differential pressure, and were hurled through the air followed by every loose object in the cab, from hats and coats, to papers and even a coal shovel!

Behind and in front of Percy, open wagons of stone, and the coal from Henry’s tender sent huge plumes of dust and debris into the air, swirling and mixing into a funnel cloud that wrapped around the rear of the train. It danced in the tornadic airflow for a few seconds, before dissipating as the trains parted once more. 

The silence afterwards was deafening. 

“DID I LOSE A WINDOW?” Henry asked, almost unable to hear himself speak, as his driver applied the brakes and stopped the train. 

Percy tried to make the ringing in his smokebox cease. Closing his eyes, he suddenly remembered seeing something in the fraction of a second before the world went topsy-turvy. “Wait a tic. Was that Thomas?”

“WHAT?”

---

🎶 What were you thinking, telling me to change my game?

This style wasn't going anywhere; it was kaput!

You want to see what I've done with this place; this whole thing?

You want to see that I changed the game?

No, I AM the game!

Before I knew where this was going, I would've listened to you

Right now, I distance myself from what you have to say!

I made this something way bigger than you're ever gonna be

I made it this far; and I'm taking it to the top 🎶

----

Pip and Emma laughed gaily as they overtook the NMT, and powered on towards Kellsthorpe Road like they weren’t towing several hundred tonnes of freight train behind them. 

Murgatroyd gaped in shock as he was passed by the steam engine they were carrying as cargo. 

The shock quickly turned into outrage, and he felt the red-hot sting of being one-upped surge through his system. His engine began to rev higher, urging the train to move faster damn it. 

“Whoa there,” his driver exclaimed, laying a firm hand on the controls. “We want to make it to the mainland, right?”

“I don’t care!” Murgatroyd ground his teeth, watching as the container wagons slipped past him. “They can’t win!” 

But no matter how he tried, his driver wouldn’t let him speed up. 

He howled and roared impotently as Pip and Emma got further and further ahead. 

---

On the platforms of Kellsthorpe Road station, several surveyors were getting measurements of the newly-relaid line. 

Looking down the magnified optics of a theodolite, the true character of the railway could be seen. What appeared to be a straight and flat section of line was actually a ribbon of steel that undulated and flowed over the terrain. While certain sections had just been flattened and graded, it was impossible to fully eliminate the contours of the earth without starting from scratch, and so the line rolled with the small hills and invisible valleys instead of cutting right through them.

“Hey, look at that.” One of the other surveyors said from behind an optical level. “You can see the NMT from here.”

“Can you?” asked his coworker, who quickly pointed his theodolite down the line. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s just gone behind the dip. Should be back in a moment.”

He fixed his eyes on the dip in the terrain. It was actually visible to the naked eye, but its height differential - deemed to be “within acceptable limits” - and its presence directly under a road bridge - meant that it had survived the recent track relaying unscathed.  

The surveyors waited for the train to reappear, the optics of their measurement devices making things appear much larger than they really were. 

With that in mind, it was something of a surprise to see an HST appear two tracks over from where the NMT had been. They both looked to that line just in time for the train to crest the hill.

There was a brief moment, no longer than a breath, where both men could see daylight shine underneath the train as all the wheels left the ground.

----

Pip and Emma hooted and hollered with glee as they roared through the approach to Kellsthorpe Road station. High speed crossovers and the new banked curve meant they didn’t have to check their speed in the slightest as they charged onwards. 

The station came and went in a flash, and they leaned into the new corner at unprecedented speeds. Behind them, Thomas wailed loud enough to be heard over their motors, but they paid him little mind; they didn’t realize - or understand - exactly what he was experiencing. 

Behind them, now far into the distance, the New Measurement Train was just rolling into the station. 

They had won. 

---

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive...

I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top? 🎶

----

Further up the line, Bertie the bus was pulling up to a level crossing, just as the gates went down. 

“That was a great song on the radio, wasn’t it?” he said to his driver, who was thoroughly regretting turning on ManxPirate, thanks very much. “I feel like I should be racing something! Ooh! I know! The next train that comes by, we’ll try and chase it, huh? Just like the old times with Thomas!”

Honk-Honk

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Whooooooooooooooooooooosh

The train passed in just a few seconds. 

“Nevermind.”

-----

The song wound down to a stop, but Pip and Emma continued charging on. 

The guard went so far as to pull the fuse on the radio, hoping that it would calm them down, but they were too far gone to consider dropping their speed until they reached Crovan’s Gate station. There, the speed limit dropped to 90; normally a mild inconvenience, but today it felt like they’d dropped an anchor behind them. 

Still, they continued merrily along through the station as fast as was allowed (much to Thomas’s dismay) and continued east along the line. 

As they cleared the station and began to speed up again, they noticed a cloud of smoke on the horizon. 

There was still one more train they could catch…

-----

Compared to everyone else in this story, Gordon was having a blissfully uneventful day. He’d managed to put that vulgar measurement train almost totally out of his mind, and was making excellent time to the mainland when one considered the workmen-caused delay at Kellsthorpe Road. 

There was a farm lane that crossed the tracks near Henry’s tunnel, and he whistled for it. 

Honk-Honk

He was most surprised to hear a horn respond to him, and was flabbergasted to see Pip, then Emma, and then Thomas pass him like he was standing still!

“HiGordonByeGordon!” “HiGordonByeGordon!” “GORDON HELP ME!”

The train raced into the tunnel and vanished from sight. 

Gordon could not believe what he had seen!

----

Eventually, the speed limits dropped, and the four track main line merged into two just after Vicarstown. Rolling over the lift bridge at a sedate twenty miles an hour Pip and Emma finally began to come down off their “runner’s really high.”

“That was great!” Pip gushed. “Just the sort of run we needed to clear everything out, am I right?”

“Uh, Pip?” Emma began to notice the state of Thomas. “I think we miiiiight have overdone this a little.”

Thomas could only whimper in agreement! 

----

By the time the New Measurement Train rolled into Barrow station some thirty minutes later, Pip, Emma, and Gordon were all trying to console Thomas, to limited success. 

“...Ahem!” Murgatroyd tried to slink into the station totally unnoticed, but John had no compunctions about making sure they were seen. “So, I assume that you two will be conducting all of this railway’s freight services from now on?”

“Oh,” Pip’s smile was very guilty looking as she turned away from the still shell-shocked Thomas. “Yeah. About that…” She swallowed deeply. “I’m… sorry about… y’know. All of that. The overtake.”

“What, me? Overtaken?” Murgatroyd tried and failed to play dumb. Well, a different kind of dumb from usual. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Pip’s smile grew much harder edged, and Gordon took the moment to intercede. “Look, Pip. You don’t owe that any apology of any form.” 

Murgatroyd looked aggrieved. Gordon turned on him next. “And you. You are an uncouth abomination who have done nothing useful at all. Take the apology, cause no more trouble, and find yourself a better attitude elsewhere.”

Murgatroyd puffed himself up with self-righteous fury, and John regretted being an instigator. 

“WELL, I-” He started.

“Oh shut up!” Thomas bellowed. “Stop talking before I come down there and peel you, you great useless banana! Everything that’s happened to me today is all your fault!” 

 Murgatroyd quailed under the impressive amount of vitriol Thomas was spewing, and he left in a chastised burst of soot and clag. John followed in his wake, not sure what, if anything to say. “Bye Pip. Bye Emma.”

Once the NMT had vanished from sight, Pip, Emma, and Gordon turned their attention back to Thomas. 

“Great useless banana?” Gordon raised an eyebrow. 

Thomas didn’t have the energy for a proper comeback, and simply stared at him knowingly. 

“Fine, fine,” Gordon acknowledged the unsaid. “For an off-the-buffer moment after the day you’ve had, it was a fine jab. I’m just glad that you’re beginning to feel more like yourself.” He began to steam off towards the shed. “As such, I’ll be off.”

“Wait!” Thomas called. “Where are you going? Who’s taking me on the pick-up goods?”

