#though the pedantic part of me once again wants to point out that the ghost chasers are *not* actual detectives

[ghostchasersmagazine]

A reference to Goober and the Ghost Chasers, The Amazing Chan and the Chan Clan, and The Funky Phantom in The Batman & Scooby Doo Mysteries Vol. 2 Issue #8 "Scooby-Doo or Scooby-Don't?"

[octalove]

VIII: Struck by Lightning

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader makes a confession, and goes on a date. Previous.

TW: Brief mention of gore (just blood)

In the weeks succeeding the Little Italy mission, I found a rhythm in the two conflicting heartbeats of my life. Occasionally, I met with Jason to file down the multitude of criminals who opposed him (it wasn’t all rescuing orphans and kittens, but his justice was fair and swift), and other than that, I carried on with life as normal; both as myself, and Batgirl. It was an inconsistent, exciting balancing act.

I tried to humor Bruce’s transparent attempts to placate me with cold cases, deeming it study. My school work had unsurprisingly lost its appeal, and I found myself rocking in the river banks of what was sure to be a failing grade in most of my classes- though I had yet to run ashore. Yet.

I danced along, despite my reprisal (a lack of sleep, and white lies on either side), and overall there was a certain stalemate. With that, peace. Or at least, the closest I could get.

On a Saturday I happened to have free (to my great relief), I woke up at one in the afternoon, to a blessedly dim day that kept the light in my room dark enough to cradle my lie-in.

I washed the sleep from my face, and stumbled downstairs, muscles sore from a Thursday night mission with Jason at the Port (of which I told my family I was going to a party). Tim was the only one in the kitchen- looking like he, too, had just crawled out of bed. He was eating cereal in silence.

We hadn’t been avoiding each other, per say- just got wrapped up in our own routines. Routines that kept me out of the house, and him trapped within it.

“Morning.” I said.

“Mm.” He replied.

I poured out my own bowl of cereal and settled on top of the glossy white granite. It was kind of a running joke at the Wayne household that you could sit anywhere but the chairs. Even Damian picked up on it- and, naturally, he was the best at it- perching his lithe little form atop the fridge at one point.

Now, Tim and I sat side by side on the countertop, shoulders brushing and spoons clanging against our glass bowls. Nothing more was said, but it was a comfortable silence.

I thought, for a second, about the world he’d been living in for the past few months as November bled into December. About his work and his many, many jobs he had to do. The way he shouldered them all week-to-week. He didn’t have to, but he did.

Tim made me a better person. I thought so, anyway.

But then, before I met him, I was the kind of person who let Carolyn Crawford slap me across the face to cover for someone else’s secret. Now, I was the kind who let other people take the blame for mine. Maybe Tim didn’t make me a better person. Only I could do that.

*

“I need to talk to you.” I said it firmly, and with authority. Mostly to convince myself that I was certain in my intention to go through with it. Bruce eyed me, looking up from his book.

“Alright.”

“...”

“...”

“In private.”

Alfred and Damian’s voices carried through to the living room as they had tea (an evening tradition). Bruce nodded, closed his book, and led me upstairs.

His office was a quiet, peaceful place. Finished dark wood, glass tables, and black leather accents. It was the room in the house that was most furnished to his own private taste, and thus, a glimpse inside was into him. It was mostly predictable; W.E. briefcases, notebooks and pens, case files open, and a map of the city that was displayed behind his desk. But there were other things too; a rubik’s cube half solved on the settee, a magazine featuring Vicki Vale with a pen in her hand and a defiant, head-strong look on her face. A gorgeous trailing point knife that belonged to Damian (probably confiscated).

I sat down in the chair that faced his own; his giant, glossy desk between us. I wanted to be swallowed into the dark leather. I felt like I was back at the shrink.

“Tim didn’t sneak off on the 21st.” I said quickly, cutting off the silence as quickly as I could. “He’s not the one who saw Red Hood kill that guy. It was me. I made Tim promise not to tell. He lied to cover for me.”

Bruce was quiet. He did that a lot; made you wait for him to speak. Seconds, minutes, hours. It all felt the same when he let you simmer in your own mistakes. I didn’t look up.

“I see.”

Silence. A long, testing silence. His irritating little desk clock ticked away.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” He asked.

I nodded.

“Very well. You’re dismissed.”

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it? You’re not mad?”

He paused. “Should I be?”

I blinked, gaze falling on the floor. “I put Tim in a really shitty position. He didn’t have to lie, but he did because I asked him to. I’m mad at me.” I admitted quietly.

Bruce nodded pedantically, resting his head on his hand. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

I furrowed my brow. It wasn’t good enough for me. “It was wrong.” I clarified, trying to press for some manner of reprimand that I didn’t truly want, but felt deserving of anyway. Bruce considered this, in his quiet, inscrutable way. After a moment, he spoke.

“Your mothers trusted me.” He said. I knew that. My parents were business-oriented like that. They were pulled together by happenstance, each without family and carving their own way in the world by studying international law, and applying it to companies who could afford private foreign trade, such as Wayne Enterprises. I attended the parties, the galas, standing around in my designer gowns while my moms handed out their business cards and talked about imports. They weren’t neglectful, just distracted.

“I don’t know if you remember-“

“I do.”

And if I had a dollar for every time the cops or the shrink asked me if I remembered that night, I’d buy my own manor.

Bruce Wayne was at my birth. He and my mothers had been business partners for a while by that time. He watched me, dutifully, when my parents went on date nights, and played catch with me when I accompanied him and Dick to the park. He cooked me breakfast the morning after my mothers died.

I knew it wasn’t a random killing, but he didn’t talk about why they were murdered in their own bed until I was fifteen. By then, I was knowledgeable enough to go searching through the police reports on my own. So instead, one night he’d sat me down at the kitchen table, looking at me earnestly.

“You have to understand, Y/N. Your mothers were...” He’d taken a deep breath. Tried again. “They were involved in things. Things I didn’t know about. It made them a lot of enemies.” Then, something harder passed his features. A frustration.

“They were completely blind to the fact that it meant you would never have a normal life. Not as long as they kept it up- that... double life.” I let the statement hang in the air for a time. “That was stolen from you, from the moment they got involved with the Baciu. And I’m sorry.”

It was easy to be sorry. I was sorry, too. My mothers got themselves tangled in Gotham’s heroin trade, and they weren’t careful enough, so they died for it. It was fairly cut and dry. Open file, close case. But the part that was so bitter to swallow was that it happened to me. A fourteen-year-old child creeping into my mothers’ bed because I’d heard a noise, and the re-runs of Ghost Hunter I’d religiously consumed were conjuring movement in the shadows. But there were no ghosts. Just sheets stained with blood that looked black in the darkness. Just the wet, clogged sort of sound when I peeled back the covers, unable to register they way my mothers were bent, and stilled in a way that only death can induce, where just earlier that night they’d been walking and talking. Bringing me Chinese take-out for dinner.

Their death, and everything that followed was emptying. Cracking open a great chasm and bringing death home, into the halls, and into my room. No longer a rumor. It was an empty chair, and a storied space made cold and worthless. It would’ve been easier if they had simply died as a random killing. Tragic, standard, random Gotham City killing. If I had just been that unlucky. If they’d only been struck by lightning. Instead, I grieved twice; once for who they were, and another time, for who I thought they were.

When Bruce adopted me, I became Batgirl. I made it my own vendetta to stop criminals without killing them, because I knew that some- most of them had children at home who would be the real victims if I did.

But then, I thought deeper. More considerately, about who my mothers were. Moreover, who they weren’t. Pearl and gold, white teeth and hairspray. Singing to me, and playing Monopoly, at which they were both so competitive that they had to kiss and make up after every game. Bringing me a strawberry cupcake in bed every year on my birthday. Kissing me on the head. Telling me to be good. Leaving me in that big house. Going off to Port Adams, or Crime Alley. Signing orders. Putting bodies in Finger River.

Nobody’s innocent here, dollface.

“They trusted me.” Bruce’s voice interrupted my reminiscing with the ghosts of my past. “I know their death was hard, and you may still be recovering. I’m trying to do the best I can for you.” He finished. For all the gnashing teeth and avaricious expanses of Gotham City secrets, he looked tired.

“I know, Bruce.” I said quietly. “Me too.”

*

The following Tuesday, I got home from school and started on a mountain of homework I needed to do- some make up work as well. Christmas break was around the corner, and I was slowly losing motivation as the semester drew to a close. I had too many distractions; and tonight was no exception.

Ding.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down, eyebrows raising to find that it was a text from Jason- one that wasn’t just a pin dropped to a location.

Meet me at Twin Sharks. I’ll buy you a coffee.

- What’s the occasion?

No reply. I sighed. I should’ve called him and made him tell me, but I knew that I would go no matter what, so I decided to play the apathy card. Despite my cool response, my heart (the traitor) was fluttering like a bird. Was this about the kiss? Our partnership? Was it an actual, regular date? Or was he breaking it off? My mind raced, and as I pulled together a tasteful outfit and sprayed myself with perfume, I promised myself that it wasn’t for him.

The Twin Sharks was a diner in Upper West Side, near China town. It was nicer than the likes of Sherman’s, or anything else East End had to offer. The late afternoon was unexpectedly bright, clouds parted for a sweet reprieve of gold and blush in the sky. The sun was a striking blood-orange, hung low over the city. It struck a match in my chest- some childish, poetic hopefulness.

The diner’s door jingled, and I scanned the booths and tables. It was a little crowded, but I spotted Jason alone in a booth, his eyes cast down, involved with his phone. I made my way over to him, slipping off my coat and plopping down his opposite.

“Hey.” I said. His eyes fell upon me, and I saw something on his face- maybe surprise, or something to that effect- before he composed his expression into something unreadable.

“Hey.”

The diner had a big, hot pink neon sign that depicted a matching pair of sharks above the counter. Its buzzing glow mixed with the orange gleam of the lowering sun through the windows- it was all very rose-colored.

The waitress put a coffee in front of me, and I got to work on adorning it with the little cream and sugar packets on the table. He watched me do it for while.

“What?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Nothin’.” He said. Then, he reached across the table, and took my hand, pulling it back to him, and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles. I was so startled by it that I dropped the sugar packet I was holding. Neither of us seemed to notice. He turned my hand over and placed another kiss in the inside of my wrist before returning it safely to my side of the table. I was certain my face burned like the neon sharks.

“I’m- um- is this a date?” I asked, trying to get him to say something- anything- to get my mind off the way he’d just reduced me to a puddle.

He looked amused by that. “You want it to be?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, stirring my coffee. “You invited me.”

He nodded, eyes falling away. “Yeah. I’ve got an update for you. D’amici business.”

“Oh.” By the look on his face, it wasn’t good news.

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Perfect. My day’s been a little too good so far.” I said. He slid me his phone- on the screen was an article from the Gotham Quarterly.

Young Bride Found Murdered in Diamond District Estate

I read over it a couple times, brow furrowing. “You mean...“

“Penelope. It happened last night.”

“Shit.” I muttered, scrolling down and scanning through the article. My throat caught as I read over it. She was shot in her bed. “It says there’s no suspects.”

“Course it does. It’s the mafia. They handle things nice and quiet.”

“And I’m guessing you have a few a suspects.” He nodded grimly as I slid his phone back to him.

“One better. I know exactly who did it. I think you do, too.”

I put my head in my hands, mulling over my options. Really there was only one. Penelope’s beautiful, flustered face and apologetic eyes flashed through my mind. Her wind-chime laugh as we ate scones under the watchful eye of her adoring, peculiar grandmother.

“Okay.” I resolved. “Let’s get that girl justice.”

[tmararepairs]

Claimed, thank you!

Pinch hit #1

Deadline is February 13. If you can fill in for this, please send an ask and include your ao3 username!

All requests are for fic. Details under cut. Ships include: Eric Delano/Mary Keay, Georgie Barker/Alex Brooke, Georgie Barker/Karolina Górka, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay & Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/The Vast

Request 1 by Rozzlynn Eric Delano/Mary Keay (Fic) Summary A closer look at their relationship would be interesting! How did Eric reconcile the sort of worldview that let him judge Gertrude for 'ruining lives' with his love for Mary even knowing she was a murderer? How did his love of ghosts and danger play out in his job and their marriage? How useful was he to her, before she decided to get rid of him? Did he have any qualms about the way Mary was raising Gerry those couple of years when he was trying to quit so he could be there for his son? Could go for something set during canon, or a divergence where he survives for longer somehow? (Doing something that convinced Mary he was worth keeping once he was blind? Doubting her and breaking up over Gerry's future, with Mary's part in those events shown? Third party interference triggering a different path, e.g. someone targeting the Archivist's assistants, and Mary stepping in for Eric's sake, with butterfly effect consequences?) Creepy pregnancy fic? A second child?

DNW: - Pure PWP (though explicit content is welcome in fics that also show their lives outside of sex). - Eric committing sexual violence. (On the other hand, if you have a plotbunny that involves Mary being awful to Eric as part of their relationship deteriorating, feel free to go with that. But don't feel that you have to write violence between them, of any sort.) - A sole focus on book-ghost Eric, since by then the 'real' him is dead and he doesn't feel quite how he did while alive, and the show's covered his state of mind at that point. - Child!Gerry dying or suffering beyond-canon-typical abuse. - Noncanonical side ships coming up. (To err on the side of caution.) - Waterworks/scat.

Request 2 by Rozzlynn Georgie Barker/Alex Brooke, Georgie Barker/Karolina Górka (Fic) Summary What sort of chemistry did Georgie have with Alex? What sort could she have with Karolina? Something about fairly fearless and practical girls sticking together. Prompt ideas:

- Alex comes back as an end avatar. Georgie, with her emotions still not really working, but no fear in the mix, and some lingering love still present, has a hard time figuring out how to react. (Tries to work out what happened to Alex? Tries to rekindle whatever she thinks she ought to feel? Finds out Alex is taking victims, and destroys her to save others, leaving her emotions all the more a mess? Could be before she met Jon, or something she hides from him while they're friends or dating, or Jon is really creeped out and worried by all this - maybe Alex almost kills him.)

- Entity swap alternate encounter for Georgie and Alex at uni - something where Georgie still comes out fearless, but things play out differently for them?

- Karolina seems extremely unflappable, showing no fear even in the statement nightmares when she's crushed to death. And yet the fears still have more of a foothold with her, since she's not as wholly immune to dream violence as Georgie. Something where they meet, and are both interested to see how someone else is dealing practically with the horrors of the world they live in? With Georgie relieved that, hey, here's someone who won't imply she's stupid for not fearing danger. And trying to help Karolina find even more genuine equilibrium, if she figures out that she's still struggling on some level - a heavily repressed fear response buried under fatalistic acceptance? Is she too fatalistic to fully enjoy life, her feelings choked by the pressure that has her still shedding dust everywhere? Does Georgie manage to help?

- Possible Georgie/Melanie/Karolina, if Melanie's already in the picture, maybe trying to bring up things learned from therapy.

- Sensory play, to help process things, with plot- and characterisation-relevant discussion of the results.

- (For dark humour, could add Georgie and Karolina falling asleep together, and both of them being in an 'oh fuck off, Jon' mood when they see him in their nightmares a few minutes later. Not that they can talk in the dreamscape, but, y'know. Mood.)

DNWs - Georgie dying, or still feeling fear. (Not counting something partially set before her encounter, so long as she's fearless afterwards.) - Melanie getting excluded from anything around the time she'd be there in canon. - Noncanonical side ships coming up (besides passing mentions of prior partners). - Apocalypse - Noncon (though dubcon from the extreme difficulty any of them might have processing feelings would be ok, so long as they work with each other when they actually piece things together). - PWP - Waterworks/scat.

