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dbmars · 4 months ago

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Full disclosure, this is my first foray into writing Duncan or Jack even though I love them so much. I'm actually really disappointed that there haven't been any comments or anything on Ao3 or social media. Maybe I should stay in my lane! (Hannigram) or maybe I'm HORMONAL! (also true) And y'know what I'm really proud of my little photo manip job up there too.

Excerpt from this chapter nobody's read:

Jack stood and turned to Duncan. “I know what you’re thinking. We needed to get inside the house. We didn’t know Jacob was home for the break, and I should have just let those guys kick his ass and leave him in a ditch, because then we could have just walked in, no problem.”

Duncan grunted. Jack glowered at him, bottom lip sneaking out. “Catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And… y’know what, I’m not sorry I kicked a bunch of bigots’ asses. I know we’re not supposed to beat up on humans but I don’t give a shit.”

“Supposed to be quiet.” Duncan opened up his inner coat pocket and slipped out a pack of cigarettes. “Not draw attention.”

Jack scoffed dismissively, and opened his mouth to say something, but Vizla suddenly had him by the arms, and pushed him back swiftly into the wall with a soft thud. A curio cabinet rattled dangerously as the Black Kaiser easily forced Jack’s wrists against the wallpaper at shoulder height. They’d both gotten the same serum initially, but the extra doses needed for the eye surgery, coupled with Duncan outweighing him by fifty, sixty pounds, maybe more, made it no contest.

“Vizla—!” His name was a sharp exhale as the breath was forced out of his lungs. “What the fuck?” He tried to wiggle free, push back. His wrists came away from the wall an inch, trembling with exertion, before Duncan forced them back down. The Black Kaiser was granite-strong, as always. What was more alarming was the warmth that spread up from Jack's groin and the shiver that snaked through his body.

“Taking a page out of Will Graham’s book?” Duncan rasped, close to his face, his breath smoky and dangerous.

“What?” Jack’s mouth felt numb and stupid.

“Fucking everything in sight to get close to the target. That’s his MO.”

Anger flared, unfurling in his gut like a flag in the breeze, snapping in the wind. “I’m nothing like Will Graham,” he snarled.

“Maybe he’s taking a page out of yours.” Duncan released him suddenly and stepped back. It always threw Jack for a loop, how fast he could move despite his size, his coat rippling in the breeze of his movements.

Jack stepped unsteadily away from the wall, rubbing his wrists. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Vizla finally lit the cigarette behind his ear he’d somehow tucked there. Smoke curled up from the ceiling and the cherry glowed like a tiny piece of hell stoked by his breath. He didn’t answer.

“Are you talking about Paris?”

Again, Vizla didn’t respond, just raised the cigarette to his lips between two long, scarred fingers, the smoke tickling his mustache. His stupid fucking mustache, Jack thought. “You are talking about Paris,” he answered for himself. “You’re talking about Sarah.”

“Your sugar mommy.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jack demanded, his body taut from head to toe. He was trembling with fury and hated that it was no doubt visible to the Kaiser’s trained eyes, both human and vampire. “I was supposed to get us into the house, and I got us into the house. The only evidence we were ever here is a posse of good ol’ boys with broken noses who’ll probably be too ashamed to tell anyone they got their asses kicked by one guy. Things are fine as of right now, anyway, because the longer we’re fucking standing here–”

Vizla closed the space between them in a preternatural blink that left Jack disoriented, the assassin wrapping a hand around the collar of his shirt. Jack instinctively gripped his wrist, then glared up at him. There was a thorny silence that ended when Duncan said,“Your bag’s by the front door. Get back on schedule.”

With that, he released Jack’s shirt. Jack, fuming, retrieved the large black duffle bag from the foyer and slipped it over his shoulder.