“Thomas, I don’t take the pick-up goods,” Gordon called regally. “That’s what we have diesels for. I believe there’s two of them right in front of you!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

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

Post script: Low-loaders were subsequently banned from Pip and Emma's trains

[aethersea]

still thinking about the trump voter I talked to the other day who was like "well the democrats have had four years to fix things," as proof that clearly they weren't doing that so they weren't worth voting for. and I just. do you think the democrats are our friends? do you think they're a bunch of saints? they're politicians! where did your cynicism go, man, the whole system is corrupt and dishonest and we've always known this. the difference is in degree. the difference is in what they do BESIDES and DESPITE the corruption.

god I just. idk I think this next complaint is old as dirt but people have GOT to stop thinking about politicians as friendly folks who are on your side. miss me with that. you can get that on a local level sometimes, but on a state or federal level, you will have a few radical outliers if you're lucky. a politician is not a buddy. a politician is a person who has power over your life, and a politician is a person doing a job, and it does not and has never fucking mattered if they're someone you could hang out and shoot the shit with! that is not part of their job! that is not the part of your life they have power over! they are not your friends!

the democrats have not fixed the country bc a) there are too many forces working against that, b) fixing a country is a convoluted goddamn problem and it'd take decades, not years, and c) they don't necessarily care all that much! they're just people doing a job! they care mostly about keeping their jobs!

look, there are probably a lot of politicians who do care deeply about helping people. there are also lots of politicians who don't give a fuck, but do a great job pretending they care deeply about helping people because they know that's how they'll get votes. I fundamentally do not care which one of these two people is in power so long as they pass and enforce laws that help people. yeah it'd be nice to have the first person, but so long as shit gets done we'll call it a win.

because there's a third, way more common type of politician, who not only doesn't give a fuck, but knows how to get ahead without actually following through on a single campaign promise. that politician is saying all the right things, just like the other two, but they don't pass a single helpful law and instead will pass a bunch of, like, food safety deregulations in exchange for cash from large companies that don't want to worry about health inspectors.

you know what keeps us safe from that? it's when 'doing some useful things for society sometimes' is a good way for a politician to keep their job. otherwise we will end up with no politicians who do useful things for society, out of sheer natural selection.

I'm just venting at this point but god. since when do we believe politicians are good people. obama was a godsend for this country and this world, he achieved so much good, and also he never so much as shut down guantanamo bay. the bar is in hell. the bar is in hell, and every single politician running for office will tell you otherwise, and we have got to stop listening to that and look at what they do. and keep demanding they do better, instead of replacing them with people who will do worse just because at least it's a brand new grifter.

[sandcobangevent]

Unforgettable

by @keirgreeneyes and @tiredmilkshake

Chapter 1

“Seriously, I can’t believe my luck. We go off, have these adventures, meet celebrities and then get to share it all with people through the podcast—and he makes the most amazing dinners after we’re all done!”

“This is Sherlock Holmes you’re talking about? The same Sherlock I introduced you to?” 

“Yes, Mike. The very same. I mean, he doesn’t cook immediately. Usually he collapses for–oh, once it seemed like 24 hours, though he might have gotten up while I was sleeping at some point.”

“And you’re saying he cooks? That’s the bit that’s surprising to me. I mean, I thought he had a thing about pasta.”

“I mean, we do have pasta every so often. But like, he made this fantastic sauce with capers the other day.”

“That’s...surprising, yeah. Well, I guess maybe he’s changed a mite.”

“What’s that mean?” 

“He didn’t used to, in uni, that’s all.”

“Well, everyone changes, don’t they?” 

“I’m not sure Sherlock Holmes does.” 

“Is that a crack about his autism?” 

“No, no, I’m not criticizing him. Just, he’s unique and always has been.”

“Yeah, unique and pretty amazing, I’d say.” 

“Agreed. You two are good for each other.”

“Some people might even say we have a rapport.” 

“He really does seem happier now, actually. So, yeah, he does seem different.” 

“Right. Well, Mariana just texted me that there’s a mess of chicken parmesan a certain unique detective and chef made that is waiting for me back at Baker Street, so I think I’ll say cheers and catch you later.” 

“Have a good night, Watson, and tell Holmes hello for me.” 

“Will do.” 

Chapter 2

“Watson, what’s that smell?”

“Why are you asking me, mate? You’re the one with the sensitive honker. Shall I go back to the flat for Archie? I wonder if he’d be an excellent sniffer dog, you know, like those dogs that work for a living? I mean, he’s no German Shepherd, wouldn’t really be much good at roughing up the bad un’s. But he does like to give things a sniff or two. And a slobber. Yeah, well, I guess he might be good at a crime scene if we needed somebody all glommed up with snot and saliva.”

“Watson—that’s utter nonsense. Crime scene dogs require keen senses and are given intensive training. Archie’s much better at what he’s good at: giving someone’s leg a good time at the park.”

“Hey—he did that one time, and no one ever lets up—”

“As I was saying, something smells different, about your person. What is it?”

“Oh, well, we were talking about making that mushroom and camembert frittata, and I happened to see a nice thing of camembert at a shop and so I thought I’d just pick it up and..”

“Well, its scent is so strong I think that even Archie would be distracted by it if he was here, much less a genuine detection dog.”

“What am I supposed to do with it, then?”

“I don’t know, but please take it out of here. Perhaps Inspector Lestrade can put it in her car.”

“Oh, no, Holmes, you’re not stinking up my squad car with that smelly old cheese.”

“Right, well, if no one wants me and my smelly old, delicious cheese around, I’ll just take us outside and let you do your detecting on your own.”

“What’s that, Watson? Wait, wait, there’s something here we’ve been missing…”

“So, do you want me to go, or should I linger here with my great smelliness messing up your investigation?”

“Wait–Stop!! Fire, fire!!”

(Screams break out, there is the sound of gunfire and breaking glass.)

Chapter 3

“Sherlock, it’s alright, mate, we caught him.” 

“Yes, well, after he’d wounded two police constables, destroyed significant amounts of evidence with that fire, and all this from a hidden place within the very crime scene that we had been investigating. And we caught him all thanks to you, by the way. Timely use of that disgustingly reeking round of cheese you had on hand to distract him while I tackled him. Good job, Watson.” 

“Well, cheers, mate. Wasn’t exactly what I was planning, but I’ll take the praise. I still can’t figure why he did come out. He had a doozy of a hiding place all set up, what with that false wall and cozy little room he’d set up for himself.” 

“That’s just it, Watson. When we entered the galleria, my immediate impression was that there was something wrong about it. The dimensions. But I didn’t follow through on my deductions. And look how much devastation has occurred.”

“Sherlock, mate, go easy on yourself. You couldn’t know he’d go all batty hearing us talk about sniffer dogs. I mean, turns out he’s phobic about pooches? You can’t predict this kind of thing. We all have our things, and there’s no reason why anyone, even you, should be able to pull a guess about something like that out of the air.” 

“No, Watson, that’s just not true. And I never ‘just pull something out of the air.’ The signs were there. The thefts had commenced after the renovation project was completed. And even the canine connection should have been apparent to me—the owner of the art gallery has a pair of identical toy poodles, and the disappearances of these priceless minature pieces never happened on days when the dogs had been on site.” 

“Toy poodles, miniature sculptures, she does really have something about tiny things, doesn’t she?” 

“It was part of her aesthetic, Watson. Along with her charitable philosophy, all the proceeds went to provide building funds for tiny houses for people without permanent dwellings. Now her gallery is in a shambles, the work of established and budding artists in this field who had been featured there, destroyed. And all because I lost sight of what I’d immediately grasped when I entered the space. But I was distracted and forgot to follow up on it, John. It’s just unbelievable. I forgot. ”

“Hey, hey, it happens to all of us, Sherlock. You may be amazing and brilliant, and often what seems like miraculous, but you’re also quite human. But whoa. I might need a moment here, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said my given name. Wait. Sherlock? Where are you going?”

Chapter 4

“Thanks for going through this mail, John. I’ve taken care of the bills, but there’s so much of this kind of thing” (sound of papers thwacking down on a counter) “and I can’t tell if it’s just junk or if there are some legitimate inquiries in there.”

“No problem, Mariana. They’re so sneaky with their envelopes these days, those spammers. And there’s no podcast to edit right now, so I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Any change in Sherlock?” 

“No.” (Heavy sigh.) “It’s been the same since that case. He’s shut himself up in his room and won’t talk. At first he was at least playing his violin, screeching away at it all night. But now that he’s stopped that, I’m even missing that. At least I knew he was alive in there.” 

“I’m sure he’ll snap out of it, eventually. I mean, hasn’t he before?”

…

“John?”

“I wouldn’t know actually.” 

“You’ve never seen him go through this?” 

“Well, you met him at just about the same time that I did, so your guess is as good as mine.” 

“Oh, that’s right! You two are so close, I forget that sometimes. You seem to have always been together.” 

“I can tell you, it did not feel like that right away. First couple of nights in the flat with him, I was afraid I’d become a murderer myself.” 