Request 3 by Rozzlynn Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims (Fic) Summary I'd be really interested in something from their uni days! Building on what Georgie's said about that time: "I numbly got myself some water, and ignored my weeping mother. She tried to hug me, but her arms just slid off my limp shoulders. And that was my life for several months. Eventually, the memory began to fade, and I started to feel again. I took the year out of university under the umbrella of ‘medical reasons’, and by the time I met you I was, well, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before, but I had started being able to actually live again."

Given that Georgie was only starting to be able to feel things again (minus fear), and Jon seems to have always been an emotional wreck to some degree even when he tried to come across as functional, and uni's a place where young people tend to have some ups and downs adapting to adult life for the first time even if they're not dealing with supernatural trauma... well, that must have been a weird time for them, right?

- Jon being bad at dealing with anything on an emotional level, still getting used to not living with his grandmother, trying to keep up academically, exaggerating his accent, getting carried away with things he dives into with his problems with moderation, but maybe still having trouble focusing on the sort of work that requires him to 'read the same book twice'.

- Georgie having enough trouble processing her own emotions that she doesn't register as an issue things that she'd criticise Jon for by the time she's gotten to where she is in canon.

- Both of them going through the motions a bit, with 'functional adult' life things as well as relationship things. The presence of another person encouraging them to somewhat keep up healthy habits like food, rest, study breaks and keeping deadlines, even when they'd feel a bit dissociated on their own? And/or one of them going off the rails in a 'students making bad life choices' way, and getting some solidarity from the other (sure, let's stay up three days in a row to study, then build a marshmallow fort just because we can and fall asleep in it and wake up with sticky hair').

- Experimenting with sex/kink? Any shade of ace for Jon; if sex-repulsed then figuring out what other kinds of intimacy they'd enjoy, if sex-indifferent or -positive then figuring out how much they feel from that kind of activity (and from nonsexual stuff too, cause why not)? (I'm not looking for PWP, but would be interested in stuff with awkwardness, character/relationship development, humour - including any plotbunnies where they give up on experimentation that's not working out and have a laugh about it.)

- Either or both of them getting triggered by a reminder of their supernatural encounters, and trying to cope without actually explaining what happened. The sound of knocking at a bad time bringing up memories of Mr Spider? A friend watching a crime show with corpses on screen that act as a reminder of things that are still unpleasant to recall even if they don't incite fear? Georgie missing Alex and needing some space? Jon's survivor's guilt flaring up and making him a bit paranoid for Georgie's safety, trying to subtly check friends' bookshelves for Leitners when they visit (and not being subtle, so just coming across as really weird)?

- Going on a trip during the holidays or after graduation? Georgie learning how prone Jon is to wandering off and getting lost? A restaurant meal where Jon sees a spider and has to kill it, even if it means getting too close to another table / the kitchens / the ceiling? Georgie getting annoyed at rude posh people and wistfully thinking that Alex would have confronted them (and possibly punched them), and maybe feeling pleased when Jon questions them over something a bit pedantic until they want to punch him?

- Breaking up when Georgie's recovered to the point where she's getting more functional than in her first few years after the End incident, and seeing more of a problem with Jon's behaviour? And Jon seeing that as things ending really badly because it feels like she's gotten to know him and decided he's not good enough, even over things that she didn't used to mind?

DNWs - Self-hate over asexuality as an orientation. (Worries about compatibility are fine, and they could get upset over activities going badly, so long as heavy acephobia isn't involved; if he doesn't blame his orientation any more than he blames hers. Or they could both be biromantic ace, with no reason to blame that for their problems.) - AU where they didn't break up, or where they got back together. In other words, keep them exes for the parts of the timeline where that's canon. (But the fill could be set entirely before the breakup.) - Noncanonical side ships coming up (besides passing mentions of prior partners). - PWP (I like plotfic, with or without explicit content) - Noncon/waterworks/scat

Request 4 by Rozzlynn Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay & Jonathan Sims (Fic) Summary Some Gerry lives fic? With some of the same prompts as the Gerry ships request, if you feel like using them as a setup for platonic bonding rather than a shippy polypile:

- Gerry helping with Gertrude's plan to kill Jonah and destroy the Institute, which succeeds this time, and maybe meeting & bringing in some of the others while they're still working in Research / Artefact Storage / the Library. (Since non-Archive staff can quit without blinding themselves, fair to assume they're not tied closely enough to Jonah to die if he dies? So only Gertrude has to worry about that part. Maybe Gerry helps her to the hospital?)

- Gerry finding out that Gertrude is part-desolation (she mentions burning inside, and her ritual circle mitigating the worst effects - can she light a cigarette with her bare hands?), and/or finding out she's working with Leitner too. Possibly precipitated by a spooky attack that they deal with together?

- Gerry being alive and meeting Jon, giving him more info/warning about Beholding at some point in the timeline. (Early enough that Jon tries to turn down the Archivist position and warn off the others too? Gerry knows that Jonah killed Gertrude and tries to enlist some help in taking him down? Early s1 Jon gets warned off live statements by a Gerry who learned why Gertrude usually avoided them, and they try to protect themselves and the archive assistants from Jonah's attempts to organise attacks on the Institute to traumatise Jon with every entity?)

DNWs: - Completely mundane AUs. - Character death or full monsterhood for Gerry, Jon, or Jon's assistants (canon's got that covered in many ways and I'd like to see their living potential explored). - Apocalypse - Shippy Gerry/Gertrude or Gerry/Jon (except Gerry and Jon in a polypile, but that's in another request, see below). - Other noncanonical ships, in general. (Platonic focus preferred for this one, but if, e.g., Basira/Daisy or Georgie/Melanie somehow comes up, ok to mention that that still happens.) - Noncon/waterworks/scat.

Request 5 by Rozzlynn Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner (Fic) Summary Something exploring their friendship post-coffin? They seem to end up getting each other's mistakes without condoning them, understanding how much of it was supernatural coercion, trauma response, and their own flaws, and sharing a very dry, dark sense of humour. They've seen some interesting sides of each other, and moved past the attempted murder and supernaturally inflicted trauma nightmares even though both must've been pretty awful at the time. Neither of them have many other friends who could get exactly how badly messed up their lives are and stick with them, besides those who are actively unrepentantly evil like Helen (and whatever mix of denial and turning a blind eye Basira's approach was, and Martin who wanted Jon to do better but refused to get directly involved during his own crisis).

- Jon and Daisy supporting each other's attempts to stay relatively human? Discussing the past, and the others? Daisy keeping an eye on Jon while Basira and Rosie are dealing with the people who come to the Institute to give written statements - the sort of thing that led Jon to tell Martin that their intervention was exactly what he needed?

- S4 canon divergence, with one of the finale episodes taking a different turn?

- Jon and Daisy managing to do something positive for the others (Basira, Melanie, Martin)?

- Passing mention of the 'normal' institute staff being creeped out by running into Jon and Daisy (both of them looking dangerous and half dead, with rumours about murders and disappearances still following them around). Daisy coping better than Jon with this. Basira effectively being the archivist everyone deals with if they can help it. (Melanie's not quite as scary as she used to be, but she's barely around... Who'd have thought Martin would end up siding with the evil new boss...?) Though if you go with this prompt, at least part of the fic from Daisy or Jon's pov preferred, rather than entirely outsider pov.

- Melanie trying to pass on therapeutic advice and activities (based on whatever mundane version of events she told her therapist about them); Daisy and Jon trying to listen, not necessarily liking all of it, and putting some of the activites into practice bc they need to keep busy (maybe not necessarily lasting long before making a dark joke of it, maybe finding it helpful anyway).

DNWs - Feral!Daisy within the fill, unless she manages to come around without permanently reverting to the Hunt or going on a killing spree against innocents in the meantime or anything. - Jon taking statements within the fill (except from other monsters if they bring on a crisis, like with Peter). - Apocalypse. - Shippy Jon/Daisy, except in a Basira/Daisy/Jon/Martin polypile where some of them share and/or are friends with benefits. - Other noncanonical ships coming up. - PWP - Noncon/waterworks/scat.

Request 6 by Rozzlynn Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan SimsMartin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker (Fic) Summary Have fun with an AU that gives them a chance to shine? Divergences from the canon while Gerry was around, or alternate settings, so they can be alive together. Prompt ideas:

- Gerry helping Tim after Danny's death, or meeting Danny in time to avert it.

- Gerry telling Jon more about Gertrude and the supernatural than he had the chance to in canon, and helping his statement addiction stabilise at around the same level as Gertrude's, questioning any impulsive use of compelling so that Jon thinks it through and gets stricter with himself (especially with Martin and Tim's input), trying out protective measures to mitigate the statement nightmares for everyone involved (since with the tattoos and everything he learned working with Mary and Gertrude, Gerry seems to know a thing or two about channeling and hiding from the eye, using supernatural powers without losing himself).

- Jon still finding Eric's tape eventually, and Gerry hearing about his dad's life that way, while the others deal with the knowledge of how to quit.

- Exploring the tunnels and Jon meeting Leitner under different circumstances, Gerry finding out 'wait that really was him?' and Leitner still being scared after he beat him up that time, Martin trying to stop another fight, Tim wanting to find out more about Smirke from Leitner.

- Gerry meeting the others while they're still working in the Research & Library departments; they all help with Gertrude's plan to kill Jonah and destroy the Institute, and make enough of a difference that it succeeds. (Since non-Archive staff can quit without blinding themselves, fair to assume they're not tied closely enough to Jonah to die if he dies? So only Gertrude has to worry about that part. Could include Sasha helping as a friend, and Basira and Daisy lending police support? Maybe after Gertrude quits, the next Archivist that Beholding picks is someone at the sister organisation in China or America, and Gertrude gives them some advice.)

- Alternate careers with section 31 equivalents. E.g. Jon as a surgeon (his grandma made him study medicine) with an eye for dealing with supernatural injuries? Tim got into architecture or the occult side of publishing, or became a cop? Martin got into something really random from applying to absolutely everything with a fake cv - maybe working several jobs / nightshifts and giving a statement after running into spooky trouble? Or working at the occult store with Jane and Oliver, and meeting Gerry while he worked at the bookshop? (How much more exasperated would Martin have been if he knew Jane before she went wormy and she still besieged his flat? Maybe Gerry helped, and Jon worked for the ECDC?)

- Mixed feelings over the holidays, since they all have/had difficult family situations. Learning to look after each other (Martin feeling appreciated for his efforts to take care of his loved ones, Tim feeling supported, Jon feeling that he can protect them all and there's no crisis to jump at or information he's missing, Gerry feeling understood by people who know about the supernatural and want to build a life free of the worst of it alongside him). Holiday preparations with their friends - Sasha, Georgie, Melanie, The Admiral. Jon's tendency to need mental stimulus and to get carried away manifests as ridiculously overdoing something like gift shopping, cooking attempts, or planning a trip (and still overlooking things he should've foreseen - so it's a good thing problem solving is a team effort).

DNWs: - Completely mundane AUs. - Other noncanonical ships coming up. (Unless you want to include Sasha in a plot where she lives, joining the main polypile, or a triad with Melanie and Georgie. Mentions of oc previous partners are also ok.) - Self-hate over asexuality as an orientation. (Worries about compatibility are fine, so long as heavy acephobia isn't involved; if Jon doesn't blame his orientation any more than he blames anyone else's. Any shade of ace is ok.) - Character death within the ship. (Not keen on book!Gerry for this, as he didn't want to exist that way for long.) - Anyone in the ship going unrepentantly evil as a full monster. - Apocalypse - Noncon within the ship. (If you want to include an element of hurt/comfort over any of them having previously suffered bad things outside of this ship, then feel free.) - PWP - Waterworks/scat.

Request 7 by Rozzlynn Martin Blackwood/Sasha James/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker (Fic) Summary Have fun with an AU that gives them a chance to shine? Divergences from the canon while Sasha was around, or alternate settings, so they can be alive together. Prompt ideas:

- Sasha meeting the others during a misadventure in Artefact Storage (while Jon and Tim worked in research and Martin worked in the library).

- Sasha finding out how Gertrude really lived in time to help with her retirement plan, getting the others involved one way or another. They kill Jonah and make plans for what to do after the Institute's destroyed, counting their blessings that they never worked in the Archive.

- During the chaos and panic of Prentiss' attack, Sasha accidentally knocked Elias into the tidal wave of worms before she made it to the fire suppression system and saved the others. (Jonah's body in the panopticon is alive and kinda stuck there, so they all live). They're upset about losing the head of the institute... until they listen to Gertrude's tapes and learn what's really going on. Jon tells the others how much he's becoming like Gertrude (nightmares, compulsion), and when they know everything the audience knows as of current canon, he quits with the others' support to stay human.

- Hurt/comfort over near-death experiences

- Going on a long holiday together after it's all over. Sasha and Jon picking museums to visit, Jon and Martin lingering in bookshop cafes, Martin and Tim picking scenic outdoor routes to visit, and Tim trying to get the others involved in sporty outdoor activities (too bad they're all nerds, but they give things a go, mostly).

- Alternate careers with section 31 equivalents.

- Mixed feelings over the holidays, since they all have/had difficult family situations, assuming Sasha fits Jonah's trend of hiring people without many attachments. Learning to look after each other (Martin feeling appreciated for his efforts to take care of his loved ones, Tim feeling supported, Jon feeling that he can protect them all and there's no crisis to jump at or information he's missing, Sasha feeling intellectually fulfilled with nothing left to truly fear). Jon's tendency to need mental stimulus and to get carried away manifests as ridiculously overdoing something like gift shopping, cooking attempts, or planning a trip (and still overlooking things he should've foreseen - so it's a good thing problem solving is a team effort).

- Sasha and gay!Martin bonding platonically in a polypile, finding it's a relief to be able to talk to each other without the particular kinds of pressure that come with their romantic relationships with Jon and Tim, to the extent that the ship feels all the more like found family for each of them thanks to the other's inclusion.

DNWs: - Completely mundane AUs. - Other noncanonical ships coming up (besides mentions of oc previous partners). - Self-hate over asexuality as an orientation. (Worries about compatibility are fine, so long as heavy acephobia isn't involved; if Jon doesn't blame his orientation any more than he blames anyone else's. Any shade of ace is ok.) - Character death within the ship. (I've had my fill of 'the others mourn Sasha' for now.) - Anyone in the ship going unrepentantly evil as a full monster. - Apocalypse - Noncon within the ship. (If you want to include an element of hurt/comfort over any of them having previously suffered bad things outside of this ship, then feel free.) - PWP - Waterworks/scat.

Request 8 by Rozzlynn Martin Blackwood/The Vast (Fic) Summary Okay, so Martin canonically: - is claustrophobic - had many bad times besieged in buildings and lost in tunnels and corridors - wrote poetry about wandering the countryside like a cloud - is bitter about never having had the chance to travel - is a bit conflict avoidant, and ended up feeling so trapped by a terrible situation that he found some relief in isolating himself (didn't miss the shouting, couldn't bring himself to want to deal with his problems anymore), even while he was suicidally depressed over it all.

What if the Vast got ahold of him? Prompts for various bits of a possible timeline:

- In s3, Martin insists on accompanying Jon on his research trip abroad, to help with the work and to look after him. (Nobody can deny that Jon needs looking after, by that point, and Martin is his assistant.) They have an encounter with the Vast in a plane, or on the road through China or America's wide open spaces. Though they survive, Martin's infected in a way that builds over time, like with Melanie and the Slaughter.

- When they're back in London with the plan for the Unknowing organised, Martin persuades Jon to use the Archives budget for a corporate team building day in the countryside, to try to address the interpersonal issues between the staff. The event goes a bit strange.

- After the Unknowing and the Flesh attack, when Martin stops expecting Jon to wake up and says goodbye, maybe he nopes out and flees into the Vast, aware that it's been stalking at his heels? (Intending to lose himself there forever, not become an avatar who hurts others.) - Maybe, months later, he runs into Simon Fairchild while falling through the sky, and hears news about the Institute. When he hears that Jon's awake, that he's still got something tethering him to the world, he drops out of the Vast. - In his absence, Peter made a deal with Basira? (She already thought she couldn't trust anyone but herself. Peter figured she was lonely enough, and had to find the Extinction research to convince her to work with him.)