#hannigram #hannibal #fannibals #hannibal nbc #fannibal family #murder husbands #will graham #hannibal lecter #duncan vizla #jack ganzer #tempo #polar #vampire slayers #vampires

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tiffyfoundsomething · 1 year ago

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I've been working on a doll house. Sort of. It's an old Barbie house that was missing a lot of parts.

One of the things I've done is build new parts out of paperboard and foam board, and then cover them in paper.

You know, and I know, that when you get paper wet with glue it wrinkles. There are a few ways to get around this.

One is Tombow Mono Multi glue.

Which is here: https://amzn.to/3OU5tbv

The trick to using this glue for wrinkle-free paper application is to squeeze out a bunch of glue not on the paper, but on what you want to put paper on, smooth it out as well as you can (make sure you get the surface you're wanting to apply paper to completely covered) and then let it dry until it's transparent. It'll stay tacky.

Then apply your paper and smooth it out.

That's how I applied scrapbook paper directly to the plastic wall as wallpaper, and colored printer paper (which is very prone to wrinkles when wet) to both paperboard (recycled food box) and foam board to create the refrigerator door and a curio cabinet.

I find the Tombow Mono Multi is less prone to wrinkling than glue sticks, too, as long as you let the Mono Multi dry fully before applying paper.

Tombow Mono Multi can also be applied to the back of plastic-coated stickers that have lost their stickiness, like the ones that are default to this doll house, and then those stickers can be reapplied.

It's worth noting that you don't get a second chance with this glue. Once you've stuck something, it's not coming off cleanly. If you put the paper on wrong it'll tear to bits if you try to peel it off again. Tombow Mono Multi is very good at sticking.

Another option is double sided tape. If you're going to be doing something like gluing shelves to the paper covering, then full coverage adhesion is better, like with the Tombow.

If you're doing a decorative or small item (in this case, the faux drawer fronts on the curio cabinet), then double sided tape is a great option with no drying time.

I like this one, because it's the same width as the foam layer between the sheets of paper on foam board and because it's easy to remove from plastic toys.

And that's here: https://amzn.to/3s8BELl

I like to use this to stick small decorative items to the shelves, too. It's easy to remove from plastic surfaces, but it can rip the paper like I have on the curio cabinet.

Every deco item in the doll house has a little bit of this tape on it to keep it in place but I can remove and reposition those items as I wish.

I learned about both of these products watching people make those little room box kits years ago. You know those little bitty fabric things you're supposed to sew or use a wet glue to adhere and then wait for it to dry? This tape is an excellent alternative to that, too.

Like this kit, for example (https://amzn.to/3YCLz7Z), I would use Tombow Mono Multi to apply the wallpaper so it would go on nice and smooth, then use double-sided tape to put the fabric on the chair, adhere the table cloth, and make the little pillow.

#crafts #glue #doll house #miniatures #model making #affiliate links

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geraskierficrecs · 1 year ago

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New Story Alert!

Check out the first chapter of The Rake and his Husband here.

Teaser:

“Every member of society wants to see you and if the rumors are true. No one knows anything about you except that you were gone which is why the bank doesn’t want to risk dealing with you. They need proof that you’ll stay.”

“And how am I supposed to demonstrate that?” Geralt grouses. “I’ve already moved in and started running the business.”

“You haven’t visited anyone but Lambert since you came back.”

The duke huffs. “He’s the only one I can tolerate.”

“Gee thanks,” Lambert mutters, but Eskel only shakes his head. “Most members of the nobility do all their business in gambling dens and parties. You haven’t attended either.”

“I’m not about to start gambling–my father already did enough of that for five lifetimes.”

Eskel reaches over to the ornate curio cabinet against one wall and pulls out a pale lavender envelope. He hands it to Geralt and waits for the duke to examine the immaculately done calligraphy. “You’ve been invited to three balls, a luncheon, and a stroll through the city gardens. All of the ton want to be the first to host you at their gathering–doing so would make their party the talk of the season.”

“You think me going to a few parties will make the bank approve the loan?” Geralt asks, disbelief evident.