“Then he could have come back and cracked the case!” (laughter) “He would have liked that.” 

“Yes, I expect he would, at that. If anyone could come back from the dead and solve his own murder, it would definitely be Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Well, what can we do to help him cheer up? Maybe we’ll find a nice juicy mystery in here and that will get him feeling better.” 

“Maybe. But I already sent him a few leads from the email account, and he just told me to delete them all.” 

“That sounds pretty bad.”

“I know. I’m pulling my hair out. I wish I knew what would make him feel better.” 

“What about what he does to show his appreciation for us?” 

“You mean cook him something? I couldn’t, he’s like a world class chef.” 

“No, he’s really not.” 

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been teaching himself to cook.” 

“There’s no way—wait, why do you say so?” 

“Who pays the bills around here? I’d noticed that there were certain charges happening frequently, paid to a Youtuber who runs private courses on cooking.”

“On the company card?”

“Yes, but neither of you had said anything about it, or sent me receipts.” 

“And we both know how important those receipts are!” 

“Yes, I think I made myself very clear on that after you two took that client out to rollerskate sushi and came back with absolutely nothing by way of documentation.” 

“Yeah, I think I’m still paying off that outrageously expensive saki we drank out of little warmers on the harness they gave me. But it was so very good.” 

“Huh. Perhaps it’s a good thing that you lost those particular receipts.  Anyway, I asked Sherlock if he knew anything about it. He refused to tell me anything, just issued me a repayment and said I shouldn’t worry, there wouldn’t be any more charges. It was all sorted out, so I never ended up mentioning it to you. But did he tell you anything about it, John?”

“He never breathed a word about this to me.”

“I was worried it was some kind of scam he’d been caught in, that he was embarrassed to admit about.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that he would be pretty quiet about something like that. Should we be worried that he’s got some kind of gambling issue?”

“No. Not at all.” 

“So you did figure out what it was?” 

“I did.” 

“Did a little detecting of your own?” 

“Indeed.”

“How did you get it out of him?” 

“I had noticed that the charges were paid at about the same time each week.” 

“So you spied on him!?” 

“No, no, I wouldn’t want to invade his privacy.” 

“He bloody well does mine all the time. Do you know, he sat in the loo for fifteen whole minutes while I was in there, quiet as a mouse in the shower stall, while I’m shaving, clipping my toenails, taking a wee, moisturizing, have a nice little chat with myself…”

“Wait, moisturizing? John, I had no idea you had a beauty routine.” 

“It’s not a beauty routine. It’s just good for my pores. It’s self-care.” 

“That’s very wise of you, John.” 

“Oh sod off.” 

“What did Sherlock do?” 

“Well, he startled me half to death he did. I was just giving myself a little pep talk in the mirror, reminding myself that everyone starts somewhere. Einstein didn’t pop off about E=MC² first thing. He had to do a bit of maths, a bit of calculus, a bit of physics first. And I was sure to get better at this whole podcast thing as time went on.” 

“So, how did he startle you?” 

“Oh, right. He hears me saying that and comes out with ‘You’re quite right, Watson. Even Einstein was a beginner once.” Of course, then he tells me how Einstein taught himself maths and physics, earned a PhD at the age of 26 while publishing four ground breaking papers in those fields. ‘But Watson,’ he says ‘he’d failed an entrance exam once and had to struggle on, so don’t give up.’” 

“He’s just trying to help.” 

“Right, I know. And the funny thing is, it did help.” 

“Even if he scared you to death?” 

“Yeah, I think he was just there because he wanted the company. After I calmed down, I didn’t mind, actually.” 

“See, you are close.” 

“Well, if we were, wouldn’t I know how to cheer him up?” 

“You’ve got to start somewhere.” 

“Yeah, if only I knew what made him happy.” 

“Oh! That was the whole point of my story. Sherlock was teaching himself to cook. For us.” 

“Wait, so the Youtuber—”

“Correct, they were private classes on cooking.” 

“Oh, wow. Now I really want to help him out of this.” 

“Right.” 

“Okay. Well, I have heard something recently that may help.” 

“What?” 

“An old acquaintance of his said he had a thing for pasta.” 

“Like, the penne he keeps asking for?” 

“He’s been asking for penne?.”

“Yup. He texts me when he knows I’m going to shop or put an order in. Penne and tomato sauce. That’s all he’s asked for…” 

“Since that case. Okay, well. If he can learn to cook for us, I can learn to cook for him.” 

“Do you think you need to take a class to cook pasta?”

“To make the best pasta ever tasted? Yes, absolutely.” 

(Laughter) “You think you’re going to be able to make the best pasta ever?” 

“Yes, because he deserves it.” 

“Well, perhaps we can count this as a work expense, since it is meant to help him be able to get back to working again. Just–”

“I know, send you the receipts.” 

“Bingo!” 

Chapter 5

“Watson?” 

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

“What is that?” 

“That, mate, is a plate of my very special beef crumble and mushroom lasagna. I used wine to sauté those mushrooms, just like you did with that risotto you made two weeks ago–”

“And you want me to eat this?” 

“Well, I didn’t put it on your plate because I want you to throw it at me. What do you think?”

“Are you being serious, Watson?” 

“Yeah. Should I not be?” 

 “Well, I regret to inform you that I am unable to comply.” 

“You’re not hungry then?” 

“No, no, I am quite famished.” 

“Then, what is it? I thought you liked pasta?” 

“You thought I liked pasta?”

“Yeah. I also rather thought you didn’t like repeating yourself?”

“I was repeating what you said, Watson. I never said I liked pasta.” 

“Well, all you’ve been eating is that penne stuff lately, and I heard you did like it, so–” 

“Who exactly did you hear that from?”

“Stamford. Said something about you liking it back at uni.” 

“You’ve been digging into my history at university?” 

“Whoa—wait a mo’ there, that sounds way more sneaky and spy-y than what happened. We were talking about you—” 

“Oh, you were talking about me, and my eating habits when I was a student? I hope you feel enlightened now.” 

(Sounds of a chair pulling back, then cabinets being opened, water running, and a pot being settled on the hob.) 

“Sherlock… I’ve done something to upset you, haven’t I?” 

“Please, Watson, I am quite hungry, as I said. Thank you for your gesture, but I’ll be quite fine with my penne." (Sounds of a fridge door opening.) Wait, where’s the jar of tomato sauce I had in the fridge?” 

“Ummm, well, I sort of used it in the lasagna.” 

“Did you use it or not? It appears to have vanished.” 

“Yeh, it’s gone.” 

(Sounds of a chair being pulled out and Sherlock sinking back into it.)

“How about butter? I always love a bit of salt and butter on my pasta when I’m not feeling quite the thing.” 

“I suppose that will be acceptable.” 

“No, wait.” (Sounds of footsteps and a coat being grabbled.) “I’ll just pop down to Tesco and get a couple more jars of the sauce.” 

“Really, Watson, there’s no reason–”

“There really is. I wanted to make something special for you and all I did was end up ruining your dinner. It’s easy as pie to make it right. Just let me, okay?” 

“Well… I will enjoy the dish much more if there is sauce. Just the plain, however.” 

“No mushrooms? Peppers? Spicy red pepper with paprika?”

“Watson, I was feeling grateful but now you’re becoming tedious.” 

“Gotcha. Plain tomato sauce coming up.” 

(Sounds of feet running down stairs, followed by a door opening and being slammed shut in the distance.) 

(Sounds of fingers drumming on a table. A chair is pulled back, a lid removed from a pot and replaced. A long suffering sigh.)

(Sounds of a voice humming. Water starts to bubble.)

“At last!” 

(Sounds of jumping up from a chair. Pasta shakes in a box, and cardboard is torn open. The sounds of pasta being poured into a pot of water, just as a door is thrown open in the distance, slamming into a wall.)

“What is going on?!” (Mariana’s voice sounds distantly, coming up from the front hall of 221 Baker Street.) 

“Oh, sorry Mariana. Can’t talk.” (John’s voice is closer, as though he’s made it up a few stairs.)

“Is there a case?” 

“No, no, something much more important. Dinner!” 

(Sound of Mariana sighing.) “Dinner? You had me worried, John.” 

“Can’t chat, water boiling. ‘Ta.” 

(The sounds of feet clattering up the stairs sound, and then rapid breaths, a bit wheezy.) 

“Got ‘em! Here you are, mate. (A gasping breath ) Fresh from the Tesc. I believe these are from 2024. A very good vintage, if I do say so myself.” 