- Or Martin still makes the deal during Jon's coma, but Peter adapts his approach, sensing the Vast's influence. Either he thinks it'll help draw Martin to the idea of seeing everything via the panopticon, or he worries it'll put him off staying underground there, no matter how unlimited his vision may be as a result. So he either encourages Martin to isolate himself in a Vast-aligned way (research trips out in desolate places, with enough Institute paperwork to avoid withdrawal), or tries to train it out of him (confining him to the building, trying to instill agoraphobia). - At the office, Martin opens the windows even in awful weather, works on the rooftop on his phone or tablet, gets distracted by the sky, etc.

- Things reach a crisis point one way or another, and Jon follows Martin into his space within the Vast. (With different avatars having different powers, and several places falling within each entity, like Forsaken having the graveyard, ocean, beach, suburbs, etc... Maybe Martin's Vast niche is a cloudy sky far above a beautiful green landscape that never gets any closer, evoking an overwhelming mixture of grief and relief that everything below is out of reach; beautiful from a distance, but closing the distance would be too painful to consider.) Jon still tries to talk him out of it, unwilling to leave without him. Either they both leave, or neither of them do? - If Peter doesn't manage to send Martin to the Lonely & tempt Jon in after him, Jonah gets frustrated over the bet being useless. (Mike Crew's already covered the Vast, why couldn't Peter do his job properly??)

DNWs - Peter/Martin, Simon/Martin. In general, Martin being genuinely ok with anyone he knows is an unreformed mass murderer. (If the prompts give you a whump idea that leans on assault by one of them as an extra factor in his depression, making the Vast a relative sanctuary of gentle fear, then go ahead with the noncon, but don't go out of your way to include it otherwise.) - Jonah ships. - Martin knowingly & willingly killing a victim. (Fighting another avatar in self defence would be ok. The Vast maliciously messing with his perceptions and reflexes so he's not actually sure what he's done while badly dissociated could work, if a plotbunny needs something like that.) - Martin or Jon dying more unambiguously than being Vast-stranded indefinitely (as the upper limit for a worst case scenario). - PWP. (Though that seems unlikely here, as any smut between Martin and an entity would need a plot to establish even what and how. And honestly, I can't say I'm keen to read about Martin jerking off in midair. So, uh, don't reach for explicit content unless you've got a plotbunny that involves it in an emotional arc?) - Heavy internalised acephobia. - Waterworks/scat.

[thetygre]

30 Day Monster Challenge 2 - Day #9: Favorite Zombie

1.      The Tarman (Return of the Living Dead II)

Tarman is just one of my favorite undead ever. When I look at Tarman, I see all the potential a zombie can have realized. He oozes, he drips, he rots, he’s a living personification of death. There are no mysteries about how the Tarman died, and he incorporates that death into his design. His every movement is jerky, but forceful, giving you the sense that Tarman could punch through a wall if he was hungry enough. The death’s-head face pierces into your soul without malice, but only a crazed and insatiable hunger. But it’s more than just his design; there are hints of a personality in Tarman’s wild eyes, the inklings of instinct. Tarman speaks, and his intellectual musings cut to the philosophical heart of the zombie condition by reaching out and expressing his utmost desire; “MORE BRAINS!”.

2.      Deadites (Evil Dead 2)

So this challenge is kind of different; I’ve split the list between my favorite individual zombies and my favorite ways zombies are handled. And my favorite overall zombie species, so to speak, are the deadites from Evil Dead. The deadites don’t even need to start as zombies; they’re demons possessing people, creatures, and objects. But corpses do seem to be their favorite hosts, and even the living they possess sustain enough wounds to be lethal. It doesn’t really matter to the deadites; as spirits, the line between living and dead is irrelevant to them. What’s even better is that their hosts start to mutate, growing faces, limbs, and deformities. The deadites make me think of Legion from the Bible, the old man full of demons scavenging around graveyards. Not to go around picking favorites, but my favorite deadite design is still Henrietta Knowby from Evil Dead 2; she’s the most deformed you ever see any deadite get in the core movies, and she becomes utterly inhuman.

3.      Lewis Legend (Lollipop Chainsaw)

My favorite of the Dark Purveyors from Lollipop Chainsaw. It was tough call between Lewis and Sid, but Lewis has a guitar that is also a machine gun named ‘Nosferatu’. Just take that in for a moment. Think about how much it rocks. Lewis represents the entire genre of Rock N’ Roll all the way from the beginning, including Johnny Cochran and Chuck Berry. His music is some of the best in the game, blending modern Metal with classic Rock. While he might get the least amount of screentime of the bosses, he makes up for it with an intense and spectacular boss fight. Lewis Legend doesn’t add anything to the zombie mythos or say anything deeper about zombies as an allegory; I just think he’s cool.

4.      Umbrella Zombies (Resident Evil)

There’s a part of me that wants to say I like Resident Evil zombies because they can transform into some of the cooler RE monsters, but I really just like them straight-up in the first game. The Resident Evil zombies feel like the perfect zombies as antagonists. The mixture of their damage resistance and aggressiveness helped form the survival horror genre as a whole. Even to experienced soldiers, a single zombie can be threatening, and can easily become overwhelming or costly. That, to me, is the best embodiment of a zombie and, as weird as it might sound, how I threatening I think they would be in the real world.

5.      Solomon Grundy (DC)

Grundy is a tragic character as a zombie. Frankly speaking, he works better as a reiteration of Karloff’s Frankenstein, but the line between Frankenstein’s monster and zombies has always been kind of blurry. There’s just something folkloric about Solomon Grundy to me; maybe it’s how his name is a rhyme, but I guess associate his quest for personhood with something like a golem or an ogre. Grundy’s a call-back to the old days of comics, the pre-Code time where horror and the undead ran rampant. That mark never really left, even during the Silver Age, and Grundy is a representation of that era. But most of all, I think about the Justice League cartoon, and Grundy’s character there. How he turned around, tried to fight for good, and died, and in doing so found his purpose. And then when he came back again, how heart-wrenching it was to watch Hawkgirl put him down like Old Yeller. That’s the kind of thing that should be done with zombies more often; having to face people at different times in a person’s life, and facing how they’ve both changed.

6.      Ragers (28 Days Later)

28 Day Later fundamentally altered what we expect from zombies. The ragers look the least undead out of all the zombies on this list, and pedants will even point out that they aren’t real zombies. What they are, though, is legitimately terrifying. Ragers’ defining feature is that they are fast, and that makes all the difference. The scene during the first movie in the tunnel still knots my stomach up; the shadows on the walls always gave me the feeling that there was some kind of thought to the ragers’ actions there for some reason. Ragers really can’t survive; they’re a plague that dies out after enough time. But that just makes me think that they’re some kind of fever for the planet; a burst of destruction to cleanse the world before cooling back down.

7.      Church (Pet Sematary)

Zombie kitty! Though maybe not so cuddly as that should be. In fact, kind of horrible and vicious. Church (short for Churchill) is the first creature to get resurrected in Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. When Church gets run over by a truck, his owner’s father Lewis takes him to a forbidden Native burial ground to bring him back in secret. And Church comes back PISSED. That’s why I like Church as a zombie; he actively hates being alive, and he blames Lewis for it. He knows he’s unnatural, that he shouldn’t be moving, so he does everything a cat can do to make his owner suffer. Sometimes, dead is better.

8.      The Witch (Left 4 Dead 2)

Left 4 Dead isn’t the only series with ‘special’ zombies, but it is the only one with the witch. The witch was a female zombie identifiable by her loud, moaning screams. As long as a team was stealthy, they could avoid her; but once she woke up, she was unstoppable. Witches were the bane of many co-op session back when I was in high school. But what I love is the implication of the name; this is a zombie that has evolved past zombie-hood. It has become so powerful that now it’s beginning to become a completely different monster. After the zombie apocalypse, how will society cope with living in a world where monsters are real again? How do we go back to living with goblins, ogres, and witches lurking in the night? It’s a question that I’d love to see explored more.

9.      Emily (Corpse Bride)

Emily is another tragic zombie. Admittedly, she works better as a ghost than a zombie, and she’s not even really undead, but she does briefly return to the world of the living. As you might expect from a Tim Burton creation, Emily is purely gothic, embodying romance, loneliness, and the sins of the past. Aesthetically, I do have to say that I like the blue coloring, and the link between a bridal veil and a funeral veil is always a funny connection to explore. I think I like Emily because she’s representative about how zombies can still explore old themes. And my thing for Helena Bonham Carter.

10.   The Sleeper (Edgar Allan Poe)

Okay, confession time. When I was a kid, I got a book of Edgar Allan Poe poetry for kids filled with creepy-ass illustrations, and the illustration for Poe’s The Sleeper was of a corpse slowly coming out of its tomb and pining at the window. And of course that’s not what the poem is actually about; it’s another Poe poem about the narrator dead love lying in her grave. But the IDEA stuck with me, and I kind of wrapped up all my conceptions about Gothic zombies into that image. Zombies do have a presence in gothic horror; they’re not called ‘zombies’, they’re just walking corpses, but that makes them all the more horrible. These days, we’re so used to zombies as a monster archetype we’ve grown kind of numb to the horror of seeing a loved one rising up from the grave and move around in unnatural agony. Every now and then, I feel, we need to go back to the classics to remind ourselves about how horrible a commonplace trope really is.

[ra3lynn3]

Blind Date

Chapter 12

A/N: Hello again, everyone! Here’s the latest chapter for your reading pleasure. I’ve decided it’s easier to keep things updated on here for now. Eventually I’ll pull this entire story over to ff.net. Thanks for checking it out and continuing to leave likes, comments and reblog. It gives me all the feels :) Big thanks to @pip117 for doing my beta work. You rock! 

Here’s chapter 11 in case you missed it.

As Peeta gradually slipped into consciousness he slowly became aware of the rhythmic movement of his right foot. As his eyes adjusted to the light shining in the room he noticed Finnick standing over him with a devilish grin and  kicking at his foot. Peeta made a move to sit up feeling as if his body was covered in lead. Glancing down he noticed a mess of brown hair on his chest and the events of the night before came flashing back to his mind. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, but when she kissed him back, he felt powerless to resist. They sat in the confined space of the fort, hungry for one another, exploring this newfound territory. That was until George woke up with a screeching cry, effectively breaking the spell they were under. Peeta urged Katniss not to leave as he hurried from the room to comfort the boy back to sleep. When he returned to the space much later than he expected, he discovered Katniss fast asleep among the nest of pillows and blankets. He heaved a sigh and laid back down beside her, falling asleep quickly himself. He certainly hadn’t intended on sleeping so long that Finnick had returned home. But that meant Annie must’ve had the baby, and Peeta was eager to get the details.

Without a word, Finnick motioned for Peeta to follow with a jerk of his head. Peeta ever so gently slid out from under Katniss, allowing her to settle softly to the blanket beneath them, as he made a quick escape and followed his friend downstairs to the kitchen.

“Oh, you have got to tell me what that was all about!” Finnick jeered as he set a kettle on the stove to boil and began prepping the coffee pot.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Peeta began, holding up a hand to stop him. “Did Annie have the baby, or what? What are you doing here?” He asked with a shake of his head.

He took a seat at the kitchen island as he watched Finnick open the refrigerator in search or something. “Yeah” Finnick replied as he turned around to beam at Peeta. “She’s the most perfect little thing, Peet.” He continued on as he shut the refrigerator  door and plucked a banana from its bunch on the counter nearby.

“What’s her name?” Peeta asked as he stood to grab himself a mug and a teabag, hearing the tea kettle begin to simmer.

“Cora” Finnick replied with a grin as he peeled his piece of fruit. “Annie was seriously amazing. I mean, she’s always amazing, but to see her so strong? Gets me every time.” Finnick gushed as he took a bite.

The two men sat quietly for a moment while Peeta waited for the water to boil.

“So are you going to explain the good looking brunette that was sleeping on you this morning, or shall I make my own assumptions?” Finnick puzzled, throwing away his peel.

Peeta shot his friend a look which was met with a wry smile. He gave a sigh as he turned off the stove and poured the steaming liquid into his mug. “I’m not exactly sure how it all happened, but one minute we were arguing and the next, we were...we were...” he trailed off, ducking his head and fighting the smile that played on his lips.  

Finnick leaned on the counter by his side and Peeta could feel his friend’s eyes boring into him, expecting more. Peeta stayed silent and  returned to his seat at the kitchen island.

“Oh, come on!” Finnick protested. “That’s it? You’ve got to give me more than that!” He argued, standing across from Peeta with his arms crossed. “What were you arguing about?”

“She doesn’t think can she can trust me. She said online me and real life me are two different things.” Peeta began. Finnick rolled his eyes and nodded his head as if this point were obvious.

“She just makes me crazy, ya know? But seriously though, her lips!” Peeta got out just before he heard Finnick clear his throat and saw his eyes dart over his head; his body language changing suddenly.

Peeta turned to see Katniss standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She clutched her purse to her chest with one arm, and ran a hand through her hair with the other. Peeta sat frozen.

“Good morning!” Finnick offered cheerfully.

“Good morning.” She replied bashfully as she stepped further into the kitchen.

“Hey.” Peeta offered as he stood and walked toward her putting his hands in his pockets. “How are you? Are you hungry? Can I get you something to drink?” He rushed out in a hushed tone.

“No, thank you. I’m going to get going actually.” She replied, motioning with her thumb over her shoulder.

“I’ll walk you out.” Peeta offered as they both turned to leave.

“Nice seeing you again!” Finnick called after them, a pie-eating grin on his face.

Katniss glanced over her shoulder giving him a nod and a half hearted smile in return. Peeta shot him a look too.

Once they reached the sidewalk they stood awkwardly for a moment, facing one another. Katniss hugging her purse to her chest. As their eyes met, Peeta leaned in to meet her lips which caused Katniss to  pull back quickly from his advance. Peeta felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment, and a curious look crossed his features.

“I’m sorry.” Katniss began. “Last night was...nice, but I think we should just work on being...friends.” She offered, seeming to chose her words carefully, giving him a sympathetic look.

Peeta felt his stomach twist, his emotions raw. He wasn’t expecting to be tossed so mercilessly into the ‘friend zone’. He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ok, sure. I guess I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yeah. See you Monday.” She replied as she turned to walk to the curb and hail a cab.

Peeta sighed and watched her leave. He ran his hands through his hair and turned to walk back inside where upon entering the kitchen he found George in Finnick’s arms with Liam and Chloe sitting at the kitchen island starting in on breakfast.

“Uncle Peeta. Where did Katniss go?” Chloe asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“She had to go home.” Peeta informed her, fighting off his own disappointment. He offered her a tight smile and settled beside Liam in a seat.

“Uncle Peeta, did you know that polar bears are left handed?” Liam asked out of nowhere as he took a bite of his cereal.

Peeta sat quietly for a moment, processing this information aside from everything else pulsing through his mind. “No, no I did not.” He replied, being accustomed to the boy’s pedantic behavior.

“And did you also know that a crocodile cannot stick its tongue out? Or that a hippos’ lips are two feet wide?” He queried further.

“No, Liam. You taught me something today, thanks.” Peeta offered, giving the boy a weak smile as he ruffled his hair. He then turned and rested his head in his hands feeling completely dejected.

“So, I take it the goodbye didn’t go quite as well as your evening?” Finnick asked.

“She wants to be friends.” Peeta remarked bitterly, not bothering to lift his head. 

Finnick pulled a face that looked like something between pity and pain. “Sorry, man. I guess it’s better than nothing.” He offered sympathetically. “I mean, friends can always lead to more down the road.”