“It will be a start.” Eskel watches the duke frown down at the card for a beat before continuing. “You’ll make them believe it when you get engaged to another aristocrat.”

#geraskier #angst #my stuff #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #angst with a happy ending #regency au #hurt/comfort #fake relationship #jaskier doesn't know it's fake #geralt/jaskier #jaskier loves geralt #new story #the witcher

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vashtijoy · 2 years ago

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ohhhhh would you mind sharing your akechi post-canon ideas and aus? 👀👀

Ahahaha oh god THANK YOU FOR ASKING

so with @nardaviel, I have this whole ... thing, where Akechi comes back from the third semester and finds himself alive, using the deleted kakekomidera scene, where the two people who remember him from childhood talk about him at the refuge. He heads back to Tokyo and turns himself in to get Ren out of detention, pretty much as on 12/24 though Ren doesn't know he's there, and then he spends a month in jail being interrogated and staring at the walls and quietly going mad.

At this point he gets swept up by Mitsuru, possibly through Sae (who knows about the shadow operatives), and offered a place with her. He takes great pleasure in telling her to shove it up her ass, and unfortunately at this point there's a whole "or we could ask Amamiya-kun" thing, and tl;dr a highly resentful Akechi ends up working for Mitsuru—probably in a very grey and joyless capacity for a while, because you'd have to be out of your mind to trust him with anything. The clip on 3/20 at the train station is him being transferred from police custody to, essentially, Mitsuru's custody. He's traded what was at least independence of a kind in prison for putting himself into the hands of another rich, powerful asshole who wants to use him, for the sake of the one person he cares about, and the irony alone is almost enough to make him throw himself in front of that train Ren's sitting in.

Meanwhile, Ren thinks Akechi is dead, and is having his whole thing, off in the ass end of nowhere by himself.... and two years pass, during which he returns to Tokyo to study. And that's when Ren Finds Akechi Again, in the street, and punches him in the face, because why the hell not. And then, after some fallout and Ren nearly getting arrested again, they slowly have a chance to find what they might have been.

It also includes Futaba having both of their phones bugged and intruding on every text conversation they ever have, Akechi having an ankle tag for years and some sophisticated electronic locks on his doors, some extremely nice grounds with flowering trees and streams and little bridges and shit, Haru somehow being the one to find Akechi first and keeping it to herself, the most nervous bookseller in Jimbocho, Ren taking over management of Leblanc, a ton of "I'm 20 and I've done everything I'll ever do", Prisoner Angst, I'm Not Dead Angst, Akechi's seething hatred of Mitsuru and his certainty that she is a Maruki-in-waiting or at least the centre of another grand conspiracy, a lot of takeout, some very well-compensated gate guards, and a stillborn plan for Ren and Goro to skip the country entirely and hide out in Argentina or somewhere.

And, here and there, on occasion, they get over themselves enough to make out.

Since you were kind enough to ask, here's a relevant fic snippet from my collection, below the cut.

. . .

The next Sunday, Akechi heads to Jimbocho, to go through the second-hand shops. It’s fine. Weird little antique shops selling fripperies from the 50s and 60s; curio shops full of absolutely tacky trash, one with its window displaying nothing but ceramic bears; and the bookshops, of course, the reason Akechi is really here. Though he toys with buying one of the ugly ceramic bears, just to smash it.

There’s also an otaku shop, full of tiny Western figures that you’re supposed to paint, the sort of thing Akechi thinks he’d be good at, if he gave a fuck. But he doesn’t go in; the shop is full of awkward-looking students his own age, stereotypical otakus. Even besides that, Akechi dislikes students; they remind him that he’s not in university himself. Like he’d expected to be. Or to live long enough.