“Watson, you are being ridiculous. There is no particular advantage to having tomatoes packaged in this year over any other. The processing of the sauce makes it highly homogenized. One batch will taste much like any other.” 

“Yes, but if it came from last year, or the year before, it might well be off, so you’d likely not want to eat it, yes?” 

“Perhaps. But all this talking isn’t going to get me fed anytime soon.” 

“Oh, sorry, ‘course. Here we go, let me just—” (Sound of a pan clattering.)

“Please—let me. If you don’t mind. I just want to heat my sauce and eat in peace.” 

“Sure thing. Yeah. Well. Maybe I’ll just see if Mariana wants to eat some of this lasagna.” 

“Excellent idea.” 

“Well, alright then. I guess I’ll just go.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

(Sounds of Sherlock humming as John’s footsteps recede.) 

Chapter 6

“John! This is sooo delicious. Is that white wine I’m tasting?” 

“Yeah. Yup. ‘Tis. The mushrooms.” 

“Mmmm…. Thank you. This is really quite good. I wouldn’t have expected—” 

“No, guess you wouldn’t. I really put my back into it.” 

“That class really paid off.”

“Hmph. Yeah.” 

“Well, you don’t seem very happy with it. Aren’t you going to eat some?”

“I dunno. My heart’s not really in it anymore.” 

“Because Sherlock rejected it?” 

“He didn’t— It’s not that Sherlock rejected me—” 

“Whoa–whoa–whoa. I didn’t say he rejected you.” 

“The thing. The pasta. He didn’t..,well, I suppose he did reject the lasagna. But I thought he liked it!” 

“What exactly was it that Stamford said?” 

“Something like he had a thing for pasta at uni.” 

“That’s pretty vague really. There are a lot of types of pasta. Why did you think he would like this dish?”

“It’s all fancy. Like he’s been making for us. I figured he was down about the case, and not up to cooking something big. So, I thought I’d do it for him.”

“And, at any time, did you actually ask Sherlock what he wanted?”

“...” 

“I take that is a ‘no’?”

“Erm—” (Whistles.) “Correct. I did not ask him what he wanted.” 

“He’s been pretty clear. He wants tomato pasta. Penne.” 

“But this is clearly so much better.” 

“To who, John? To you?” 

“...” 

“Go talk to him.” 

“He just threw me out of the kitchen. I doubt he wants to talk to me right now.” 

“Was he angry about it?” 

“A little bit.” 

“Then all the more reason to talk. Maybe you need to apologize, maybe not. Find out.” 

(A big sigh.) 

Chapter 8

Summary:

John and Sherlock talk, and peace prevails.

Chapter Text

“Hello Watson! I’m feeling much better. Did you and Mariana enjoy the lasagna?” 

“Yeah. I’m glad to hear that. We did. And I’m sorry—” 

“What for?” 

“For...assuming you’d want the lasagna.” 

“That was odd.” 

“Are you still upset that Stamford and I talked about you?” 

“No, not really. I am a bit surprised.” 

“It was nothing bad. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to get some kind of intel about you.” 

“Well if you had been, Stamford wouldn’t be a terribly useful informant. You might try Victor next time. Or my brother. He’s well informed about most things and could detail quite a bit of my likes and dislikes from those years. Although, I’m not sure how useful any of that information would be to you, truly.” 

“No, Sherlock. I’ll not be asking Victor, or your brother. If I want to know what you were like at uni I’ll ask you.” 

“Hm. Well, I might prefer it if you do ask one of them. Not the best memories of that time.” 

“Oh. Was it…hard for you?” 

“Well, I didn’t graduate, and I had only one friend, and I never talk about it unless forced to do so. So that might tell you something.” 

“Jeez. Oof. Sorry, mate. I didn’t realize how bad it was.” 

“It was rather stressful.” 

“Oh! Is that why the pasta?” 

“Watson, that question makes no sense. There is not really a why relating to pasta. There might be a when, or a how. But why doesn’t make much sense for such a generic food stuff.” 

“No, I don’t mean all pasta. I mean your pasta. I take it you ate penne a lot in uni. And you’re doing it now again?” 

“Mm. Well, I did go through a phase where the tubetti lisci was my preference, but I’ve come to feel penne is superior once again.” 

“Is this something that makes you feel better when you’re out of sorts?” 

“Ye–Perhaps. It doesn’t exactly cheer me up. It’s more that it’s dependable.” 

“Because it’s always the same?” 

“Because it’s straightforward. There’s no surprises in it. I know I like the taste, and the texture, and I know that each bite I’ll have will be 100% what I want.” 

“No squishy mushrooms. No odd little nuggets of something.” 

(An unhappy grunt.) “Do we really need to talk about those things. I just had a very satisfying dinner.” 

“Oh, I’ll stop. ‘Course. But, so when you made those dishes for Mariana and me, was that just because you thought we’d like them?”

“No. Well, I did make them because you had indicated you liked those particular meals, but I chose the ones to make you’d both talked about that were also appealing to me. It’s a lot of effort to cook something like that, I’d like to enjoy it as well.” 

“I’m quite glad about that. I would have been sad if you’d been making it just because we wanted it but you hated the thing. I misunderstood, and thought that was the way you liked to eat, but were, maybe too depressed to have energy to cook it.” 

“I haven’t had energy to do that kind of cooking. I’m not depressed about the case.” 

“You’re not? You’ve been moping about, and turning down cases. Looks like depression to me.” 

“I’m considering.” 

“Considering, if you want to continue?” 

“More considering how I can avoid that kind of issue again.” 

“Mate, ya’ can’t.” 

“Well, that’s very reassuring.” 

(A half-bitten off laugh.) “I’m sorry. I’m not saying you’re a failure. I’m saying you’re human.” 

“But I’ve never had that kind of error creep in before.” 

“Never?” 

“Well, perhaps not never…” 

“You will be tired. You will be hungry. You will be sick. You will miss something.” 

“Unlikely.” 

(Chuckling.) “Once or twice. Here or there. You’ve said I’ve helped you out now and then, what’s that if not maybe not having it all 100% in your noggin.” 

“But I have your help now. And Mariana’s.” 

“And we’re extremely human as well.” 

“Oh, I know. Watson, you do realize that you snore, don’t you? You might wish to take your naps up in your bedroom.” 

“Thanks for that. I never got complaints in the barracks.” 

“That is because everyone snores or something, and in that situation there is no real remedy, so what do you expect?”

“We’re getting off track here. This is not about my sleeping patterns.”

“But you will nap in your room?” 

“Sure, fine. Whatever. But are you feeling depressed?”

“Perhaps.” 

“Well, I’d like to help. Somehow.” 

(Sherlock takes a deep breath and releases it with a sigh.)

“You are, Watson.” 

“By making you lasagna that disgusts you so much I can’t even talk about it and making you think that I’m spying on you by chatting to your old friends?”

“Nooot really either of those things. But you are here. And you tried to do something nice. That is greatly appreciated.” 

“Glad to. On both counts.” 

“And you are dependable.” 

(A chuckle.) “Like your next bite of manky pasta?” 

“It’s not manky. You’re not gross.”

“I’m simple then? Like a tubal li-whatever you called it?” 

“Tubetti lisci. No. You’re much more like a penne. Smooth, durable, but with a bit of a nice point at each end. A little bit of texture, a little bit of bite. And you take the sauce so well.” 

“I have no idea what any of this all means. Is that good?” 

“Excellent, Watson. You may not have the complexity of something like your lasagna there, but I always know what I am getting, and I always know that I will like the next bite.” 

“Aw, thanks.” 

“And I am very glad you made the lasagna.”

“Even though it made you want to sick up?”

“It didn’t.” 

“Admit it, it did a bit.”

“A bit.” 

“But you’re still glad?”

“Well, you and Mariana enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We really did. Well, she did. I wasn’t really feeling it. My appetite was a bit off after making you so cranky.” 

“Are you feeling better now?” 

“I am. And I am feeling a bit more hungry.” 

“Then why don’t you heat some up. I’m thinking I may have a second helping of my pasta and it might be...nice to eat with you, too.” 

“One re-heated plate of lasagna coming up.”

“It’s nice that even though I am not feeling up to doing something for you both, I can still enjoy seeing you have something you like to eat.” 

“Is that why you did it?”

“Well, of course. I didn’t cook things you didn’t like to watch you get sick on them.” 

“No, I mean you wanted to see us like the food. And even if you didn’t make it, it still makes you happy.” 

“Why did you want to make the lasagna for me, Watson?”