Peeta gave him a tired look. “I guess.” He finally relented. “Do you need any more help here? If not, I’m going to head out.” He said standing to his feet.

“You are hereby relinquished of your duties.” Finnick announced, bowing to him. “Kids, say goodbye to Uncle Peeta.” He said as he straightened.

As Liam and Chloe hopped off their chairs and swarmed him for hugs, Peeta couldn’t deny feeling better swathed in the children’s unconditional love. No matter how crummy he felt about how the rest of his life was going. As he left the house, he opted to walk the few blocks it took to get to his place to try and clear his head.

Peeta threw himself on his bed once he reached his apartment; hoping a nap would make him feel better. After tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, he knew sleep would not ease his racing mind. He picked up his cell phone, tempted to text Katniss. He started and erased at least twenty messages; not having the nerve to send any of them. Peeta paced his apartment trying to think of some way to pass the time. He walked into his art studio, finding comfort in the thought of zoning out with a new piece of art. As Peeta readied his palette, he realized that half of his paints were near empty from his last project. “Perfect” he muttered dryly to himself, tossing aside an empty paint tube. After a quick shower, he threw on a baseball cap with his T-shirt and jeans and headed out the door for more supplies.

“Hey Peeta, long time no see.” The store’s owner, Cinna, greeted him as he stepped up to the counter arms full of paints.

“Yeah, haven’t had much time to paint lately.” Peeta offered, not feeling conversational.

“Hey Cinna, do you have any more fixer? I couldn’t find any back there.“

Peeta turned when he heard a familiar voice nearby. His stomach made a quick flip flop once Katniss came in to view. She stopped short looking like she’d seen a ghost as her eyes met his.

“What are you doing here?” She asked looking at Peeta.

“Ran out of paint.” Peeta offered simply.

“You two know each other?” Cinna queried.

“Yes” They both replied at the same time, their eyes not leaving one another.

“What are you doing here?” Peeta asked, as he stepped closer to her.

“I had some film to develop. Cinna lets me use his dark room.” She replied.

“Katniss has been a loyal customer for years.” Cinna offered for her. “Just like you.” He remarked to Peeta as he disappeared into a nearby back room.

Peeta wondered then just how often their paths had crossed and if he had really been so oblivious not to notice. “Do you mind if I take a look?” He asked her.  

She shrugged nonchalantly as Cinna came out from behind the counter and handed her a jug of chemicals.

“Don’t be modest, you should show him.” Cinna urged. Peeta caught the blush that rose to Katniss’ cheeks. “Katniss rarely shows anyone her work. I keep telling her she needs to submit her stuff to the spring art contest City Hall hosts every year. Maybe you can convince her?” Cinna finished, giving her a wink and heading back for the counter.

Katniss shot Cinna a threatening look, before turning her gaze to Peeta. “Fine. You can come take a look.” She said sounding exasperated.

Katniss lead him to the back of the store whizzing past aisles stuffed floor-to-ceiling with bolts of fabric, endless bins of yarn, oversized canvases, camera equipment, and more. Peeta felt like he was on an adventure, having never journeyed past the front of the store; feeling overwhelmed by its size and contents. Peeta matched her pace until she slowed to a stop, allowing him the opportunity to gaze at the dozens of photographs that were hung on the wall surrounding a metal door.

“Are these yours?” He asked, feeling awestruck by what he was seeing.

“Not all of them.” She said with a shrug as she gazed at the pictures herself. “Some are my dad’s”.

Peeta glanced at her as she cleared her throat, suddenly curious to learn more about her history here. She opened the door in front of them, motioning for Peeta to enter the closet-sized room that it lead to. They were bathed in sudden darkness as Katniss followed him in, letting the door shut behind her with a loud thud.

“Katniss?” Peeta whispered, feeling claustrophobic with the lack of light in such close quarters.

“Why are you whispering?” She asked back.

“Is this it?” He wondered, voice still low, curious if there was more to her dark room than this.

He heard her snort as she apparently flipped a switch, casting an amber hue over the small room. “No, this is not it.” She smirked. “This way.” She supplied as she slid open a second door.

Peeta glanced around as he stepped carefully in to the new room. A radio quietly played classical music from one corner, the sound of running water came from another. He noticed several large black machines set up on tables. Clothesline hung from one end of the room to the other, photographs clipped here and there along the string. Peeta noticed Katniss filling a tray with the chemicals Cinna had given her. It sat among a row of other trays, within a larger tub, that was the source of the running water he had heard.  

“What is all this?” He whispered, stepping closer to her, still glancing around.

“You don’t have to whisper, Peeta. We aren’t in a library.” Katniss replied giving him a look as she set the container down on the floor.

“Oh, right.” Peeta said, clearing his throat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he watched her bend over one of the trays in the larger tub, poking at it with a pair of tongs. “So, what do you do?” He asked after a moment.

She stood to consider him for a moment. “Well, first you have to develop the film.” She began. He watched as she took several steps over to a small table, pulling a strip of film from it to show him. “Then you pick the image you want to develop, use the enlarger to burn the image on the paper, and develop it.” She said quickly, motioning here and there around the room.

“Uh huh.” Peeta said, feeling dumbfounded. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling out of place in this new world.

“Come here, I’ll show you.” Katniss replied, perhaps sensing his discomfort.

She motioned him over to her side in front of the large black machine she called an enlarger. Peeta couldn’t help but breathe her in being in such close proximity. He had to quickly remind himself that they were working on being friends right now.

“Here, pick one.” She said offering him the strip of film she held in her hands.

He held the strip up toward the ceiling, struggling to discern an image in the dim amber light. After a moment, he silently offered one to her, and watched as she set it up on the machine as if it were the easiest thing in the world. She was nimble and adept, and seeing her in her element was the single most sexy thing he had ever witnessed.

“Katniss?” He whispered, leaning closely beside her.

“Yes?” She whispered back, turning her face, mere inches from his own.

His stomach tightened as he fought to remain in control; remain in the friend zone. “Could you explain ‘friends’ to me?” He said, swallowing hard, trying with all his might not to stare at her lips.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, and straighten beside him. “I’ve never been very good at friends.”

He stood to meet her gaze, feeling that sudden heat between them that had ignited the night before. “That’s ok, I’m not either.” He replied just before he grabbed the back of her head pulling her lips to his.

He felt her arms wrap around his neck as she stood on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss between them. Peeta’s hands roamed down the sides of her body, landing on her hips. He tugged her closer to him, leaving no space between them and drove her backwards until they hit a solid surface. They both grunted from the pressure of the sudden force, but remained unfazed. Her fingertips played with the hem of his shirt, grazing sneakily over his stomach, causing him to pull back and give a breathy laugh. She pressed a smiling kiss on his lips just before his mouth pulled away again to tend to her jawline and the warm flesh of her neck.

“Ok, ok.” She coaxed as she rested her hands on his chest, pushing him away just enough to break contact.

Their breathing was ragged as they stared at each other in the near dark. After a moment, Peeta reached to twist his fingers around the hair at the bottom of Katniss’ braid. She glanced down at his hand, then back up to his eyes.

“Listen,” She started, and grabbed his hand from her hair, holding it in her own. “I know I said I wasn’t good at friends, but I do know that what we just did was not a friend thing.”

He gave her hand a squeeze, “Did you know that polar bears are left handed?” Peeta offered finally, feeling at a loss for what to say, but wanting to say so much more at the same time.  

Katniss gave him a perplexed look just before she burst out laughing. “No I did not know that.” She said as her laughter died down.

Peeta liked making her laugh, especially when it was good enough to wrinkle her nose. “Will you go out with me this Wednesday? Like a do-over?” He asked, hoping that breaking the tension between them would persuade her some.

Katniss looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. She crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to scrutinize him. “Ok.” She finally relinquished, squinting her eyes to glare at him suspiciously.

“Ok” He said with a final nod of his head, feeling relief wash over him. “Now can you please finish explaining this whole crazy process?” He asked feigning exasperation, motioning at the contents of her lab.

Katniss gave him a smirk and rolled her eyes, while Peeta did his best to remain on his best behavior as he settled in to an afternoon with his new friend.

[tackyink]

This one is sad, but I think things will look up from the next part onwards. Lots of setup until now.

Nothing is crueler than children who come from good homes

Another thing I learned, sometime before my encounter with the hospital ghost, was that Satori and Yu weren’t on the best of terms.

I’d said before that Yu had only been at the hospital when I woke up, and he didn’t show up any other day. I chalked it up to him having school, and if I had been in our parents’ shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted him around anyway. A hospital was no place for a kid.

I should have guessed by my mother’s reticence to speak when I asked about him that something was off, and little by little it became clear why.

My parents didn’t waste any time in finding me someone to help me study while I was out of school. I had class with two different tutors, morning and afternoon, from Monday to Friday, and though I was supposed to be taking piano lessons twice a week, my parents decided to set those aside until I was able to regain more urgent abilities. My routine, then, became a study marathon during the weekdays, only interrupted to go to doctor check-ups, while my father was at work, my brother at school, and my mother did household chores that never seemed to end.

My parents were kind, serious people. My mother had that stubborn determination of people who set a goal for themselves and never let go, and my recovery was her new goal. When I was not busy studying, she took me out to show me the streets near our home, my school, the train station, the shops. She helped me make flashcards for all the kanji I needed to memorize. She was there to ingrain in me manners that I had never been taught and rescue me when a well-meaning neighbor stopped us on the street to ask me how I was doing and I inevitable stumbled over my words. And she did everything with an unbreakably polite smile and a firm resolve.

As for my dad, I only saw him in the evenings. He didn’t give an approachable vibe. He wasn’t talkative, had a severe expression, and mostly spoke to us only to ask how our day had gone and give advice. The longest I saw him talk was one day at dinner, when he got into a philosophical discussion with Yu I couldn’t follow due to my limited vocabulary – and had I had it, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to, anyway. As time went by, I got the impression that he cared deeply for his family, but he didn’t know how to express it very well, as it was the case for many men of older generations. His way of showing affection was showing interest in what we did every day, even when the most consequential thing I had done was walking alone to the convenience store, he listened like I was telling him the most interesting story in the world.

He was strict and I never saw him crack a joke, but he treated us with the utmost respect. He was the textbook prototype of a family head, and he took on the role as if it was second nature to him, though when I think about it, I suppose it must have been taxing to be so restrained all the time.

And then there was Yu.

I thought he wasn’t talkative either, at first.

I was wrong. He just didn’t talk to me.

This went on for weeks, and while it was bearable when the whole family was together, it was extremely uncomfortable when Yu and I had to be in a room alone. He had perfected the art of ignoring me at all times, and only broke his silence when I addressed him directly.

I had to stop that situation, if only because it was fueling my anxious tendencies. For weeks, I didn’t know how to approach the issue. My opportunity came one Sunday afternoon, when I found him playing chess by his lonesome in the living room. He had a book on his lap, and checked it frequently in between moves.

I remembered doing something similar as a child, but I never put much effort in it. Playing alone bored me to death, and I didn’t have anyone to play with at home. My parents had been too busy with work, and my grandmother didn’t know how to play. I learned soon that all my attempts to rope somebody into playing would be useless, so I stopped trying.

Yu was a completely different kind of beast. When something grabbed his interest, he didn’t let it rest until he knew all its ins and outs, and chess was no exception.

He didn’t lift his eyes from the board, but he was aware that I was looking at him, and he asked in English, out of habit, “May I help you?”

I got startled. “Not really,” I said awkwardly, but I thought this was a good chance to try to speak to him. I didn’t lose anything by trying, except a few years of life. Boy, was I nervous about talking to a ten year old kid. “Isn’t it better to play against somebody?”

“Evidently,” he said with distaste, still looking at the pieces. “But I don’t see anybody available here. Do you?”

A ten year old kid that could be somewhat intimidating, in a pedantic kind of way.

“I could if you wanted,” I said hesitantly. “I’m not good at it, but it would be better than knowing your own moves ahead of time, right?”

The look he gave me was identical to that of the eleven year old I had once tutored when I told him that pink had been a manly color in the days of yore. “You?”

I was taken aback by the edge in his voice. “Yes?”

“You don’t know how to play.”

There was venom dripping from his voice. I didn’t know what Satori had done for him to be so resentful, but it had to be bad. Kids don’t hold grudges for weeks unless they’ve been seriously aggravated.

“I wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t know,” I shot back. I was not going to be intimidated by a runt.

His eyes were fixed on me, judgmental, and those few seconds felt like an eternity. Then he lowered his gaze back to the board and said, “Feel free to join.”

It was evident that I wasn’t wanted, but turning down his offer at this point would have been far ruder than sitting uncomfortably for a match.

“Do you mind being black?” He asked, looking at the pieces he was setting on the board instead of me.

“Not at all.”

The match that lasted all of five minutes before my king was cornered. He stopped several times to check his book, too. In another situation I would have been jealous of his brains, but I found too dang funny that someone almost a third of my age was destroying me at chess.

Even though I had never learned to play as I wanted, it was really fun to try to figure out what his strategy was, catch how a set of moves worked so I didn’t fall into the trap again. And I did fall, but I didn’t care. We played match after match, and save a few notable exceptions, I started to stretch their length gradually.

I sucked really bad, but that didn’t stop me from having the most fun I’d had since I had landed in this world.

By the time we were interrupted, it was getting dark and our mother was watching us from behind the doorway in astonishment. I was sitting with my back to it, so I didn’t notice until Yu looked up at her.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no! You two keep playing. Dinner will be ready soon.”

There I went, feeling awkward again. Like I had crossed a line I didn’t know existed. And when I turned around, Yu was watching me again with that same judging stare, but I didn’t feel any hostility coming from him this time.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Why are you doing this?”

I didn’t know what he meant. “Playing with you?”

“Being nice to me. Is this some sort of scheme?”

Holy shit. What was the relationship between these two? How strained it had to be for Yu, no matter how smart he was, to be asking that?

I had to say something, but there was no adequate response to such a question.

“Why would I do that?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

I had been an only child. I didn’t know how siblings were supposed to act, but I had assumed these two had gotten along more or less like my friends’ brothers and sisters did. It was now clear that I had been wrong.

“You always make fun of me. You never care about anything I do.”

The words hurt like a stab, even knowing they weren’t meant for me, not really. But if I had to live with this family, if I had to have a brother while I found out what had happened to me, we both deserved better than this unending tension.

I thought, in a way, that since I had robbed him of his real sister, it was my duty to be a decent one for him. And if that entailed making up for whatever had happened between Yu and Satori, so be it.

“I don’t remember,” I said earnestly, eyes downcast. “But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Yu’s defensive stance dropped, likely because he had been expecting me to attack him, not apologize. “You are sorry?”

I looked straight at him. “I am.”

He was at a loss for a few seconds, but he hadn’t been swayed when he spoke. “Empty words. You are saying you don’t remember.”

“No matter how I acted, it was bad enough to make you hate me,” I replied. “So I am sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me, but you don’t need to avoid me. I’m not going to make fun of you again.”

Call it an excuse to feel a little bit better about myself, if you want, but letting him be at ease at home was the least I could do for him.

He readjusted his glasses in a nervous gesture that concealed most of his face, and this time he sounded shy when he spoke. “I don’t hate you. You’re my sister.”

And then, it was I who didn’t know what to reply. It was very much like me to let a kid leave me fumbling for words.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. What I wanted to say was that I was not her sister, but I had to try for both of our sakes.

Something changed that evening. Yu was less standoffish from then on, asking me to play with him, helping me willingly when I got stuck with my homework. In turn, I asked him about what he studied, and found out that he had a liking for linguistics and philosophy even then. We started to go book hunting together, he for specialized manuals, I for everything that I needed to get up to date with what I was supposed to already know.

One time, as we made our way back with bags full of books, he remarked offhandedly that it was like I was a different person.

And once again, I didn’t know what to reply.