So he gravitates back to the bookshops, leafing slowly through old texts with their subdued covers, or hardbacks with gilt; there are even some Meiji-era wasobon, in a glass cabinet, with their glued-paper spines and their titles on glued labels. He stares at those for quite a while, head tilted, wondering what they’d feel like in his hand. When he turns away, he feels much smaller, like when he was ten and he’d ride the bus here rather than go home.

It takes him quite a while to settle on only one purchase; he goes from shop to shop, keeping lists in his head, ticking off options here, discarding them there. He doesn’t realise he isn’t scowling, and he doesn’t think of it as a nice afternoon. But he also doesn’t think about the absolute fuckfest last week in Inaba, or how off-balance he’d felt when he stepped back into the cognitive world again for the first time, only to feel his ankle tag shift away along with the rest of his clothes.

If anything, he feels unsettled. Like nothing bad’s happening, and so that must be bad. He heads absently out of the last bookshop, with his lone purchase taped into a washi paper bag, thinking he’ll try one of the espresso shops that also litter the area, because coffee and books are so inescapably combined—

—when a hand like a steel claw closes on his wrist.

Akechi drops the book, spins all at once, still fast with a killer’s reflexes. He finds himself staring into a taut face, furious beneath its tangle of black hair, eyes sharp and accusing, crystals of black graphite shining in the sun. Amamiya Ren is staring at him, touching him, for fuck’s sake, and all at once Akechi feels like his guts have turned to leaking, toxic mercury.

“Akechi?” Ren is saying, in a barely-there voice.

“That’s my name,” Akechi says, considering the likelihood that he’ll have to break Ren’s arm to make him let go. “Let g—”

He doesn’t see Ren’s fist. It flies into his right cheek, totally untelegraphed, and he hits the street with a grunt. Fucking Joker, every time, ugh, he should have seen that—

“Ow,” he mutters. Passersby are clucking to each other, so disruptive of them; he hears worried footsteps at the door of the shop he just left. But mainly he hears Ren, bending over him to talk in a relentless undertone. “I thought you were dead,” he’s saying, all the worse for the lack of deliberate malice. “After everything, Akechi. You let me think you were dead again.”

Akechi lets his head drop back onto the kerb, because fuck getting up, he’ll just lie here in the gutter. “You sound so surprised.”

“You—” Ren jerks forward, looks like he thinks about throwing a kick. So it’s fortunate this is the moment the police arrive, a fat one and a tall one; honestly, Akechi thinks they breed them that way, in pairs. He feels a stab of vindictive satisfaction as the fat one grabs Ren by the wrists, until the colour drains from Ren’s face like someone’s pulled off one of his feet.

Akechi closes his eyes. “Wait,” he says, getting up with a wince and producing his police ID, haha, because he’s a shadow operative even if he’s the worst they have and a liability; he almost works with the police more than he works at the Kirijo compound, by now. The two beat cops go a bit bug-eyed, the idiots. “I’ll handle this,” Akechi says. “He’s just a little upset. Won’t happen again, will it?” He smiles at Ren, with a flash of sharp teeth, with the bruise rising on his cheekbone: play along.

Ren’s eyes burn, and for a moment it looks like he’ll say something graphic in fluent gutter trash, rather than obey; Akechi relates with his whole being. But then Ren looks down, sullen, and shakes his head: no. Akechi beams for the cops.

“You see,” he says. “Sorry to have troubled you both. He’s very emotional, it’s not really his fault. Thank you for your work….” And they float away, charmed by a few utterly rote words from a stranger with a confidential department ID. And then….

And then that just leaves Ren. Who is staring at Akechi in bitter silence, and obviously, beneath his flat expression, raging.

Someone appears at Akechi’s elbow. It’s the proprietor of the bookshop. “Your book,” he says nervously, handing Akechi the paper bag he dropped.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” Akechi says, taking it. The package is a little dented at one corner, but otherwise fine. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He bows, and the shopkeeper bows and hurries away, and Akechi could just die, again, it’s all such a fucking—

Except that Ren is still there, staring at him with Joker’s eyes; with all that fury and force and—and something else, something brighter and deeper and so much worse. “Where are your glasses?” Akechi finds himself asking, switching his thicker, cheerful mask for his much more comfortable flat one.