“Ah. Yeah. Same reason. See you happy. Right.” 

“Right.”

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” 

“Why are we talking about geese now?”

“Forget it.” 

“I’d rather not forget something else presently.” 

“Oh. Sorry, wrong turn of phrase. Suppose it might be nice to forget about the case though. Or uni.” 

“Unlikely.”

“At least you won’t forget me, or Mariana anytime soon.” 

“That is true, Watson. I find you both, rather unforgettable.” 

“Cheers. Want me to heat that up for you, too?”

“Please.” 

______

Check it out on AO3 too!

[allieinarden]

Been thinking on how Maggie would technically still be a brand new member of the Simpson family if the timeline wasn't however many seasons long. Don't know what to do with those thoughts but I have been having them.

I’m so glad you brought this up because it happens to be something I think about continuously. I need everybody to embrace my theory of The Simpsons where the family having an unexpected brand-new member is fundamental to all of the characters as we’re currently (constantly) perceiving them:

Marge’s difficulties with her, up to this point, uneventful marriage (tempted to have an affair a few episodes in!) are the result of all her hormones still resettling combined with the stress of the pregnancy itself where Homer struggled to come to terms with the fact that he had to go back to his old job, and wasn’t very emotionally supportive as a result. As her older two children grow up, she’s gaining a sense of her identity outside of motherhood, while the new baby is simultaneously tying her more closely to the heart of her home than ever. She’s both more rooted and more unsettled than she’s ever been before and that conflict is reflected in her episodes.

In the episode “Lisa the Simpson” we’re told that Bart was a good student when he was in Lisa’s year, before his grades took a rapid dive from which they never recovered. The episode attributes this to a “Simpson gene” which makes all the male members of the Simpson family lose their intelligence at the age of eight. I have not lost my intelligence and think it’s very obvious that Bart is still trying to recover from all the aforementioned sources of stress that would have occurred right around that exact point in time. He faced some upheaval shortly before we met him and the Bart we know now is still trying to get his head above water.

Lisa tends to feel neglected and overlooked, identifies herself with her intelligence to the point where she has an identity crisis any time she’s not the smartest person in the room, and is constantly embarking on socially disruptive moral crusades. All of the above are clearly the actions of a child who was the baby of the family for most of her life and is now actively engaged in determining her value beyond that designation.

And finally, Homer’s contribution to his family up to this point has been completely based on his role as the provider, having spent the better part of the past decade since he and his high school sweetheart had that accidental pregnancy paying off the family’s debts and looking forward to the time when he had definitively done right by them and could transition to a lower-paying job without worry. Instead, the presence of yet another unexpected baby and his transition to the role of safety inspector have forced him to an awareness of the fact that his responsibility is ongoing, that his other two children—at ages eight and ten—aren’t babies anymore, that it’s no longer going to be enough to clock in every day to provide for them and then clock out and nurse a well-earned beer, that they now need him in a way they didn’t before and that leaving all the parenting to Marge is no longer going to be enough. I think that this reflects a reality of life for many working parents whose primary duty hasn’t been at home, until suddenly their home starts to demand them. That’s why The Simpsons doesn’t take place in 1989 or 2024 or any year in between, it takes place in the year that Homer Simpson becomes a father.

[morsesnotes]

I found this interview from when Shaun Evans was promoting S3 of Endeavour in 2016 and thought it was one of the more interesting ones as he gets asked some different questions. I particularly liked seeing him talk a bit about his peers and how he views his career.

Shaun Evans talks Endeavour series three, Hollywood and whether he'd star in Doctor Who

As Morse returns, the star of the hit ITV drama reveals what's next for his career By David Brown - Radio Times

Falsely accused Endeavour Morse was last seen languishing in a prison cell after being framed for murder. But fans of the hit ITV drama needn't despair - Shaun Evans is back on the case for a third series beginning this evening. Here, the actor talks about life as the Oxford detective, why Morse has endured for four decades and what the future holds...

So what has brought you back to Endeavour for a third series? I didn't feel like we should have left it where we did last time. It would have been odd. As a viewer, I would have been dissatisfied to have left it there because you'd have only been telling half the story. Luckily enough, we had the opportunity to come back to do some more and I think the stories are really good - particularly the final one. It goes along at a lick. It's a bank heist but it's also a love story. And it's heartbreaking. I think it's great and it ends in a really satisfying way.

The character of Morse has now been around for 40 years - why has he endured? A good story well told will stand the test of time. And if you throw in an unusual character - someone who is in a world but not of that world - then that's intriguing.

The original series of Inspector Morse did episodes in Australia and Italy - would you like to do an overseas Endeavour? Well, they keep telling me that the character is going to Spain. But I can take myself to Malaga. I'm joking, but I'm being honest too. There is a Spanish idea, but I'd want it to be right. I don't want this job to be a jolly or something that we take for granted and phone in. There are so many variables to that kind of thing: would the locations be as good? Or the actors? Granted, it would be a laugh to go away with Roger Allam, but would it serve the show?

Does Endeavour Morse become more like you as the series goes on? I think that’s a danger, definitely. The more comfortable and confident you get with something, the easier it could be to be less diligent about creating a character. But then you’d be taking shortcuts that you might not have done three years ago. So I try not to be complacent about it. I want to be even more diligent than I was when I started. But I admit that it's a tricky one.

Having a two-hour slot for a drama seems like a privilege these days - do you worry that viewers' attention spans could be too short to cope? I don’t worry about it at all. I feel like the work we’ve done so far has been very good. Some have been better than others - as would be the case. But I feel pleased with it. Now if audiences change and they feel that the episodes are too long, boring or complicated, then we’ll just stop. That’s OK. But I've seen some crime dramas that try to tell the story in an hour and, for me, it just doesn't work.You’re tyring to set up a killer, set up a world, solve it in an interesting or dynamic way and put in some character stuff as well. It’s nigh on impossible to do in an hour. I don’t think you can do it in a satisfying way. That’s my impression as an audience member.

Fans would be up in arms if you decided to stop Endeavour! No. I don't think that'd happen. It's just work. And they'd just fill it with something else. There'll be another brilliant show.

I think you'd make an ideal Doctor Who - would you like to play that role one day? I’ve never seen it! I think Matt Smith is a brilliant actor. And David Tennant also. But it just wasn’t my thing growing up and I feel like I’ve missed it now. I was in Moscow a few months ago and someone asked me about Doctor Who. And she thought I'd make a good Master. So if you’re offering me a part, then I’ll play the Master.

What about playing James Bond? Well, everyone wants to play James Bond, right? He always gets the girl at the end. And in the middle. And at the beginning, come to think of it. But I think that Daniel Craig would be a tough act to follow. He brings something really interesting to it.

Do you ever look at contemporaries like Benedict Cumberbatch and Eddie Redmayne and think, 'I'd like top billing in a Hollywood movie'? I know both those lads and I like them. But I never really think of my career like that. Of course, you want people to see your work, but I'm not interested in being the next so-and-so. It doesn't attract me. Mainly because it's short lived. It's better to keep working and do interesting stuff.

So being a big Hollywood star isn't all it's cracked up to be? I don't know. I suppose if you had enough clout to guarantee finance for a story you wanted to tell, then that would be a good thing. From a business point of view. But I don't spend my time being envious. There are so many variables in all that bollocks! When you desire fame or fortune - which are ephemeral things - you're building your house on sand, aren't you?

Do you have a dream project that you'd like to do? I'd love to do something about poets or photographers who have done interesting things and left an impression on their portion of the world. Someone like the American photographer Walker Evans. Or the French poet Arthur Rimbaud. 

So what's next for you? I'm purposefully having some time off. I've been busy and I'd like a bit of time to read some books and just study. I want to educate myself on writers, photography, filmmaking and poetry. I'm very lucky that I've now got enough money to have a bit of time to myself and study. I'm very lucky to be in that position.

[shyday-ao3]

1000 scribbled words to nowhere, a Ripper Street mini sickfic offered up as brief distraction from the events of rl. apparently this is what i'm doing for novella november. hopefully someone enjoys it.

Jackson's not in the best mood when he gets to the crime scene, having been rousted rather rudely from his bed. Another body, the uniform had said, refusing any further detail. The kid was green in more than just experience, but he'd gotten his point across and stood firm behind it. The American was summoned. To decline an unacceptable option.

He greets Reid and Drake without really looking their way, not bothering to temper his annoyance. There's a headache lurking behind his eyes, the result of too much gin and not enough sleep. His focus is only on the body and how quickly he can get out of here. He crouches beside the dead man, already pretty damn sure of the cause of death. Drake wanders off into the adjoining room.