Satori kept a diary. Part of my self-imposed homework, for which I felt like a disgusting person, was going through it to learn about her. 

At first I wasn’t able to read a thing. As I got used to her handwriting and my vocabulary expanded, I was able to find out many things, one of which was made obvious constantly.

Satori was deathly jealous of Yu, and felt her parents were ignoring her in favor of him, so she was taking out her frustration on him. And from what I could understand, she felt guilty about lashing out at him, but she didn’t seem to know how to manage the situation, and neither did her parents. Satori needed attention, and her parents weren’t the warmest.

She did well at school, at the club, in her afterschool lessons. To her, they were favoring him just because he did better. But she couldn’t catch up to him. Satori was bright, but she was no prodigy child, and at some point she gave up trying, and her grades started to slip.

I didn’t get all this information from the diary, per se, but I was able to piece the picture together from years of conversations at home.

On one of the last used pages, she had written that maybe it would’ve been better if she hadn’t been born.

I closed that diary and decide that I wouldn’t read anymore. I hid it at the back of a desk drawer, under a box, and tried to forget about it.

Satori had never seen the faces of her parents when she was at the hospital. She had lost her life thinking she wasn’t wanted, and I could only hope that there was a way to let her get it back.

And if that happened… What would that mean for me? Would I just die if she reclaimed her body? Fizzle out of existence, since I didn’t belong in this world to begin with? If everything could be reverted to how it was before the accident, would I go to my old life without looking back?

The question had been in the back of my mind since I had learned I was living in Mushiyori and who my brother was. Of course I wanted my family and friends back, but did I want my life as well?

Again, I pushed that question aside, perhaps because I feared what the answer would be. And, in any case, there was no use in overthinking something that might not happen.

[prepare4trouble]

Star Wars Rebels fanfic - No Worse Than Before (But Now You Know) (2)

Little By Little AU

part 1

Hera hesitated at the door to the medical room.

It had been several months since she had been here last, but the memories were still fresh.  It was there, by the examination table, that she had stood, Kanan’s fingers squeezing her hand that little bit too tightly, when she had brought him here after his return from Malachor.  Over there, sitting on a hard chair near to the console interface, she had heard the droid inform Kanan that his sight would not return.

This room was full of bad memories, and for Kanan it had to be even worse.

She glanced at him, but he gave no outward sign of apprehension.  Sensing her hesitation, he placed a hand on her arm and they stepped over the threshold into the room together.

The droid, a relatively new N01-model medical droid, looked up at them as they entered.  It maneuvered itself around the computer terminal it had been positioned behind and approached them.  “Welcome,” it said.  “How can I be of assistance?”

Hera felt herself wince at the standard response to an approach from a patient.  It would have said that to Ezra, just as it had to Kanan.

“It has been only five days, fifteen hours and seven minutes since your previous visit,” it continued, obviously speaking to Kanan rather than to her.  “Such frequency is not required at this stage in your recovery. Have you been experiencing unusual symptoms?”

Kanan shook his head.  “No, I…” He lifted the bag containing the medical book and datapad, and offered it in the droid’s direction.  It made no move to accept it, and Kanan allowed the bag to drop back to his side.  “We came to talk about Ezra.”

The droid emitted a barely perceptible humming sound as it searched its databanks, and then backed off the approximate distance of a step.  “Ezra Bridger has not set up any alternative contacts for the discussion of medical issues,” it said.

Kanan grimaced.  “No, I bet he didn’t.  Wouldn’t have wanted anybody finding this in his history if they went to check.”

“For that reason, I am unable to discuss the matter further and must terminate this conversation,” the droid continued.  “Please obtain the necessary authorization, or attend with the patient.”

Hera stepped forward.  “All we want to know…”

“Please obtain the necessary authorization, or attend with the patient in order to continue this discussion.  I am sorry.”

“Wait,” Kanan said.  “Ezra won’t mind this.  Listen, all we want…”

“Please obtain the necessary authorization…”

Hera scowled, a surge of frustrated anger washing over her.  Her hands bunched unconsciously into fists and she clenched them hard, as though she could beat the droid into compliance.  The emotion was unfamiliar and unpleasant, out of control.  Just like the whole situation – completely out of her hands.  There was nothing that she could do to stop what was happening to Ezra, but she could pry the information she needed out of the droid.  Even if she had to pull out a wrench and take it apart to do so.

“Listen, you pile of scrap metal,” she said, trying and failing to keep the anger out of her voice.  “Kanan came here with Ezra, you know he has permission.  If Ezra forgot to grant it officially, he’ll do it later, he won’t have a problem with this; we’re practically his parents.”

The droid turned its attention and its body in her direction.  It cocked its head as though looking both herself and Kanan up and down, and then backed off a little further, as though to protect itself.  “That is genetically improbable,” it said.

Kanan’s hand closed around her forearm and squeezed gently.  “Enno-fifteen,” he said.  “We’re not looking for information specific to Ezra, we need general information about his condition.  Specifically, what we can do to help him adjust.”

A metallic whirring sound again as the droid processed that new information.  “I provided Ezra Bridger with ample reading material.  You may find it useful to discuss with him what he has learned from that.  However, if you wish for me to go over the pertinent points, I am more than willing.”

Kanan had tried to teach Hera to meditate once; it hadn’t exactly been successful.  She took a deep breath and called on what she remembered to release some of her frustration as she exhaled.  “The reading material isn’t exactly what I’d call relevant.”

“The information I provided to Ezra Bridger is the foremost literature available on the subject,” the droid told her.  She wasn’t sure, but it actually sounded offended by the implication that it wasn’t useful.

At a loss as to how to proceed, she looked hopefully at Kanan.  Sensing her scrutiny, he smiled in the droid’s direction.  “What she’s saying is, we read the book.  Now we need something else.”

The droid considered this carefully.  “I’m aware that the Jedi are capable of a great many things; however, to my knowledge, reading visually without the use of one’s eyes is not one of them.”

Kanan grimaced.  “Hera read it,” he lied.  “Out loud.  To me.”

The droid made that sound again as he considered this.  It looked from Kanan to Hera and back again, and obviously made the decision not to pursue the argument any further.  “I understand,” it said.  “Could you give me an example of the further reading you would like to pursue?”

Hera folded her arms.  “We need something that tells us about practical things we can do to help,” she said.

The droid dipped its head in an approximation of a nod.  “Many adaptations made for Kanan Jarrus will be suitable to any other visually impaired person,” it said.

“Ezra… the theoretical person… he still has usable vision,” Kanan said.  “He will for some time.”

The droid slid over to a large cabinet at the other side of the room, and reached inside for another datapad.  He handed it to Hera.  “I anticipated this conversation, and had this device pre-loaded with an appropriate text; however, it is short and rather simplistic,” it explained.  “In addition to that, you will find that many of the adaptive technologies mentioned here are unavailable in our present location.  No doubt you will find that frustrating.  For that reason, I did not immediately provide this information.”

Hera turned on the pad and loaded up the ten-page booklet within.  A Guide to Vision Loss - How to Assist a Friend or Loved One.

“The text is also rather outdated,” the droid added.  “I believe it dates back to the time of the Republic.”

Hera switched off the pad.  “It’ll do,” she said.  “Thank you.”   She touched Kanan lightly on the arm, a signal to leave.  He placed the bag containing the medical book on the desk, before turning and following her out of the room.

“What did he give you?” Kanan asked as they walked back to the Ghost.

Hera switched on the device and read the title word for word.

“Sounds interesting.” Kanan said.  “I’ll look forward to you reading it to me.”

Hera laughed and shook her head.  “Actually, that droid might be pedantic and more than a little annoying, but he thinks of everything.  He’s pre-loaded the audio version of the book too.”

Kanan nodded.  “Must have seen us coming,” he said.

(part 3)

[nerdywerdyprincess-blog]

The Final Answer (TFP Redone)

Reposting this due to an offensive title that apparently upsets people. The Final Answer is going to be more appropriate anyway since there will be a question asked at the end of this series. ;)

So again, rewriting The Final Problem to be what it should have been, featuring lots of Johnlock, M-Theory and tying up a lot of loose ends! See previous posts for the Prologue. Part one is below. Part Two will be tomorrow. Hoping to post one part every day until the end.

————————

Part One

——————————

The sound of the projector whirring in the background was just white noise to him and made the black and white image on the screen feel more nostalgic and romantic. The private theatre seat and the large viewing screen was all part of the atmosphere, and like his brother, Mycroft Holmes knew a thing or two about how to set a stage and how to create the right dramatic setting for the show.

Unlike his brother however, he preferred to indulge in such dramas privately.

“'You know, I could arrest you,” the tough law enforcement agent said in his gruff, sexy voice as he regarded the blond woman in front of him. The trench coat was classic for such a setting, as was the woman’s knee length skirt and red lipstick, although one couldn’t see the exact shade due to the black and white color scheme.

“What for?” the woman responded with a coy look.

Mycroft smiled to himself, relaxing just a little more and glad to be able to lose himself in his favorite film. It was a secret delight of his and one that would have likely shocked anyone who knew him; his fondness for old films and romantic dramas. Perhaps, he philosophized, because he was always guaranteed a happy ending. Life however….life never guaranteed that.

“Wearing a dress like that.”

“Would you like me to take it off?”

“Then I’d really have to press charges.”

“Press away.”

“Isn’t that how they got started?”

“Who?”

“Adam and Eve.”

Mycroft mouthed the words along with the actors and glanced over to the table next to him just in front of where the projector rested and grabbed his small glass of sherry with his free hand, his other holding his lit cigarette, even as he grinned to himself in a way he never did in public.  He would be mortified of course if anyone knew he was a closet romantic, but that was alright, because no one would ever know. Ever…

“Oh, them.”

“And that turned out OK.”

“You think so? I thought it was supposed to be the beginning of all human misery.”

“Now what was all that about arresting me?”

“Well, maybe not arresting you.”

“No?”

“I could just keep you under close watch.”

“Very close?”

“A-huh.”

“Shame, I was looking forward to putting myself into the hands of the authorities.”

“You were?”

“Finger-printing, being searched thoroughly…”

“MYCROFT!!”

The door to Mycroft’s private theatre was abruptly thrown open and the lights turned on. Mycroft jumped as if a clown wielding a machete had just burst into the room to attack him and he swore as he burned himself on his own cigarette and spilled his drink on his trousers with his own startle.

“Sherlock! What in God’s name—“ Mycroft began as he stood up to face this intruder, only to pale and tense as he saw he wasn’t alone. Gregory LeStrade was with him too it seemed, wearing a trench coat.

But Mycroft didn’t get a chance to ask questions as he was abruptly grabbed by his brother, wearing his own signature coat and hat and shoved him up against the nearest wall.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Sherlock shouted like a man possessed. His icy blue eyes bore into his brothers, and Mycroft wondered if he was high again or otherwise mentally impaired. The last time Sherlock had gotten his physical with him, he’d been strung out after all. “Where is Eurus?!!”

The name made everything inside Mycroft go still, and Sherlock knew in that moment that his theory was correct as his brother tensed and his expression went ice cold. His own heart was pounding as well, though this time it had nothing to do with cocaine or any other form of narcotic.

He was motivated entirely by fear and a kind of raw desperation he’d never felt before, save perhaps once, when he’d been inspired to jump off a building.

“Where is she, *brother*? Tell me where she is right now!!” Sherlock shouted again.

Mycroft swallowed. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve…never even heard of anyone named Eurus.”

Sherlock scoffed bitterly, but didn’t let go of his brother’s collar. “Oh really? Well, let me refresh your memory,” he said darkly and pulled out a note and held it up to his brother’s face, even as he read it aloud.

“Dear Sherlock,

Did you miss me, brother? Come and play.

Love,

Eurus”

Mycroft paled starkly as the letter was read aloud and he reached for it.

“Let me see that!” Mycroft demanded sharply.

Sherlock’s eyes went cold. “Don’t remember her at all, I see,” he mocked sardonically as he saw Mycroft examining the handwriting with his eyes and going stiff and pale. “My conclusion is correct then. I have a sister! Second conclusion; you’ve locked her away somewhere. And third, you’ve gotten sloppy.”

Mycroft frowned at the third, and glanced up to meet his brother’s gaze.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” Mycroft said softly with a slow shake of his head and swallowed tensely. “Where did you find this?”

“In the home of John’s therapist,” Sherlock informed. “Or rather, my sister, pretending to be his therapist. His real therapist was found dead in that same house! And now John is missing.”

“Missing?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

Greg looked somber. “Molly was watching Rosie today and she called Sherlock this afternoon, frantic because John never came back from his appointment. He went to the therapist’s house and found the body and the note. We’ve searched all around the house and made inquiries with his sister and all his friends, but no one has seen him.”

Mycroft felt his blood go ice cold, but he kept his composure as best he could.

“Yes, well, Doctor Watson isn’t the most emotionally stable of individuals right now, is he? Perhaps he simply went on an impulsive holiday,” Mycroft said, handing the note back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with something dangerous at the suggestion and he abruptly punched his brother in the jaw.

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted in alarm, even as Sherlock shoved Mycroft forcefully up against the wall again, his arm to Mycroft’s neck as if to choke him.

“You listen to me, *brother mine*! If anything happens to John because of you….because you’re keeping secrets from me….I will kill you, blood or no blood!” Sherlock threatened darkly, almost shaking with vivid anger and….perhaps just a little terror at what might have happened to his—doctor. “This isn’t one of your government conspiracies where you get to play god with peoples lives! This is bigger than that. This is *his* life and mine! Now I want to know who Eurus is! Everything, Mycroft. I want to know everything! Why can’t I remember her? And where is she?!”

Mycroft stared into his brother’s eyes, so alive with….feeling. Sometimes he did envy Sherlock his ability to feel so deeply. Of course, Mycroft knew it was far more trouble than it was worth, and for the most part he was happy with his solitary and purely intellectual existence! But there were times like now, when he saw Sherlock truly moved and willing to do anything for someone, that he envied him that connection to people.

He truly believed Sherlock meant every word. He’d known from the beginning that John Watson would either make or break his brother. Truly, in this moment, he wasn’t sure which one had been accomplished. At one point he had…hoped….that John could be Sherlock’s salvation. Now, he feared that he may be his undoing.

Which he realized was possibly the plan all along.

“If we are going to discuss his, we shall do so privately. This is a family matter,” Mycroft said quietly, ignoring the pain in his jaw as he turned to look at LeStrade.

Greg held up his hands in surrender. “Fine by me. I’m just here to keep Sherlock from killing you,” he informed and then smirked. “You’re really watching ‘Paradise Found’?” he asked in amusement, the film having been playing softly in the background once he found the knob to adjust he volume. He was fond of old films himself, but never quite thought Mycroft Holmes was…the type. Surprise, surprise!

Mycroft went a quite obvious shade of pink. “Out!” he ordered with a frown, utterly humiliated that of all people, he would be the one to walk in and see his most private of hobbies.

Greg shrugged and walked out genially, just glad that Sherlock didn’t try to kill anyone this time.

As soon as the door was shut, Mycroft went over to the projector to turn it off the film completely, not meeting his brother’s gaze as he did so.

“I still believe it is impossible that Eurus was able to escape. I took every precaution.”

“Did you now?” Sherlock asked. “Well, as I said; sloppy. Now start talking, Mycroft! I want the truth.”

Mycroft gave a soft, scoffing laugh. “The *truth*?” he asked, and turned to look at his brother almost piteously. “Who was it that said that said ’the truth is rarely pure and never simple?’”

“I don’t care about your pedantic philosophies, Mycroft,” Sherlock dismissed coldly. “There were three of us then. You, me and Eurus; the sister I can’t remember. The ‘East Wind’,” he said with a bitter sneer.

Mycroft looked somber. “Our parents were fond of unusual names. Eurus is Greek for the god of the east wind,” he informed, as if speaking to a child again.