“I don’t need them for you,” Ren says.

Fuck. “Well,” Akechi says, “I’m not dead. As we’ve established. And you’re not arrested. So I suggest we both go our—”

Ren steps forward, interrupting him. “I can’t believe you’re still doing the same old shit,” he says. “They let you work for the police? Are you going to be on TV again, next week?”

That’s too much; far too much from Ren, who has no idea of what he escaped, no idea Akechi paid his debt this way. His voice turns brittle. “Interesting that you assume I had a choice, Amamiya.” Ren flinches, peeping out through his own mask. Akechi lifts the book.

“I hope you haven’t damaged this.”

He wants to close his eyes. Instead, he turns away and starts walking, in silence. Ren ought to fuck off, but he’ll certainly follow; he’s just wired that way. The Jimbocho street feels soft and shaky, like Mementos did, except now Akechi’s too used to solid ground and it feels like his ankles will twist from under him at every moment.

Ren tags at his heels like a dog. “I’m not going anywhere, Akechi. You’ll have to kill me.”

Akechi pauses, almost glances back. “I can just arrest you.” Technically; somehow he’s never been put in a position where the right move would be an arrest.

“Yeah,” Ren is saying. “You just proved you won’t do that.”

Akechi presses a knuckle between his eyes, as he screws them shut. “What do you want? How did you even find me?”

“You don’t think I read?” Ren says, defensively, not looking around at the three bookshops within ten metres. “I just didn’t read around you.”

“I know you read,” Akechi says flatly. “I saw everything you did.”

He still hasn’t properly turned. He feels Ren’s eyes on the back of his neck, through his hair, through his shirt collar; he thinks he’d feel them through a brick fucking wall. “Hifumi saw you,” Ren says.

That’s when he turns, incredulous. Togo had seen him? And known who he was? “I’ve never spoken with Togo-san. How did she remember me?”

“Don’t ask me,” Ren says, with a weird light in his eye, like he’s pleased Akechi turned back to him. “Seems like it’s just a thing. My confidants—do you even know about those?—they all remember.”

For a moment he’s silent. “When everyone else has forgotten.”

“Yeah,” Ren says quietly. His hands have gone into his pockets. He’s taller than he was; his eyes are on a level with Akechi’s, now. Or is he just not slouching?

Akechi sighs. It makes sense. Togo, who Akechi had no connection with; who had no reason to share any of Okumura’s discretion. All of Amamiya’s little projects, remembering Akechi laughing like an idiot, playing the fool, bringing himself down on television.

He feels like he can’t think straight, like he always did. Like he wants to stay put, learning and listening, picking through every little detail Amamiya might or might not have dropped. “I’m sorry Mementos is gone,” he says. Ren looks back at him, unreadable. “Perhaps we could at least have beaten the shit out of each other.”

“Yeah,” Ren says, not laughing. “That might have helped.”

“It did help,” Akechi says abruptly. “Both times, in fact. Because I really never liked you, Amamiya.”

“I know,” Ren tells him, unaffected. “And here we both still are, I guess.” He stands there like someone’s dropped a block of concrete on the pavement. Like Akechi really would have to kill him, to make him give up or go away. And part of Akechi still wants to, while part of him wants this moment to linger. The two of them—one a hero and one, well, not exactly a hero—who entered the fire from opposite sides, and came out changed, together, and alone.

A coin flips. He feels Hereward’s resolve inside him.

“I was going for coffee,” he says, still curt. “Come, if you want. Or stand there like an idiot, till you get arrested again.”

He starts walking in the direction of the nearest coffee shop; it was that or let’s smash a ceramic bear. Ren follows. “A coffee shop?” he asks, at Akechi’s elbow now. “Is this your revenge?”