Reid clears his throat. "Strangulation, then? As with the others?"

"Yeah, and you didn't need me here to tell you that."

"Perhaps not. But, as you are here, I wonder if you might not do your job and see if he has anything new to share with us."

Jackson prickles under the tone. "Sure, Reid. Simple as that."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I need to get him to the deadroom where I can do a proper autopsy. Meaning I could've just as easily met you at the station in a couple of hours. Meaning I didn't need to be dragged from–" The litany is interrupted when he glances up to see that the inspector has a white-knuckled grip on one of the wooden chairs. "Reid?"

"Mmm?" The response is as distant as his gaze. Jackson frowns, gets to his feet.

"You feeling all right?" It's his first good look at the man since he got here, and he doesn't like what he sees. Pale yet sweating, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He touches the back of his wrist to Reid's forehead. "You're burning up."

"Irrelevant. We have work."

"Sit," Jackson says. Surprisingly, Reid obeys. "Your wife let you out of the house like this?"

"My wife… has other concerns." He stares through the body on the floor. It takes him a long moment to blink. "As do we." He makes no movement to get up.

"Symptoms, Reid."

"Irritation," he murmurs. "Impatience."

"Funny. Nausea? Cough? Dizziness?"

"Captain. It is a minor inconvience. Right now we have a murderer to catch; your talents would best be served toward that end."

"Lucky I can handle focusing on both. Why don't you let me and Drake finish up here, and you can head home?"

Reid shakes his head. "Impossible."

Jackson lights a cigarette. "Gonna take me at least a couple of hours for your autopsy. I can send someone with word when I get it done."

"No," Fingers rub at his forehead. "If this is indeed part of a pattern, we have seventy-two hours until the next victim is found. There is no time to waste."

"Ain't nobody suggesting we do so. Just a break, Reid."

Drake returns to the room; Reid pushes to his feet. "Unneccessary, Captain. Sergeant, report."

"A boot print in the outer room. Looks could be a match for the one found at the first scene."

"Show me." They exit the room together.

Jackson turns back to the body, resumes his superficial examination. Defensive wounds on the hands; a new development, and one that gives him hope he might find some evidence under the man's short fingernails. He's inspecting one of those hands in the light from the window when he hears the sounds of a scuffle in the next room.

"Reid? Drake?"

No answer. The room devoid of everything but the disturbed dust settling in striated sunbeams. The door is ajar, however; Jackson draws his pistol and pushes through. Out front he finds both of his colleagues. One empties his stomach onto the cobblestones beside the stairs.

"Christ, Reid. Go home."

"No." Bracing himself with an arm on the brick wall, he holds a handkerchief to his lips. "There's a killer stalking my streets."

Jackson shares a look with Drake. Shrugs. "Well I'm ready to get out of here whenever you are."

Pale as paper, Reid rests his head on his arm. "Very good," he exhales, as if his breakfast wasn't splattered on the ground in front of his feet. "We go to Lehman Street." He doesn't look particularly inclined to move.

"Sure, Reid. Whatever you say."

Two hours later, he's finished the autopsy; a scrub and a smoke and he's headed up the stairs to Reid's office. The blinds are closed, as is the door. With a perfunctory knock, the captain lets himself in. The inspector's head comes up from the desk so quickly that it rustles his papers.

"Jackson." It's rough, slowed. "You have news."

"Not really. Just that your killer might be sporting some fresh scratches courtesy of our man downstairs." He slumps into the chair on the other side of Reid's desk. Lights a new cigarette. "Not much use for finding him, but it should help if you do."

Reid groans, rubs his eyes. Two bright spots high on his cheekbones – the only color to his face – tell Jackson that he's still got the fever. "Nothing else?"

"Oily spot on his sleeve, near the elbow. I'm cooking it." Tugging at his tie, the inspector clears his throat. Swallows. "You gonna be sick again?" Jackson asks.

"No." As if he can simply will it to be so.

"If you don't plan on going home, why don't you make use of that cot you've got there." He nods toward the small bed. "I'll tell Artherton not to let anyone up."

Reid looks at the cot for so long that the captain thinks that he might give in. "No, I…"

"Any break in the case and I'll be right up here to get you," Jackson adds "You have my word."

A moment more and he nods heavily, a testament no doubt to what ails him over Jackson's persuasive skills. The American doesn't care.

He sees Reid settled. Closes the door.

[dykedvonte]

write post about the tulpar crew working at like waffle house also you opinion on what brand of soap they use

Soap first:

Anya washes with dove bar soap first, cucumber cool moisture. Uses one of the Neutrogena liquid soaps like the brown rain bath. Unscented lotions or balms and a very light perfume, thinking something vanilla like or a shea butter. Over the counter cheap perfume that’s a bit to alcoholish but it suits her in a clinical way.

Curly is like high maintenance shower guy. Started because an ex put him onto it and now it's a routine. Special face soap and exfoliating hand brush, bodywash that is way too expensive but he feels dirty without it. Has like a lot of serums and a body oil lotion combo that he has that makes him smell really nice. All of it is uncommon and you need to go to a specific place to get them. Not excessive but he starts tweaking if he runs out of one mid routine.

Daisuke is just as bad as Curly. His bathroom looks like a bath and bodyworks display front. Has a bath bomb for the day, uses a like honey dew mask and soaks. Long as showers and has a teeth cleaning kit. He stare at 9 and isn’t done until 11. Cherry Blossom lotion you can smell him a miles away before you see his ass.

Jimmy uses either unscented dial or Irish springs. Maybe even like the aqua bars from dollar tree. No towel or luffa or anything just rubs his on his hands then washes with the lather. None descript deodorant, mixes with his smell in a weird way. Is the type to do it all at once in the shower, teeth, hair, nails. It’s like all jacked in a way. Shaves his razor blade rarely but thinks his shave is clean always.

Swansea uses like man scents. Sandalwood and driftwood soaps standard rag. Likes to stand in the water, cold shower guy surprisingly, his wife hates it, she never wants to shower with him. No cologne and uses like Old spice because it reminds him of his youth in a nostalgic way. Smells like old man naturally so he just smells like a freshly reupholstered chair and sweat.

Waffle House time:

Anya is the hostess super good at her job but has issues because the waiter is shit and the kitchen is run worse than dashcon. Has ignored a family to rearrange one stack of menues and trips on the grease stains a lot.

Daisuke is the waiter and bus boy and tends to talk and forget about his tables. Once sat and ate off a customers plate with them, whether they enjoyed the company or not doesn’t matter this is a Waffle House

Curly is the manager and is usually dealing with complaints and files in the office. Has had to facilitate more fights after Jimmy was hired but business has improved subsequently…

You’ll see him crying in a booth but he’s real good at acting normal for the customer. Sits with costumers to and it’s awkward cause he’s way too nice to be there.

Jimmy’s the supervisor and cook. He makes the shittiest food that only tastes good if ur coming in shitfaced at like 2 am. Hears a complaint and comes out grease pan in hand ready to “take criticism”

Swansea works there but what he does is between him and god. Sits in a booth playing solitaire and if you come and ask him for anything he mentions how I he did his time for this shift and he’s on an extended break. Treats the fights like a show and dinner.

They stay open even if they actually reach Waffle House’s huricxan threshold

If Curly or Swansea come in to break up a fight everyone scatters like rats

They all chain smoke and hide it from each other. Only Curly really cares because someone (Jimmy) is smoking in the kitchen. Yes he’s blowing it onto the food.

The crash was Jimmy putting ice in the air fryer and it did hurt Curly but like he’s regularly fine they just put him in the office cause there’s still the hurricane outside

I feel like they are in like West Virginia idk just seems isolated enough. I like the idea this could only happen if they are all southern

The restaurant is infested with many things but the health inspectors can’t rip the B rating off so they just say fuck it

Combined with the soap I think the safest thing to eat at the Waffle House is like ice from the bin but by the time it gets to ur table it likely has like mold spores on it.

[jediofbooksandsnacks]

This is from something saved in my drafts under the title Only An Afternoon. It is, generally speaking, a hot fictional mess but! I decided to post a snippet to celebrate Kogami's birthday. It happens during when he goes to pick up Akane from the detention center and deliver her to the CID. I mean, what must have been going through his head? Delivering her to the place he had escaped from? Just: *chef's kiss*

Enjoy your fictional cake my fictional blorbo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 7 minutes to 11 am when Kogami arrived at the detention center.