“I know what it means!” Sherlock snapped angrily and fisted his hands at his side. “You used that to scare me!”

“No.”

“You turned my sister into a ghost story!” he further accused, pacing away and taking off his stupid, silly hat and tossing it down in agitation. Fuck, he wanted a cigarette!

“Of course I didn’t. I monitored you,” Mycroft insisted calmly.

“You what?” Sherlock demanded with a sharp look.

Mycroft looked grim.

“Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen. The roads we walk have demons beneath…and yours have been waiting for a very long time,” he said softly and then sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I never bullied you. I used, at discreet intervals, potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you!” he tried to insist.

That’s all Mycroft had ever done, it felt like. Trying to look after Sherlock… He knew he’d done a lot of damage over the years of course. His methods hadn’t always turned out expected results, but his intentions had been pure. No matter what happened, he did want Sherlock to understand that!

Sherlock’s expression remained neutral however as he stared at his brother all he more intently.

“Why can’t I remember her?” he demanded quietly.

Mycroft smiled sadly. “You do remember her, Sherlock….in a way,” he specified. “Every choice you ever made, every path you’ve ever taken, the man you are today is your memory of Eurus.”

“Enough, Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, unnerved by that and the idea that….there was something missing in his mind. His mind was so important to him! It was a machine, finely tuned and designed for nothing less than excellence. The idea that there was a flaw somewhere…. Missing information…..a virus in his hard drive, a fly in the ointment….

He shuddered as he heard Moriarty’s voice in his head, mocking him, and he instead turned his brief lapse of attention back to his brother. “Just get to the point. What happened?”

Mycroft bit a lip somberly. “You know how I’m the smart one?”

Sherlock scoffed in response.

“We were tested more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius. Beyond Newton. She was….incandescent…” he whispered, his eyes going distant as he remembered he girl with dark hair. “She was different from the beginning. She knew things she should never have known….as if she was somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope…” he whispered, and looked visibly disturbed as he abruptly closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as if remembering images from a nightmare.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. He hated such unspecific details. And yet, as Mycroft spoke, he felt an eerie sensation, like a memory from a dream almost….  

“What do you mean? Examples.”

Mycroft looked almost haunted as he opened his eyes. “They found her with a knife once. She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and Father were terrified. They thought it was a suicide attempt! But when I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said: I wanted to see how my muscles worked….” he quoted and felt a shiver as if he could almost hear her voice in his head, and could almost imagine her in the room with them. “So I asked her if she felt pain, and she said: Which one’s pain?”

Sherlock looked stoic at his, his emotions getting a little more in line now that he was getting facts, and yet he found himself watching Mycroft intently, seeing how disturbed he looked and couldn’t help but feel a chill in the air as well.

“Then what happened?”

Mycroft swallowed thickly. “Musgrave,” he said softly and a vivid memory of their ancestral home flashed before his eyes. “The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea. And you played among the - funny gravestones.”

Sherlock didn’t know why, but that word….Musgrave…felt so familiar to him.

It was on the tip of his tongue…

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair shakily. “Funny? Funny….how?” he asked, though he felt odd suddenly as if he could remember flashes of old stones with numbers on them. Wrong numbers…

“They weren’t real. The dates were all wrong. An architectural joke which fascinated you,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he heard something in his head; a distant voice like a little girl…singing in a sing-song voice…and an image of them sitting at a table while she sang…

Deep down below the old beech tree - Help succour me now the - East winds blow.

“East winds blows…. Sixteen by six….and under we go…” Sherlock whispered shakily, his eyes opening again as he stared distantly.

Mycroft watched his brother intently and swallowed thickly. “You’re starting to remember.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Fragments…” he dismissed, but paused and frowned as he remembered leaving the table and running out, wearing his pirate hat and wielding his little wooden sword, and calling a name. “Redbeard…” he breathed shakily and then glanced up to look at Mycroft in horror.

Mycroft nodded darkly. “Yes, Sherlock. Redbeard,” he confirmed quietly. “Eurus took Redbeard and locked him up somewhere no-one could find him. And she refused to say where he was. She’d only repeat that song. Her little ritual. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was! But she said: The song is the answer. But the song made no sense…” he said darkly.

Sherlock looked strained. “What happened to Redbeard?” he demanded intently, because he realized suddenly it was happening again. John…

Mycroft shook his head. “We never found him. But she started calling him Drowned Redbeard, so we made our assumptions. You were….traumatized,” he informed frankly. “Natural, I suppose. You were, in the early days, an emotional child. But after that, you were different. So changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, you seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed.”

Sherlock scoffed shakily in incredulity at the idea that he’d been…emotional! And that the loss of a dog had changed him so much! But granted, his memories of Redbeard were….both painful and happy at the same time and so very complicated. And yet it felt unreal that he was missing so much information! There was something not quite right about any of this…

“How could I forget her? We lived in the same house!” Sherlock argued, convinced his brother wasn’t telling him something.

“No,” Mycroft corrected. “They took her away. Not because of Redbeard, but because of what happened immediately after,” he said grimly. “She burned down the house. Almost killed all of us in our sleep,” he said darkly. “After that, our sister had - to be taken away.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded tensely, because he had to believe that wherever she was, John was too. Or at the very least she could tell him what happened to him!

“Oh, some suitable place, or so everyone thought. Not suitable enough, however,” Mycroft informed casually. “She died there after starting yet another fire.”

“Damn it, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped angrily. “That’s a lie!”

“Yes!” Mycroft retorted tensely. “But it is also a kindness, Sherlock. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body.”

Severus scoffed bitterly. “And no doubt to prevent their further interference,” he accused.

“Well, that, too, of course. The depth of Eurus’s psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn’t hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudi took care of things,” he said softly.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. “Where is she, Mycroft? The truth.”

Mycroft bit a lip, before he sighed heavily in defeat. “There’s a place called Sherrinford. An island. It’s a secure and very secret installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call the uncontainables. The demons beneath the road? This is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison, or an asylum. It is a fortress, built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid. But I can give you a map reference for hell,” he said with dark pointedness.

The word ‘hell’ made Sherlock’s head snap up and he stared at Mycroft intently for a moment, going cold as words were echoed back to him in Mary’s voice.

Save John Watson… Go to hell, Sherlock.

His heart pounded quickly in his chest as he recalled another time when he’d spoken of hell itself. When he’d offered to shake Jim Moriarty’s hand there…

“Sherlock?” Mycroft queried as he saw his brother zoning out and his eyes doing that thing where they moved from side to side as if he were reading words in mid-air, a sure sign he was thinking and deducing quite quickly. “Whoever it was that killed that woman or left you that note, I promise you, it couldn’t have been her. That’s where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn’t left, not for a single day!” he insisted.

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother and then gave him a pointed, determined look as he grabbed Mycroft’s umbrella and tossed it to him.

“Well then, brother….let’s go prove it,” Sherlock said determinedly and then strode out of the room, fully expecting Mycroft would follow.

~*~

[maxfieldparrishes]

shake the bones

part II. What’s past stays with you. (Lelouch/Kallen)

(read on AO3)

She can feel his eyes, the question in them. She doesn’t know if she should answer. 

His breath is warm on her back, his hand on the curve of her hip, fingertips lightly tracing the jut of her pelvis. 

“I suppose you want to know,” she whispers, breaking the heavy silence. Her words take a hammer to it, and it shatters. Instantly, she is awake. 

“I am curious, I won’t lie,” Lelouch whispers back, “but you know you don’t have to. It’s not important.” 

He won’t lie? That’s a first. 

Kallen shifts, stretches her legs against his own. His lips drowsily linger, half-open, against the nape of her neck, and for a moment it is so, so incredibly tempting to draw herself closer to him, surrender to his warmth and fall gracelessly back into sleep... but Kallen has never taken the easy path, and she isn’t about to start now. Unknowingly her hand covers his own against her skin, before she shifts further on her side and that same hand balls the sheets into its fist. 

“It was Xingke,” she admits after several slow and indolent heartbeats, his hand still warm against her. “He understood me. He was the only one who... didn’t expect anything, or want...” She takes a breath. “He was the only one who understood what I was willing to give.” 

Lelouch’s breathing hitches behind her, but only for a moment. Then he chuckles dryly. “At least it wasn’t that blond Britannian oaf.” The oaf’s name is dancing in his mind just out of reach, but it’s not important. There are only two people who matter right now: the two of them, and maybe the ghost of Xingke that Kallen has brought with her. 

Kallen hums a little. “No. I have more self-respect than that and you know it.” 

“Xingke is remarkable,” he whispers behind her. “You could have chosen worse.” 

She can’t help but laugh at that. “Truth be told,” she says, a melancholy smile on her face, “I think he was just as frustrated as I was.” 

“Frustrated? With what?” 

“This,” she says, waving a hand around. “Trying to find a place. The newness of it all. Xingke and I, we’d been soldiers so long, we didn’t know how to be anything else. Sometimes I think that I still don’t know.”

“But you did what I asked,” Lelouch responds, his voice low and quiet. “You lived on.”

“Mm. I guess so,” Kallen says, and leaves it at that, but there’s something she’s not telling him, and they both know it. 

“And? There’s something else, isn’t there?” 

Lelouch’s natural curiosity never rests, even when the rest of him is tired and sated--she came home from class one day to find him with a fully cooked dinner, a stack of her textbooks, and a laundry list of questions about the assignments on her syllabi. Kallen had racked her memory until it was a disjointed mass for recollections of their shared time at Ashford, because she could not, for the life of her, remember a single solitary instance of Lelouch actually studying, even if one of the council members had been there to hold a gun to her head. Lucky for her, they weren’t.  

“You’re nosy,” she complains as she pushes his hand away to roll over onto her stomach. He’s already died once, and if he keeps on being snoopy she’s going to kill him again. 

“It’s part of my charm.” He takes a long time stretching next her, less athletic--reaching his fingertips toward the headboard, toes towards the foot of the bed, almost like he’s trying to pull himself apart. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he repeats. “Or someone.” 

She doesn’t answer him right away. Instead she rearranges her head on the pillow and half-twists back onto her side again and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “C.C.” 

For a moment Kallen thinks he actually has died again, because she can feel the sudden halt in his breathing, and the silence that comes after seems like lasts for eons. Then he chuckles, heaves a sigh, and flops onto his back. 

“I’m not going to ask you what you’re thinking,” she says at last, head pillowed on her arms. “It’s my life, and I don’t have to justify anything to you.” 

“No, you don’t,” Lelouch agrees. “I’m just...”

“Startled?”

“The connotation is a little too intense. I would say surprised rather than startled.” 

Kallen rolls her eyes and snorts. “Of course you choose to be pedantic now, of all times.” She watches him lazily. “I’m glad you’re not completely shocked. I was.” 

“No. C.C. is... quite old. I doubt she has any sort of... preference... still. You, on the other hand... I’m not completely surprised. No, what I really am surprised about is the fact that you two managed to keep it under wraps for so long.” 

“I suppose you want to know about this too, huh,” Kallen says. “I won’t give you a blow-by-blow, but... do you want me to tell you what happened?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face speaks for itself. 

“Aomori,” she says. “The year you lost your memory, when she and I were living together.” Kallen rolls onto her back to match him and wraps her arms around herself. “That was the first time. I was in a spiral, she was morose--more so than usual, I mean. So we got a bottle of whiskey for me and wine for her and we got drunk and...” She flaps her hand in the air. “One thing. Another thing. You know.” 

Lelouch doesn’t respond to her right away. Instead, after another beat, he says, “... the first time?” 

It figures that would be the first thing he’d focus on. She thought it would be about their being drunk, although if she’s honest, she and C.C. had gone well past being merely drunk into absolutely shitfaced, and they had both paid dearly for it the next morning. “Yeah. Then a few times, after... after you, then we decided to go our separate ways, at least for a little while. She came back to visit a few times, but nothing else happened.” 

And now she’s gone. Missing, not gone, Kallen reminds herself. C.C. can never be truly gone, just like she’ll never stop being stubborn. It just isn’t possible.

But that’s neither here nor there. She’s leveled with him now, and there’s nothing left to say about it. It happened and it’s in the past, which is where she thought he’d also stay. 

And to top it all off, she’s awake now, and the warm, mellow sleepiness that had settled over her has completely evaporated. Kallen sighs, kicks the covers off, and rolls complainingly, groaning, out of bed. 

She finds her shirt from last night and her underwear and dresses, only pausing when she hears Lelouch’s voice from behind her. 

“Going somewhere?” he asks, and when she turns to look at him, he’s sprawled out onto her side of the bed, grinning lazily. 

“I have homework to do,” she says pointedly, taking a moment to adjust her underwear on her hips, shaking out her hair. 

Lelouch stretches out again, and she can still feel his eyes on her: on her lean thighs, on the small, toned sliver of her abdomen, on the slow spread of her collarbones under the scooped collar of her overlarge shirt. “Why don’t you bring it in here?” he suggests. “We can work on it together.” 

“It’s prep for gross anatomy,” Kallen tells him. “Labeling diagrams. How much do you know about posterior abdominal viscera?” 

“Bring it in here anyway,” he says. “It’ll give us both something to do. Aside from each other, I mean.” 

Kallen picks up Lelouch’s discarded pullover and pitches it at his face. He halfheartedly puts up his arm, a second too late, and laughs as the sleeves cover his eyes. Much to her embarrassment, she feels a blush creep across her cheeks. 

“Yeah, well, when I’m elbow-deep in a dead guy’s thoracic cavity, just know that I’m thinking of you, and how I’d like to kill you. Again.” 

“That’s sweet of you,” he says, as she opens the door, retrieves her anatomical atlas and her worksheets from the kitchen table, and returns, dumping them unceremoniously on the bed. Kallen decides not to dignify his comment by making a snarky retort. 

Instead, she sits cross-legged on the bed and turns on the lamp. She opens her book to the correct page, rifles through the papers in her folder to find the correct packet, and hums a little as she looks from drawing to book, book to drawing. Lelouch rolls onto his elbow, props his head on his hand, pulls the covers up a little bit farther, and watches intently as she points out viscera and veins, tissues and structures.

He watches Kallen become absorbed in her work, oblivious to his gentle gaze, and finds himself thinking that things have certainly changed, and for the better--it’s an unusual position for him, to be the one who is taught instead of the one doing the teaching. Kallen mumbles something about stroma and parenchyma and epithelial cells, erasing something on her paper, and Lelouch decides he doesn’t mind at all. 

A couple of things:

1. Clearly this is not following the movie!verse canon. Consider it an independent R3, an alternate re:surrection, I don't care. That means none of the changes the movies made are present here - Shirley's still dead, etc, etc. My expectations for the movie were low to begin with, and still Sunrise managed to disappoint me even more. I'm actually kind of impressed to see how badly they scuttled their own creation. Oh well, they want to run their franchise and its redeeming qualities into the ground, that's their choice. 2. This is going off my vague memories that some people looked at the books on Kallen's bookshelf at the end of R2, and translated the titles as being medical textbooks. Ergo, Kallen's a medical student here. Did I dream that or was that actually a thing? 3. I'm not going to stop shipping these two. Expect updates in the future because I'm not out of ideas yet. 4. Kallen deserves better treatment from the narrative than what she's gotten, so I'm giving it to her because I love her, even though whoever wrote these movies clearly gave less than two shits about anyone who wasn't C.C. or Lelouch. 5. Kiss my ass, Sunrise.