“Ren,” Akechi tells him, perfectly serious, “you have absolutely no idea.”

#asks #persona 5 #shuake #goro akechi #ren amamiya #akira kurusu #things i write

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janeofcakes · 6 months ago

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One Night in Palermo: Chapter 3

The weekend went too quickly and here we are on Monday evening. At least you only had to wait one extra day after the cliffhanger. 😊

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Sherlock squatted on the floor behind a low bookcase that held more knick-knacks than books. Costa was a smart man with a talent for convincing idiots to do his bidding, but had never read a book cover to cover in his life. He also traveled a great deal, making the name he now had for himself in the Italian mob. As such, Costa had been the recipient of useless tokens, many of which were currently exploding next to Sherlock in a haze of bullets. The detective paid no mind, however, to the tiny projectiles of plastic, glass, and pottery, even as one nicked a cheekbone. His entire focus was on a prone John Watson.

A thousand thoughts ran through Sherlock’s mind and all were pushed into the background so only John remained. The bullet had hit John, that much was certain. His body had fallen awkwardly rather than as intended and there was light blood spatter on the nearby wall. It wasn’t enough to indicate a serious injury and there was no pool on the floor, but John had not moved since he dove for the curio cabinet. Sherlock stared in horror, unable to wrap his head around the situation. Sentiment had led him to this, paralyzed with fear and worry that he could not ward away. It was intolerable.

As if sensing his distress, the barrage of bullets stopped, leaving the large room deathly quiet. Apparently, the eight men remaining elected to show some intelligence and stopped firing to take stock of the situation rather than exhaust their ammunition. The silence pulled Sherlock from the crippling emotion consuming his mind, allowing him to assess things as well. He peered over the bookcase cautiously, but only caught sight of one man before ducking down. Quiet whispers reached his ears, all in Italian. They obviously felt they had the upper hand, judging by what they said. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

“Fuck,” a pained groan interrupted the muttered plans and quiet curses.

Sherlock’s head snapped to the curio cabinet on the opposite wall to see a masked John Watson pushing up onto his hands and knees. Once steady, the doctor raised one hand to rub his head. Giving it a short shake, John settled on one knee, bending one leg to plant a foot on the ground. Turning so he could see Sherlock, he gave a nod of I’m alright and then tilted his head to peer around the front of the cabinet. His view must have been better than Sherlock’s because he held up four fingers when their eyes met again. Sherlock nodded as he showed four fingers back. John immediately understood the detective’s meaning and huffed an annoyed breath around a curse. There was nothing for it. All eight had to be neutralized with minimal risk to John.

Running through options quickly in his mind, Sherlock settled on a course of action and motioned for John to stand down. Before the doctor could object, Sherlock raised up enough to expose the top of his head. Bullets rained down upon his bookcase, shattering more figurines and tacky vases. Sherlock ducked down immediately.

“The fuck!” John shouted and returned fire.

Sherlock made good use of the distraction, tucking away his weapon and pulling the bookcase slightly so its back side more fully faced their attackers. He had considerably more cover, despite the bookcase’s dominative three-shelf stature. To his right, John stopped shooting and waited. It took a few more shots for their adversaries to stop as well. At this rate, he and John could simply bait them until they ran out of bullets and then overwhelm them. Idiots. Unfortunately, they hadn’t the time for that, nor Sherlock the patience. More of Costa’s mindless drones would arrive as reinforcements too quickly for that scenario to play out. No matter. Sherlock had a plan.

He took a specially designed, high-powered handgun with armor-piercing bullets from a holster tucked away under his jacket and shifted away from the bookcase. Sherlock sat on the floor a good four feet away from the bookcase. One of their attackers fired two shots, launching the remains of a porcelain lamb in the detective’s direction, but he still had ample cover.