The SUV was a loaner from SAD, a car that boasted all of the tech from a few years ago. The self-driving setting often didn’t work. The AC was perpetually on the fritz. Plus, the radio was stuck on one Sibyl-approved station that played the greatest hits of the past three decades, all padded by fill chatter from the DJ. At least the radio had distracted him as he drove over. When he parked, he clicked it off before he shut down the car. Silence surrounded him, both a blessing and a curse.

It was probably a curse. Consider this: a former Inspector turned Enforcer turned renegade turned SAD agent picking up his own former Inspector turned psycho-prisoner turned statutory Enforcer for delivery to the CID. Irony lived in there, somewhere.

A tug on the handle popped the car door open. Sunlight bathed him in midday gold as he got out, the discord both startling and astute. A breeze tugged at his hair, the same breeze carrying the falling flowers from the sakura trees down to their doom. Nature mocking her with its own beauty as the MWPSB doors inevitably swung shut behind her. Another irony. Soon he could start a collection.

The door closed with a thunk. The fingers of his right hand twitched for a cigarette.

Maybe just one. Hell, he’d smoked in the office, in his MWPSB room, even in her own car. Maybe it would calm the unsettled feeling in his stomach. No sense delaying it till later.

The one thing that held him off lighting up and sucking it down with determined gusto was this: Akane would know. It was dumb, but there it was. Gods, he was just like a kid back in school, not wanting to do anything to make his favorite teacher mad. Which said some fucked up stuff about how he thought of this relationship.

That door didn’t open until it was 11:06, and when it did—

Professionalism in an emergency was the whole point of his job. He’d helped crying children escape from a burning bus, taken action to aid troops advancing within a killing zone, hell, he’d even escaped his own CID captors in SEAUn. Yet, nothing had prepared him for seeing Akane come out of that hellhole and emerge into the shade of the detention center monolith.

He stood. His heart pounded in his chest. Goddammit it all to hell. He really would need a cigarette when this was done.

Brown eyes went wide when they saw him as surprise took over. There were no words he could think of at that moment. In fact, everything he wanted to say existed in the curve of the shadow on her face and was contained in her eyes. Finally, he said, “I’m here to get you.”

It was not the most gallant thing he could think to say, but this was not exactly the most gallant of situations.

Akane’s face relaxed into a smile, a smile thankfully not separated from him by a pane of bulletproof glass and under the dim lighting from the cells’ interior. Aware that he, too, was absorbing absolutely everything about her, he broke his eyes away. The pavement looked cracked beneath his shoes. “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” A broad smile beamed across her face as she took the steps downwards, her hair blowing in the mild breeze. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“Is food all that’s on your mind right now?” The double entendre took a second to catch up, good god dammit. But it was a reasonable question, after all: the deal that had been struck, the machinations behind this, everything was so far unclear to him. Honestly, he’d give anything for a line into what was going on at the CID and save the sexual harassment call from HR for later.

Sunlight traced the lines of her face and was dimmed by her grin. Maybe it was jealous that he was there to pick up a more powerful force of nature. “Treat me to something.”

He had to stop himself from letting his mind wander into the gutter. As he cleared his throat, he reached for her duffel. “Yes, ma’am.”

[starkraivennemad]

Roads Travelled

Anyone who claimed to know Mycroft Holmes well will tell you he is a cold-hearted man. Crystal cold and hard as a diamond. His cold blue-grey eyes miss little and can cut one down with a mere flick of a brow more than any diatribe could.  A man of true genius level intelligence who considers most of the world to be goldfish in comparison. They will tell you this because only a hard cold man could do his job.

A thankless, ruthless clandestine job dealing in the backend shadow world of politics – in the secret rooms where things really happen. Rooms that the world at large is much better off not knowing exists.  A tall, elegant man of three-piece bespoke suits and shoes who prefers pocket to wrist watches. he carries himself as one above it all and he will frankly tell you he is.  And while none of this is a lie, it is not entirely the truth.

And there are exactly three people he knows for a fact loves him and has that love reciprocated: his parents, and despite the façade they present to the world that it is otherwise, his younger brother, Sherlock.

At least until very recently that is.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Mycroft hissed at the sharp pain swiftly delivered to his ankle via the shoe of his dinner companion. 

Mycroft can scarce believe there was a time he loathed Gregory Lestrade’s presence. Now he cannot get enough of seeing the detective inspector. And he would not lie to himself that he would not mind seeing more of the man. But he knew men like Gregory: intelligent, solid, trustworthy, salt of the earth, and inherently good; would not have interest in a stalwart, cold fish genius such as himself. So, Mycroft kept his feeling to himself. The hard-won friendship forged over the years with him was more than he ever dreamed. He accepted this was as good as it could get, he dared not wish for me.

Though he could have done without the swift kick, even if he did deserve it for comparing a horrid tie Gregory once owned to the color of infant upswallow.

“Did what?” Gregory looked him blatantly in the face with all the innocence he could. It was an innocence belied by warm socked foot that then soothed the kicked area.

A stunned Mycroft found himself frozen in place as the same foot went from soothing the sore area from through his trouser, to lifting the trouser to making contact directly. “And I really cannot believe you’re doing that!”

“You’re imagining things, mate.” Gregory sipped his water with the same innocence as he removed his foot altogether. “I don’t know what will happen, but perhaps you need to ease up on the wine.”

Mycroft grabbed his serviette, nearly choking on his own water at the inelegant snort that bubbled forth from Gregory at Mycroft’s look of incredulousness. Neither man had touched a drop of alcohol. In fact, none was on the table.

With a shock the enormity of what Gregory had done, and that he had allowed it, hit him. He allowed it because he secretly wanted it. The serviette then hid the partial flush that surfaced when forced to admit to himself that he missed the warm socked toes that rubbed along his leg and longed for that contact again.

Along with some other places he had had been recently wishing the detective inspector would make contact.

Then he realized: Gregory Lestrade openly flirted(!) with HIM!

And Mycroft’s world shifted on its axis as he stared at the man.

“Oooh… I could be wrong, Mycroft, but you look like you could use a sip now.” Gregory raised a hand and ordered two glasses of scotch.

“Epiphanies by law should automatically drop with a healthy serving of alcohol.” Mycroft mused.

“Oh?” Gregory raised a curious brow. “And what epiphany has yon mind break?”

For the briefest of moments Mycroft considered subterfuge. To hide behind the wall of friendship.

But it was Gregory who sledgehammered that wall with a mere socked toe. He knew the man well enough to understand Gregory would have never done so were he not already sure of his footing so to speak.

The next step had to be his.

“That I want to travel a road…” Mycroft looked to Gregory with a soft smile. ”And you reciprocate.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment – their truths quietly laid bare between them.

“I… I’ve known of my want for nearly a year.” Gregory finally admitted shyly. “I did not know for sure that I cracked the crystal until just now.”

“Cracked the crystal? Gregory, I think I would know if you’ve ever…” Mycroft was about to insist he has never been kissed by Gregory ever, let alone anything more just now when that warm foot made contact once more in a slow slide that again raised his trouser leg and teased the shin. “…oh.”

“Indeed.” Gregory winked saucily. “I believe I have your atten- Oh!”

Mycroft enjoyed the sound of Greg’s light gasp of surprise when he reached down and grabbed his foot by the ankle. Greg tried to pull his foot back, but Mycroft had a solid hold. He waited and watched as Greg’s warm eyes grew dark at the show of strength. Mycroft then gently rested Greg’s foot upon his knee and stroked along the calf under the trousers. He knew Greg was aware he could easily move his foot away, but does not.

“I believe I have your attention.” Mycroft raised an auburn brow as two glasses of very expensive scotch was placed before them.

Gregory always sat akimbo in an armless seat and Mycroft took complete advantage.

He waited until the glass touched Greg’s lip and grinned evilly as he placed own his socked foot onto Greg’s chair where one could not possibly mistake his intent as he ran his socked foot along Greg’s inner thigh and stopped just short of the man’s crotch.

“...Indeed, you do…” Greg said carefully.

The two quietly sipped their drinks.

Greg scooted down slightly in the seat, his movements smooth, as he pressed his crotch unto Mycroft’s foot. Their eyes did not break contact as an emboldened Mycroft, of course, felt – everything.

“If I asked something of you, Mycroft, would you grant it?” Greg asked with a heated look that pinned Mycroft in place.