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 10 December 2018

Quick Bits:

Astonisher #13 adds Ryan O’Sullivan to the writer’s chair alongside Priest as this arc takes an interesting turn. The idea of the red parasite that’s been haranguing the planet since the first issue being fractured and confused pretty much turns the first twelve issues upside down if it’s indeed true. Great art from Al Barrionuevo, Rodney Ramos, Matt Banning, and Jamie Grant.

| Published by Lion Forge / Catalyst Prime

Avengers #11 takes a very different approach than the first ten issues or so as Jason Aaron throws more plot developments at us than Ursus Major hurls insults. It’s interesting as it works through the building problems with the US government, attempts at building a coalition of nations assisting the Avengers, Thor and Jennifer Walters’ date, and the surprise heel turn of a once deceased SHIELD agent. All with wonderful art from Ed McGuinness, Cory Smith, Mark Morales, Scott Hanna, Karl Kesel, and Erick Arciniega.

| Published by Marvel

Batman Annual #3 features a very sweet story from Tom Taylor, Otto Schmidt, and Troy Peteri that focuses on Alfred and all that he sacrifices and takes on himself in order to ensure Bruce can continue in his chosen vocation. The art from Schmidt is perfect and the heart and soul, complete with some very nice humour, that Taylor instills in the dialogue and narration are a very welcome change of pace from some of the grim and gritty takes on Batman. I think we need more Batman stories like this.

| Published by DC Comics

The Batman Who Laughs #1 is an interesting counterpoint to the Batman Annual, with a tale of body trafficking, alternate Batmen, and death from Scott Snyder, Jock, David Baron, and Sal Cipriano. It’s dour, bleak, and even more violent, even with corny insurance jokes. I can’t say it’s bad, though, the mystery is interesting, the art is wonderful, and there’s one hell of a cliffhanger, but it is dark.

| Published by DC Comics

Bitter Root #2 features some amazing artwork from Sanford Greene and Rico Renzi. The designs for the monsters, Jinoo or otherwise, are amazing and the feel of the colours, purples and greens, just bathe the story in an otherworldly glow.

| Published by Image

Black Panther #7 begins Book 2, “The Gathering of My Name”, with Kev Walker and Stéphane Paitreau joining Ta-Nehisi Coates and Joe Sabino to provide the art for this story. It’s a little more focused than the first arc, delivering a solid plan for the rebels to reclaim their identities.

| Published by Marvel

Captain Ginger #2 keeps things purring along as the Captain and Ramscoop leave off to follow a signal that they hope will bring them to another ship of cats. Then everything goes to hell aboard the mothership. Love the artwork from June Brigham, Roy Richardson, and Veronica Gandini. There’s also the usual prose pieces and a Hashtag: Danger back-up comic to round out the issue. “Company Policy Regarding Eel” from Mark Russell with a spot illustration from Ryan Kelly is particularly humorous.

| Published by Ahoy

Champions #27 concludes the Weirdworld arc and this volume of the series with the power of friendship. It’s actually a pretty good character arc for the former Nova and some neat stuff you wouldn’t necessarily have expected from Viv. Amazing art and designs from Max Dunbar and Nolan Woodard.

| Published by Marvel

Daughters of the Dragon #2 continues this digital original with a slightly different approach from the others, presenting an overarching story, but within that Jed MacKay is breaking it down into discrete two-part arcs. It works fairly well, giving some very entertaining action stories. The art for these two parts is handled by Joey Vasquez, Craig Yeung, Rain Beredo, and Jordan Gibson and it looks pretty good. There’s some really nice composition in the final confrontation.

| Published by Marvel

Dead Kings #2 is not quite as immediately bleak as Crude was, but it’s pretty close, with Steve Orlando revisiting some similar themes of regret and responsibility in Russia here. This is obviously more fantastical, blending fable and technology in a post-apocalyptic Thrice-Nine, with wonderfully dark art from Matthew Dow Smith and Lauren Affe to bring life to this slowly dying world.

| Published by AfterShock

Detective Comics #994 begins “Mythology” from the new creative team of Peter J. Tomasi, Doug Mahnke, Jaime Mendoza, David Baron, and Rob Leigh and it’s pretty damn good. It feels great to actually see some detective work in Detective Comics and the mystery of why someone would go to the lengths to stage a pair of murder victims to look like Bruce’s parents is intriguing. The art from Mahnke, Mendoza, and Baron is also wonderful. Mahnke’s style is actually fairly restrained here compared to what I’ve been used to, which when combined with this particular blue from Baron, reminds me more of the Batman of yesteryear and the works of Neal Adams, Jim Aparo, Norm Breyfogle, Marshall Rogers.

| Published by DC Comics

Doctor Strange: The Best Defense #1 continues this very interesting crossover event. Gerry Duggan, Greg Smallwood, and Cory Petit deliver a wonderful “Old Sorcerer Stephen” or “Doctor Strange: The End” type tale with Strange being almost the sole wanderer in a world where Dormammu and his spawn have conquered the Earth. It’s bleak, horrifying, and beautifully illustrated by Smallwood. It’s also interesting in how it ultimately dovetails the rest of the event. Although it definitely can be enjoyed on its own, this one gives a couple answers to the broader picture of what’s going on.

| Published by Marvel

Dragon Age: Deception #3 concludes with everyone hating everyone else, more or less, and an interesting revelation about the Magister everyone was so incensed about meeting, killing, and/or stealing from. Interesting new developments regarding the Qunari incursion of Tevinter as well. Great art from Fernando Heinz Furukawa and Michael Atiyeh.

| Published by Dark Horse

Electric Warriors #2 gets into the battles between warriors and the mechanics of those battles, what transfers to whom depending on challenge, as an alternate to war. It’s interesting enough on the surface, but Steve Orlando definitely seems to be building something bigger. Great art again from Travel Foreman and Hi-Fi. The designs for the characters are truly amazing.

| Published by DC Comics

The Empty Man #2 pushes the insanity caused by the disease even further. I’m not sure what’s more horrifying, the actions caused by the effects of the disease or the cult popping up around it. Cullen Bunn, Jesús Hervás, Niko Guardia, and Ed Dukeshire are delivering a fairly visceral, thoroughly brutal, horror tale here.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Fearscape #3 endeavours to make you hate the series protagonist, Henry Henry, even more than you already probably do with heinous act after heinous act. It is incredible as to how thoroughly unlikable Ryan O’Sullivan has managed to make him that at this point you kind of just want to see him torn apart by pedantic, pretentious literary critics literally.

| Published by Vault

The Flash #60 gives us more details on Fuerza, the new Strength Force user, and her plight against a corrupt police force in Corto Maltese. Joshua Williamson is definitely making these new characters interestingly complicated while Flash tries to understand the new forces. Great art from Rafa Sandoval, Jordi Tarragona, Tomeu Morey, and Hi-Fi.

| Published by DC Comics

Hawkman #7 brings Hawkman a new origin, and a new reason for being, from Robert Venditti, Bryan Hitch, Andrew Currie, Jeremiah Skipper, and Richard Starkings & Comicraft. This new origin nicely builds on Hawkman’s complicated legacy, not invalidating anything, but enhancing why he keeps being reborn in different places, different eras, and gives him a purpose that’s often been lacking in some of his reboots. Great work.

| Published by DC Comics

Hellboy Winter Special 2018 has a trio of tales, each of them spotlighting a different era. The first is a wonderful traditional Hellboy short from Mike Mignola, Ben Stenbeck, and Dave Stewart of a seance gone horribly wrong as they also seem to. The second builds on the vampire mythology from the BPRD: 1946-1948 series amidst superstitious villagers fearing for their crops from Gabriel Bá, Fábio Moon, and Dave Stewart. And finally a Lobster Johnson tale from Tonči Zonjić of criminals trying to pass off their handiwork as the Claw of Justice. All three stories are very well done, gorgeous art all throughout.

| Published by Dark Horse

Infinite Dark #3 reveals the plans, more or less, that Alvin and Kirin put in place to destroy the station. It’s terrifying, and its source possibly more so. It does kind of make me wonder why people are being driven mad at its reality, though.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Infinity Wars: Ghost Panther #2 concludes this mini, the last of the Infinity Warps. Absolutely stunning artwork from Jefte Palo and Jim Campbell. 

| Published by Marvel

Justice League Dark #6 concludes the Myrra arc as James Tynion IV waxes philosophically through Bobo and Diana about guilt and responsibility, even as the nightmares at the gate get even closer elsewhere. The art from Daniel Sampere, Juan Albarran, and Adriano Lucas is really damn good.

| Published by DC Comics

Magic: The Gathering - Chandra #1 features some very impressive art from Harvey Tolibao, Joana Lafuente, and Tristan Jurolan. Nice detail, character designs, and beautiful colours.

| Published by IDW

The Magic Order #5 delivers one hell of a twist in this penultimate chapter. Also, very inventive methods of torture. Drop dead gorgeous artwork from Olivier Coipel and Dave Stewart.

| Published by Image

Miles Morales: Spider-Man #1 is a great debut from Saladin Ahmed, Javier Garrón, David Curiel, and Cory Petit. This first issue mainly gets us back up to speed on Miles’ life and supporting cast, introducing and reintroducing the characters and his connections, largely giving narration through his journal, integrating an exercise from his classes to convey the narrative. We get a robbery and a confrontation with the Rhino that sets up the hook for a larger plot and mystery. The art from Garrón and Curiel is gorgeous.

| Published by Marvel

Oblivion Song #10 is insane. Another bit of Philadelphia has been popped off into Oblivion by the less stable of the Cole brothers and this issue is the resulting chaos. I’m still very impressed with how Robert Kirkman, Lorenzo De Felici, Annalisa Leoni, and Rus Wooton are constantly throwing this book into upheaval, with practically every issue giving a new revelation or upending the status quo. This is just great.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Outer Darkness #2 follows up an entertaining first issue with an outstanding second issue, introducing us to much of the crew and more explicitly the types of horrors that they’re going to encounter in space. John Layman, Afu Chan, and Pat Brosseau have something fairly unique here, with the humour just putting it over the top.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man #313 brings this battle with Morlun to an end and with it this series. It’s been a decent tie-in to Spider-Geddon from Sean Ryan, Juan Frigeri, Jason Keith, and Travis Lanham, but it is basically a three issue fight scene designed to keep Peter away from the main plot of the event.

| Published by Marvel

Red Sonja Holiday Special has a fairly entertaining lead story of Sonja learning about Christmas and then becoming embroiled in some weird witness shakedown from Amy Chu, Erik Burnham, Ricardo Jamie, Omi Remalante Jr., and Taylor Esposito. There’s also a classic reprint story from Roy Thomas, Frank Thorne, and Mike Kelleher.

| Published by Dynamite

Redlands #9 continues this arc’s structure of beginning with a flashback, this time giving us a hint of what Casper did before he was indentured to the sisters. This one’s a little light on pushing the narrative ahead very far, but very high on building more atmosphere, and developing a potential new problem for Laurent.

| Published by Image

Shadowman #10 has some really great art from Renato Guedes, Eric Battle, and Ulises Arreola. The trade off of sequences for Jack’s confrontation with Sandria Darque and then the flashbacks between Guedes and Battle is very nice, giving a unique feel to both.

| Published by Valiant

Silver Surfer: The Best Defense #1 has some oblique ties to the rest of “The Best Defense” crossover, mentioning whatever this “train” is, but like the others of these first four parts features a largely independent character study. Jason Latour and Clayton Cowles present a twist on a traditional Silver Surfer morality tale by making it a game between the Surfer and Galactus. Beautifully illustrated, tapping into some of the weirdness of Marvel’s cosmic.

| Published by Marvel

Spider-Gwen: Ghost Spider #3 has Gwen and MJ work out where the Green Goblin’s hideout is with the assistance of this world’s Glory and Betty. This has been an interesting first arc and tie-in to Spider-Geddon from Seanan McGuire, Rosi Kämpe, Ian Herring, and Clayton Cowles.

| Published by Marvel

Star Trek: Waypoint Special #1 is more than worth it just for “My Human is Not” by Jackson Lanzing, Collin Kelly, Sonny Liew, and Neil Uyetake. It’s an adorable story from the point of view of Spot, beautifully illustrated by Liew. The other three stories in this special also aren’t too shabby, but you’ll want to buy this one for the tabby.

| Published by IDW

Star Wars: Age of Republic - Darth Maul #1 continues this series of one-shots with a spotlight on everyone’s favourite horny Sith Lord from Jody Houser, Luke Ross, Java Tartaglia, and Travis Lanham. The art from Ross and Tartaglia is wonderful. The layouts for many of the action sequences are particularly impressive, knocking things off-kilter to evoke the kind of chaotic fighting style of Maul.

| Published by Marvel

Supergirl #25 goes home to Krypton in the lead story from Marc Andreyko, Emanuela Lupacchino, Ray McCarthy, Lan Medina, Sean Parsons, FCO Plascencia, and Tom Napolitano. It takes Kara’s quest into another different direction, adding another possible impediment in finding everyone and everything that aided in the destruction of Krypton. There are also a couple of back-ups, one fleshing out Dr. Z’ndr Kol and the other a sweet Christmas story.

| Published by DC Comics

Superman #6 has some absolutely stunning spreads from Ivan Reis, Joe Prado, Oclair Albert, and Alex Sinclair. The battle between Rogol Zaar and Superman & Zod is incredible, probably some of the best pages I’ve ever seen from Reis. The narration by Superman from Brian Michael Bendis is also interesting as he waxes philosophical about his speed and fighting side by side with Zod. What is less magical is the ending. Superman leaving Zod, even with pressing concerns elsewhere, feels wrong. I don’t know if it’s intentionally a bad decision on Superman’s part that will be addressed, or if it’s just a bad decision from Bendis. It just doesn’t feel like what Superman would do. Otherwise, this is a pretty great issue.

| Published by DC Comics

Titans #31 adds Kyle Rayner to the team as Donna Troy officially takes the lead and a number of the simmering sub-plots converge to kick off a new adventure. Great art from Clayton Henry, Brent Peeples, Dexter Vines, and Marcelo Maiolo.

| Published by DC Comics

Vampirella vs. Reanimator #1 is a damn good start to this mini from Cullen Bunn, Blacky Shepherd, and Taylor Esposito. The art from Shepherd is very impressive. I love the choice to present the story almost entirely in grey tones with spot colours for red and a little bit of sickly yellow, it really makes the art stand out.

| Published by Dynamite

William Gibson’s Alien 3 #2 continues this excellent adaptation of Gibson’s unproduced screenplay by Johnnie Christmas, Tamra Bonvillain, and Nate Piekos. The political aspect and veritable cold war are very interesting additions to the Alien lore.

| Published by Dark Horse

Wonder Woman #60 turns the screw a bit with some unexpected developments for Ares. I’m really liking the art from Cary Nord, Mick Gray, and Romulo Fajardo Jr. While definitely partially the influence of Gray’s inking, Nord’s presenting a somewhat looser, more angular style that reminds me a bit of Frank Miller and Phil Hester which really works for the chaotic and bellicose story.

| Published by DC Comics

Other Highlights: Accell #16, Amazing Spider-Man #11, Animosity: Evolution #9, Asgardians of the Galaxy #4, Auntie Agatha’s Home for Wayward Rabbits #2, Battlestar Galactica Classic #2, Birthright #34, Black Hammer: Cthu-Louise, The Black Order #2, By Night #6, Cemetery Beach #4, DuckTales #14, Elephantmen 2261 Holiday Special, Fantastic Four Wedding Special #1, From Hell Master Edition #2, Giant Days #45, Go Go Power Rangers #15, God of War #2, Goddess Mode #1, Head Lopper #10, Hit-Girl #11, House of Whispers #4, James Bond: Origin #4, Jim Henson’s Beneath the Dark Crystal #5, Joe Golem: The Drowning City #4, The Lone Ranger #3, Mage: The Hero Denied #14, Murder Falcon #3, New Talent Showcase 2018 #1, Patience! Conviction! Revenge! #4, Planet of the Apes: The Simian Age #1, The Quantum Age #5, Red Sonja/Tarzan #6, Rose #15, Sasquatch Detective #1, Sleepless #10, Smooth Criminals #2, Spider-Force #3, Spider-Girls #3, Star Wars: Doctor Aphra #27, Star Wars: Han Solo - Imperial Cadet #1, TMNT: Macro-Series #4: Raphael, Typhoid Fever: Iron Fist #1, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #39, The Unstoppable Wasp #3, Vampironica #5, War Bears #3, The Wasted Space Holiday Special #1

Recommended Collections: Amazing Spider-Man - Volume 9, Black Crown Omnibus - Volume 1, Blackwood, Britannia - Volume 3: Lost Eagles of Rome, Cloak and Dagger: Shades of Grey, Curse of Brimstone - Volume 1: Inferno, Fear Agent: Final Edition - Volume 4, Giant Days: Early Registration, Go Go Power Rangers - Volume 2, Hillbilly - Volume 3, Ice Cream Man - Volume 2: Strange Neapolitan, Judge Dredd: Under Siege, Scarlet - Book 2, Star Wars - Volume 9: Hope Dies

d. emerson eddy would like to take a moment to finally admit...”I’m Batman”.