Sherlock closed his eyes and visualized the room. He thought back to when his head had popped into view of Costa’s men and systematically went bullet by bullet, determining trajectory and location. Within seconds, he knew where each man was hiding. He could reach four from where he was sitting, which left only four to deal with. John seemed fully fit, the offending bullet having only grazed him. They could most certainly take four of these idiots together. Why did people hire such morons?

Opening his eyes, Sherlock lifted the weapon in his hand and pointed it directly at the bookcase. He wrapped his left hand around the handle to keep it steady and squeezed the trigger. The steel-piercing round blasted straight through the bookcase and flew across the room into the first target. The shot started a new barrage of lead, which John returned, only he made his shots count. In the time it took Sherlock to shift the gun barrel to his next target and fire three more times, John had eliminated the remaining targets that Sherlock could not see.

When the smoke cleared and the room was blissfully silent, Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Costa and all of the men who might have continued his reign of terror were dead. All that remained for Sherlock was Moran. Hopefully, Anthea and the others had found him so Sherlock could start his final assignment and go home. First, however, he had to deal with a new fly in the ointment and it would not be easy.

“What the fuck, Sherlock,” John demanded, the fury plain in his tone. “Sticking your head up just to draw fire. Why not a hand? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Sherlock lowered his weapon and shifted his cool gaze to John. Still tucked behind the curio cabinet and eyes blazing, the captain stared him down with the fury of ten men. Sherlock could feel the heat of his anger radiating into every pore. It was both unsettling and somehow comforting. John Watson by his side again, the two of them against the world. God, how he had missed this. Sherlock’s whole body felt warm. He was home.

He wanted to leap up and wrap his arms around the man, but they didn’t do that. They’d never done that. That was not the way their friendship worked, much to the detective’s chagrin. As Sherlock sat, straight-legged behind the bookcase full of holes, watching his best friend, two words overtook his brain: why not?

“I needed to establish the location of as many shooters as possible so I knew where to aim,” Sherlock told him elementarily. “Surely you employed this technique in the field often enough to grasp the concept.”

“Not with my fucking head,” John shot back.

“It was the most appealing target,” Sherlock replied without apology.

“Of course it was. Why should I expect anything else?” John bit out, his temper reaching new levels of wrath. “Your way is always best. You make all the decisions without giving anyone else a say. The great Sherlock Holmes holds all the cards again.”

Sherlock swallowed, looking into John’s blazing eyes. This was about more than the current circumstances.

“John…” Sherlock began.

“No! No, Sherlock,” John stopped him with a dangerous tone that bore no argument. “You don’t get to make any more decisions for me. None. I’m the one you left behind to pick up the pieces. I couldn’t run from my problems like you did, so fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you.”

The last two words were so forceful and final that Sherlock’s blood ran cold and he flinched, even as his face heated with anger. He hadn’t wanted to leave and he certainly hadn’t run. If there had been any other way, he would have done it without question. What he did was the only way to protect Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and especially John. His efforts were in vain, it seemed. For months, someone had worked in tandem with Sherlock, taking the same chances and risking everything. It had been John all along. The very man he was trying to protect. Every night, every assignment, Sherlock thought he had moved closer to his goal and the truth of it was that everything could have been snatched away from him at any time by a bullet or an idiot with a knife. The man Sherlock thought was safe in 221B was traipsing around Europe just as he was. How had Anthea missed this? Sherlock had no time to dwell on the thought as hurried footfall and exclamations reached his ears.

“Fretta! Da questa parte. Loro son qui.”

“Shit,” John’s head swiveled to the door Costa and his men had entered moments before.

Sherlock rose from the floor and slid the armor-piercing gun into its holster, replacing it for a standard weapon. He headed straight for the over-sized, open window and threw one leg over the pane.

“Unfortunately, we haven’t the time to catch up,” Sherlock said haughtily and with no small annoyance. “If you care to join me on the roof, you’re more than welcome, but I wouldn’t want to hinder your decision.”