His foot stilled. He did not give it a second’s thought before he responded, “Anything…”

Greg ran his tongue along the lip of his glass before he spoke. “I want to know what you look like naked in the moonlight when your toes curl and your palms are filled with sheets gripped tight.”

There were many, many, oh so many things Mycroft Holmes has imagined Gregory Lestrade would say to him.

That was not even close.

But oh, it was better. So much better.

“Mine is a road upon which few have travelled.” Mycroft quietly admitted. “And not in recent years.”

“I like that the road is less travelled… As is mine.” Greg considered Mycroft’s words, “Yours is a road that I have longed to travel for some time. But none will travel your roads like me.”

“I reciprocate…” Mycroft smiled warmly at the man who smiled shyly at him. “It is a road that has awaited your travel for some time.”

By silent agreement, feet were lowered and placed back into their respective shoe as Mycroft signaled for the check.

By morning both roads were quite travelled.

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

Read/Comment on AO3

Facebook Mystrade is Our Division #mystradedialogueprompt: "I don't know what will happen."

Also to include lines from a poem by Tyler Knott Gregson: Typewriter Series #693

[ewesless]

Found a Drabble in my Notes App #1

Finished it!

Original Note: Barbatos has been meaner than usual because the dumbasses surrounding him have been dumber assed than usual so time for a fluffy fix fic of everyone getting along!

Summary: Mammon, Leviathan and Barbatos open a food truck together.

Genre: Fluff, Food, Comedy... sort of

No pairings, GN!MC mentioned in a non-romantic way, Levi's fanboy kokoro doki dokis briefly because of Barb.

Levi got the idea from watching a series about a character who braved leaving her soul destroying corporate job to follow her dream of having a food truck.

Mammon helps him out because he is entrepreneurially savvy and can see the Grimm avalanche on the horizon. He provides the truck by cashing in on a favor.

MC is about to leave season finale style, but as an alternative to a sad and withdrawn goodbye they team up to teach them about Tex-Mex cuisine and help them get their food stall up and running.

They serve Street Tacos, Burritos and Tamales, traditional Mexican food, desserts, drinks, imported popular snacks and other deliciousness. Since Human culture and food is always a huge hit the exotic Human World food and Demon Fusion Cuisine is taking the Devildom by storm. (If I recall correctly Mammon got street tacos for he and MC, with grub sauce on his or something?)

Things are going pretty damn good, but then they get in serious trouble for having an illegal food truck (M: Wha?!? That guy lent it to me as a favor! L: Lololol Mammon nobody owes you favors!) and working without a foodhandling license.

Barbatos to the rescue. He had been out shopping and was observing the fiasco so he steps in and has a conversation with the Health Inspector about their options. He presents the bros with a one of a kind opportunity: "If I like your food then I shall acquire the truck and ensure that it is up to code, acquire all necessary permits, kitchen equipment, and ingredients for the two of you to remain in business.

Think "The Bear" meets "Ratatouille" (with no rodents of course) Turns out their stuff is the freaking bomb. Or as Diavolo once said (sic) "bussing". It completely knocked Barbatos's socks off. He is particularly impressed with their ultra flavorful, super slow simmered zebra barbacoa (their idea because they figured Barbatos Barbacoa would be a subliminal positive association for him too) and Mammon's salsa recipe that is made with the peppers used in Hellsauce.

Now that Barbatos has joined their team they become gods among chefs. Celebrities visit, it becomes a must have for travelers, Mephistopheles covers their story extensively and proudly and does an exclusive interview (but edits it equally extensively because Leviathan spent all his time talking about the anime and its manga) Asmo does lots of photos and designs their logo, uniforms, menu and social media page, Beel generously provides the funding for the ingredients so that he can eat without getting chased off)

It's when Diavolo and Lucifer come during a slow night and dine with them that it really drives home how well they've done.

Lucifer compliments them all on the food, acknowledges their hard work and success, how well behaved Levi and especially Mammon have been because they're hyperfocused and motivated. And he's also very proud of them for getting along too. (Both fight to hold back the tears and sniffles.)

Diavolo's glowing praise of Barbatos (as well as the bros) sends Barbatos into a blushing fit because he's being praised in front of everyone present. He can barely keep his pokerface up because he keeps breaking into a smile. (Leviathan goes 💓 because of his blushing face and genuine smile)

They have had an incredibly successful summer with the truck. Now that the season is changing trends change with it and new anime is released. Levi's infatuation ends and he gets into a series about Badminton. Mammon's taken his share already and he's been skimming off theirs. Barbatos had one too many frustrating encounters with Beelzebub sneaking back in line by wearing disguises and claiming he's getting them for his Fangol clubmates or someone else since he has a strict limit of items since it's part of the first come, first serve appeal.

It's officially over. A farewell is celebrated and the truck is closed.

When Season 2 of Levi's food truck show rolls around he reaches out to them about it.

"What do you say about reopening the food truck again? Maybe for a few months a year. Oh, how about a different cuisine each time?"

Though they won't openly admit it, they each realized they'd really missed it. Working together had been satisfying and they discovered that they enjoyed each others conpany and the new respect for one another.

End...?

[penig]

So we're having a rough summer and I haven't been talking about it because why brood but it's different when you talk about people being nice. So, thumbnail sketch:

We finally (as I've been wanting to do for years) got an estimate on getting the house rewired (pretty sure some of the original wiring installed in 1910 is in use) and partially replumbed (can't use the shower tub because the iron pipes are too clogged), and the paperwork for the loan took forever, and then a high wind came along (on my birthday) and dropped a dead redbud tree on our porch and a large branch on our car, which was totaled, and we had to buy a new (used) car and get a tree service to come out and take care of the fallen wood and trim the trees so no more wood falls, but the cost to take care of the big branch and woodpecker damaged tree in the back yard was more than we could afford with the car business, but that could wait a few months assuming no more high winds come along; and the loan comes through and we get the car squared away and the tree service is scheduled to come and we're starting to breathe again -

And I spy somebody putting what I recognize as a code violation notice on the front gate so I open the door and come out to tell her that if this is about the redbud tree on the porch we've already scheduled the work and she says: "It's everything on the lot. Cut it down to 12 inches. You have ten days" So I point out that most of the tall stuff is legal garden plants that should not be pruned in August, that it's two years since I've been physically capable of doing yardwork of any kind, that the work she's demanding is impossible in that time frame and oh yes, it's August, in Texas, with triple digit temperatures predicted for the foreseeable future and it could very well kill me to try. She thought there might be a local program to help me (No; they're all for structural work) and wouldn't budge. So that was like being shoved back underwater when we'd almost crawled out on shore.

But we put out a call to our friends, and people came over Saturday and did miracles, and almost every day this week somebody has come over (in addition to the people putting holes in our walls and ceilings and arguing over how to run the wires and occasionally turning pale at what they find) to help me in the mornings before the third digit kicked in. We did not, of course prune any of the poor heat stressed legal plants, but great inroads were made on the rest of it, and one friend even cut up the big branch in the back yard and the tree service people hauled it off, along with a collapsed picnic table which they told me, when they quoted the price for this small secondary job, that they would not take.

This morning I could barely move. I'm getting a lot of pain in the good leg as well as the bad leg, and in my back, plus I was just weak with heat and tiredness, and for the first time in almost a year I decided I'd better break out the cane again, at least to take the stairs and walk in the yard to discuss with the friend who came today, the last day before the inspection, where best to put his effort (because it was plain to both of us that I wasn't lifting a finger) in order to convince the inspector that we really had done the best we could and to let the stuff we couldn't get to slide until fall and spring.

And I guess one of the workmen noticed the cane, and noticed that the handrail on the upper staircase had pulled out of the wall on one end (it had been anchored to the sheetrock, not the wall proper; the other end was anchored in paneling and was fine; this happened a couple of months ago and we had bigger worries), and just - fixed it. Because it's certainly fixed now. As is typical in Texas most of the workmen are people I can't even talk to because my Spanish is as bad as their English, so it's not as if we've made friends with them. And I didn't see it done, nor did the foreman know who did it when I brought it up and asked him to thank whoever it was, so it wasn't somebody looking to make points. They just saw a chance to do a small simple thing to benefit a total stranger, and did it.

The point here being that two people - whoever called in the code complaint (seriously, that should be illegal in August, at least for yard code with no clear and present danger) and the city employee who wouldn't listen to reason - went out of their way to force me to focus on the least pressing problem facing us right now at the expense of my own well-being. But they are far, far outnumbered by the people who have gone out of their way to help us, just because we needed help.

So, suck it, cynicism!