[nerdywerdyprincess-blog]

The Final Solution (Part One) - (TFP Redone)

So again, rewriting The Final Problem to be what it should have been, featuring lots of Johnlock, M-Theory and tying up a lot of loose ends! See previous posts for the Prologue. Part one is below. Part Two will be tomorrow. Hoping to post one part every day until the end.

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

Part One

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

The sound of the projector whirring in the background was just white noise to him and made the black and white image on the screen feel more nostalgic and romantic. The private theatre seat and the large viewing screen was all part of the atmosphere, and like his brother, Mycroft Holmes knew a thing or two about how to set a stage and how to create the right dramatic setting for the show.

Unlike his brother however, he preferred to indulge in such dramas privately.

“'You know, I could arrest you,” the tough law enforcement agent said in his gruff, sexy voice as he regarded the blond woman in front of him. The trench coat was classic for such a setting, as was the woman’s knee length skirt and red lipstick, although one couldn’t see the exact shade due to the black and white color scheme.

“What for?” the woman responded with a coy look.

Mycroft smiled to himself, relaxing just a little more and glad to be able to lose himself in his favorite film. It was a secret delight of his and one that would have likely shocked anyone who knew him; his fondness for old films and romantic dramas. Perhaps, he philosophized, because he was always guaranteed a happy ending. Life however….life never guaranteed that.

“Wearing a dress like that.”

“Would you like me to take it off?”

“Then I'd really have to press charges.”

“Press away.”

“Isn't that how they got started?”

“Who?”

“Adam and Eve.”

Mycroft mouthed the words along with the actors and glanced over to the table next to him just in front of where the projector rested and grabbed his small glass of sherry with his free hand, his other holding his lit cigarette, even as he grinned to himself in a way he never did in public.  He would be mortified of course if anyone knew he was a closet romantic, but that was alright, because no one would ever know. Ever…

“Oh, them.”

“And that turned out OK.”

“You think so? I thought it was supposed to be the beginning of all human misery.”

“Now what was all that about arresting me?”

“Well, maybe not arresting you.”

“No?”

“I could just keep you under close watch.”

“Very close?”

“A-huh.”

“Shame, I was looking forward to putting myself into the hands of the authorities.”

“You were?”

“Finger-printing, being searched thoroughly…”

“MYCROFT!!”

The door to Mycroft’s private theatre was abruptly thrown open and the lights turned on. Mycroft jumped as if a clown wielding a machete had just burst into the room to attack him and he swore as he burned himself on his own cigarette and spilled his drink on his trousers with his own startle.

“Sherlock! What in God’s name---“ Mycroft began as he stood up to face this intruder, only to pale and tense as he saw he wasn’t alone. Gregory LeStrade was with him too it seemed, wearing a trench coat.

But Mycroft didn’t get a chance to ask questions as he was abruptly grabbed by his brother, wearing his own signature coat and hat and shoved him up against the nearest wall.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Sherlock shouted like a man possessed. His icy blue eyes bore into his brothers, and Mycroft wondered if he was high again or otherwise mentally impaired. The last time Sherlock had gotten his physical with him, he’d been strung out after all. “Where is Eurus?!!”

The name made everything inside Mycroft go still, and Sherlock knew in that moment that his theory was correct as his brother tensed and his expression went ice cold. His own heart was pounding as well, though this time it had nothing to do with cocaine or any other form of narcotic.

He was motivated entirely by fear and a kind of raw desperation he’d never felt before, save perhaps once, when he’d been inspired to jump off a building.

“Where is she, *brother*? Tell me where she is right now!!” Sherlock shouted again.

Mycroft swallowed. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve…never even heard of anyone named Eurus.”

Sherlock scoffed bitterly, but didn’t let go of his brother’s collar. “Oh really? Well, let me refresh your memory,” he said darkly and pulled out a note and held it up to his brother’s face, even as he read it aloud.

“Dear Sherlock,

Did you miss me, brother? Come and play.

Love,

Eurus”

 Mycroft paled starkly as the letter was read aloud and he reached for it.

“Let me see that!” Mycroft demanded sharply.

Sherlock’s eyes went cold. “Don’t remember her at all, I see,” he mocked sardonically as he saw Mycroft examining the handwriting with his eyes and going stiff and pale. “My conclusion is correct then. I have a sister! Second conclusion; you’ve locked her away somewhere. And third, you’ve gotten sloppy.”

Mycroft frowned at the third, and glanced up to meet his brother’s gaze.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” Mycroft said softly with a slow shake of his head and swallowed tensely. “Where did you find this?”

“In the home of John’s therapist,” Sherlock informed. “Or rather, my sister, pretending to be his therapist. His real therapist was found dead in that same house! And now John is missing.”

“Missing?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

Greg looked somber. “Molly was watching Rosie today and she called Sherlock this afternoon, frantic because John never came back from his appointment. He went to the therapist’s house and found the body and the note. We’ve searched all around the house and made inquiries with his sister and all his friends, but no one has seen him.”

Mycroft felt his blood go ice cold, but he kept his composure as best he could.

“Yes, well, Doctor Watson isn’t the most emotionally stable of individuals right now, is he? Perhaps he simply went on an impulsive holiday,” Mycroft said, handing the note back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with something dangerous at the suggestion and he abruptly punched his brother in the jaw.

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted in alarm, even as Sherlock shoved Mycroft forcefully up against the wall again, his arm to Mycroft’s neck as if to choke him.

“You listen to me, *brother mine*! If anything happens to John because of you….because you’re keeping secrets from me….I will kill you, blood or no blood!” Sherlock threatened darkly, almost shaking with vivid anger and….perhaps just a little terror at what might have happened to his---doctor. “This isn’t one of your government conspiracies where you get to play god with peoples lives! This is bigger than that. This is *his* life and mine! Now I want to know who Eurus is! Everything, Mycroft. I want to know everything! Why can’t I remember her? And where is she?!”

Mycroft stared into his brother’s eyes, so alive with….feeling. Sometimes he did envy Sherlock his ability to feel so deeply. Of course, Mycroft knew it was far more trouble than it was worth, and for the most part he was happy with his solitary and purely intellectual existence! But there were times like now, when he saw Sherlock truly moved and willing to do anything for someone, that he envied him that connection to people.

He truly believed Sherlock meant every word. He’d known from the beginning that John Watson would either make or break his brother. Truly, in this moment, he wasn’t sure which one had been accomplished. At one point he had…hoped….that John could be Sherlock’s salvation. Now, he feared that he may be his undoing.

Which he realized was possibly the plan all along.

“If we are going to discuss his, we shall do so privately. This is a family matter,” Mycroft said quietly, ignoring the pain in his jaw as he turned to look at LeStrade.

Greg held up his hands in surrender. “Fine by me. I’m just here to keep Sherlock from killing you,” he informed and then smirked. “You’re really watching ‘Paradise Found’?” he asked in amusement, the film having been playing softly in the background once he found the knob to adjust he volume. He was fond of old films himself, but never quite thought Mycroft Holmes was…the type. Surprise, surprise!

Mycroft went a quite obvious shade of pink. “Out!” he ordered with a frown, utterly humiliated that of all people, he would be the one to walk in and see his most private of hobbies.

Greg shrugged and walked out genially, just glad that Sherlock didn’t try to kill anyone this time.

As soon as the door was shut, Mycroft went over to the projector to turn it off the film completely, not meeting his brother’s gaze as he did so.

“I still believe it is impossible that Eurus was able to escape. I took every precaution.”

“Did you now?” Sherlock asked. “Well, as I said; sloppy. Now start talking, Mycroft! I want the truth.”

Mycroft gave a soft, scoffing laugh. “The *truth*?” he asked, and turned to look at his brother almost piteously. “Who was it that said that said ’the truth is rarely pure and never simple?’”

“I don’t care about your pedantic philosophies, Mycroft,” Sherlock dismissed coldly. “There were three of us then. You, me and Eurus; the sister I can’t remember. The ‘East Wind’,” he said with a bitter sneer.

Mycroft looked somber. “Our parents were fond of unusual names. Eurus is Greek for the god of the east wind,” he informed, as if speaking to a child again.

“I know what it means!” Sherlock snapped angrily and fisted his hands at his side. “You used that to scare me!”

“No.”

“You turned my sister into a ghost story!” he further accused, pacing away and taking off his stupid, silly hat and tossing it down in agitation. Fuck, he wanted a cigarette!

“Of course I didn't. I monitored you,” Mycroft insisted calmly.

“You what?” Sherlock demanded with a sharp look.

Mycroft looked grim.

“Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen. The roads we walk have demons beneath...and yours have been waiting for a very long time,” he said softly and then sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I never bullied you. I used, at discreet intervals, potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you!” he tried to insist.

That’s all Mycroft had ever done, it felt like. Trying to look after Sherlock… He knew he’d done a lot of damage over the years of course. His methods hadn’t always turned out expected results, but his intentions had been pure. No matter what happened, he did want Sherlock to understand that!

Sherlock’s expression remained neutral however as he stared at his brother all he more intently.

“Why can't I remember her?” he demanded quietly.

Mycroft smiled sadly. “You do remember her, Sherlock….in a way,” he specified. “Every choice you ever made, every path you've ever taken, the man you are today is your memory of Eurus.”

“Enough, Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed, unnerved by that and the idea that….there was something missing in his mind. His mind was so important to him! It was a machine, finely tuned and designed for nothing less than excellence. The idea that there was a flaw somewhere…. Missing information…..a virus in his hard drive, a fly in the ointment….

He shuddered as he heard Moriarty’s voice in his head, mocking him, and he instead turned his brief lapse of attention back to his brother. “Just get to the point. What happened?”

Mycroft bit a lip somberly. “You know how I’m the smart one?”

Sherlock scoffed in response.

“We were tested more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius. Beyond Newton. She was….incandescent…” he whispered, his eyes going distant as he remembered he girl with dark hair. “She was different from the beginning. She knew things she should never have known….as if she was somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope...” he whispered, and looked visibly disturbed as he abruptly closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as if remembering images from a nightmare.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. He hated such unspecific details. And yet, as Mycroft spoke, he felt an eerie sensation, like a memory from a dream almost….  

“What do you mean? Examples.”

Mycroft looked almost haunted as he opened his eyes. “They found her with a knife once. She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and Father were terrified. They thought it was a suicide attempt! But when I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said: I wanted to see how my muscles worked….” he quoted and felt a shiver as if he could almost hear her voice in his head, and could almost imagine her in the room with them. “So I asked her if she felt pain, and she said: Which one's pain?”

Sherlock looked stoic at his, his emotions getting a little more in line now that he was getting facts, and yet he found himself watching Mycroft intently, seeing how disturbed he looked and couldn’t help but feel a chill in the air as well.

“Then what happened?”

Mycroft swallowed thickly. “Musgrave,” he said softly and a vivid memory of their ancestral home flashed before his eyes. “The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea. And you played among the - funny gravestones.”

Sherlock didn’t know why, but that word….Musgrave…felt so familiar to him.

It was on the tip of his tongue…

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair shakily. “Funny? Funny….how?” he asked, though he felt odd suddenly as if he could remember flashes of old stones with numbers on them. Wrong numbers…

“They weren’t real. The dates were all wrong. An architectural joke which fascinated you,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he heard something in his head; a distant voice like a little girl…singing in a sing-song voice…and an image of them sitting at a table while she sang…

Deep down below the old beech tree - Help succour me now the - East winds blow.

“East winds blows…. Sixteen by six….and under we go…” Sherlock whispered shakily, his eyes opening again as he stared distantly.

Mycroft watched his brother intently and swallowed thickly. “You're starting to remember.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Fragments…” he dismissed, but paused and frowned as he remembered leaving the table and running out, wearing his pirate hat and wielding his little wooden sword, and calling a name. “Redbeard…” he breathed shakily and then glanced up to look at Mycroft in horror.

Mycroft nodded darkly. “Yes, Sherlock. Redbeard,” he confirmed quietly. “Eurus took Redbeard and locked him up somewhere no-one could find him. And she refused to say where he was. She'd only repeat that song. Her little ritual. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was! But she said: The song is the answer. But the song made no sense…” he said darkly.

Sherlock looked strained. “What happened to Redbeard?” he demanded intently, because he realized suddenly it was happening again. John…

Mycroft shook his head. “We never found him. But she started calling him Drowned Redbeard, so we made our assumptions. You were….traumatized,” he informed frankly. “Natural, I suppose. You were, in the early days, an emotional child. But after that, you were different. So changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, you seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed.”

Sherlock scoffed shakily in incredulity at the idea that he’d been…emotional! And that the loss of a dog had changed him so much! But granted, his memories of Redbeard were….both painful and happy at the same time and so very complicated. And yet it felt unreal that he was missing so much information! There was something not quite right about any of this…

“How could I forget her? We lived in the same house!” Sherlock argued, convinced his brother wasn’t telling him something.

“No,” Mycroft corrected. “They took her away. Not because of Redbeard, but because of what happened immediately after,” he said grimly. “She burned down the house. Almost killed all of us in our sleep,” he said darkly. “After that, our sister had - to be taken away.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded tensely, because he had to believe that wherever she was, John was too. Or at the very least she could tell him what happened to him!

“Oh, some suitable place, or so everyone thought. Not suitable enough, however,” Mycroft informed casually. “She died there after starting yet another fire.”

“Damn it, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped angrily. “That’s a lie!”

“Yes!” Mycroft retorted tensely. “But it is also a kindness, Sherlock. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body.”

Severus scoffed bitterly. “And no doubt to prevent their further interference,” he accused.

“Well, that, too, of course. The depth of Eurus's psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn't hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudi took care of things,” he said softly.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. “Where is she, Mycroft? The truth.”

Mycroft bit a lip, before he sighed heavily in defeat. “There's a place called Sherrinford. An island. It's a secure and very secret installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call the uncontainables. The demons beneath the road? This is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison, or an asylum. It is a fortress, built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid. But I can give you a map reference for hell,” he said with dark pointedness.

The word ‘hell’ made Sherlock’s head snap up and he stared at Mycroft intently for a moment, going cold as words were echoed back to him in Mary’s voice.

Save John Watson… Go to hell, Sherlock.

His heart pounded quickly in his chest as he recalled another time when he’d spoken of hell itself. When he’d offered to shake Jim Moriarty’s hand there…

“Sherlock?” Mycroft queried as he saw his brother zoning out and his eyes doing that thing where they moved from side to side as if he were reading words in mid-air, a sure sign he was thinking and deducing quite quickly. “Whoever it was that killed that woman or left you that note, I promise you, it couldn’t have been her. That's where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn't left, not for a single day!” he insisted.

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother and then gave him a pointed, determined look as he grabbed Mycroft’s umbrella and tossed it to him.

“Well then, brother….let’s go prove it,” Sherlock said determinedly and then strode out of the room, fully expecting Mycroft would follow.

~*~