He emphasized the final two words with biting sarcasm. John replied with a glare as he rose and made haste for the window, keeping one eye on the door. He and Sherlock could hear them approaching quickly, but cautiously. They could be on top of them at any moment.

“Remind me why we’re going to the roof again,” John said as he lifted a leg and settled half on the pane.

Sherlock ducked under the glass and climbed out onto the ancient iron fire escape. He glanced up before answering John, taking in the three flights they had to climb. Rickety and in disrepair, but not enough to break under their weight.

“Firing down at a target is easy, even on something as precarious as this,” Sherlock looked back at John, “but aiming upward and climbing whilst a target yourself? Much more difficult, even for a crackshot, a level of skill that does not pertain to any of these men.”

“And, of course, you know that,” John drawled with pique.

“Don’t you?” Sherlock retorted.

A shrug of acquiescence was John’s only response. Sherlock nearly smiled at that, the corners of his mouth quirking up a touch before he could stop them. The small, well-hidden irrational part of him suddenly longed to see John’s whole face instead of just his ever-expressive eyes. He quickly dismissed the thought. There would be time for that later. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak just as their time ran out.

“Qui! Qui! Non lasciarli scappare.”

Three shots came from the door, each bullet hitting the window frame to John’s left. Sherlock’s eyes widened as they splintered the wood inches from the doctor’s head, shoulder, and waist. He gave the barest flinch in response as the detective’s pulse rate sky-rocketed. It all could have ended in that instant and a flood of shared moments in their lives flashed through his mind before the sound of John’s gun pulled him back. A single well-aimed shot and a man fell through the open doorway. What followed was a strange and tense silence.

“You were saying?” John asked cheekily and winked.

That first day at Bart’s came to Sherlock again. Here, use mine. This time he allowed himself to smile.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he replied.

With that, both men sprung into action. John scrambled under the glass and onto the fire escape as Sherlock pushed it down to close with a crack. Hurried footsteps sounded from inside as Sherlock jabbed a military grade knife into the soft wood right above the pane of glass.

“That’ll buy us some time,” the detective said as a handful of men appeared on the other side of the glass. They began pulling and pushing at the window to no avail. Sherlock gestured toward the stairs that led upward. “Move.”

John did not need to be told twice, or even once as it turned out. He was already well on his way when Sherlock spoke. They clambered up two flights before the idiots at the window finally had the presence of mind to shoot and smash out the glass with their weapons. The duo stopped momentarily to look down at their pursuers. One appeared from the window and immediately fired upward without taking aim. The bullets clanged off the iron bars and ricocheted away. Sherlock quickly took aim and dropped the man in front of the window so he blocked the path for the others.

“Go,” Sherlock urged. “Go!”

He and John climbed the last flight as fast as the decrepit stairs would allow. Beneath them, two men emerged onto the fire escape while at least two others began firing upward blindly from within the building. The chances of hitting John or Sherlock were low, but it was enough to keep them from returning fire and it slowed their progress. When they finally made it to the roof, Sherlock quickly scanned the area for an escape route. John fired a couple of well-aimed shots down the fire escape and looked toward his friend.

“What now?” John panted.

“We run,” Sherlock replied while his eyes scanned and his mind flew through scenarios. “These older buildings are very close together. Easy to get from one to another. They’re already fifty seconds behind. Plenty of time for a head start.”

“You’re not seriously saying…” John began, disbelief rife in his voice.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, John, and you know I don’t like repeating myself,” Sherlock met his eyes with a rye smirk. “Come on.”

“Oh, well. I’m a slag for danger,” John muttered as Sherlock turned and ran.

--------

That last line is a favorite of my wonderful beta. Al, my friend, my unholy rat king, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I owe you the best cheese money can buy.

I hope you all enjoyed the danger and bickering. You knew their reunion would bring both. Haha. Thank you all for your support. I'll see you next weekend! Love, Jane

#johnlock #sherlock #sherlockholmes #johnwatson #johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic #john watson

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