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cas-kingdom · 6 years ago

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Brother, My Brother (chapter 7)

Story summary : Sherlock jumped. He fell. He died. That’s what everyone told you, anyway. Now, you’re living with Mycroft, the man who knows it’s all a lie but has to keep it from you nonetheless. How is he supposed to play older brother while knowing deep down that he’s doing it all wrong? (Sister!fic)

CHAPTER 7 : ❝Walk Through The Fire❞

Chapter Masterpost

Title: Brother, My Brother (chapter 7)

Summary: You visit your family home with Mycroft and John, but it seems you can never get away from memories of Sherlock.

Words: 4215

John had graciously accepted your offer to join both you and Mycroft on your journey from London to Wales, where your parents lived. Surprisingly, your brother had chosen to drive instead of taking a train or even one of the helicopters he owned. He’d wanted to make the trip seem as normal as possible without the younger Holmes brother there, and apparently driving four hours in the car instead of taking the easy way and flying around forty minutes or so added that little bit of normality that made everything seem alright.

You’d slept the whole way, head leaning against the cool glass window of Mycroft’s car, a fluffy blue blanket draped around you, hood of your jacket up, completely absorbed in what your brother hoped to be a dreamless sleep. There’d been recent instances over the past couple days in which he’d come in to check on you before he headed off to sleep, only to walk in on you tossing and turning in your bed, frown lines evident on your forehead as you apparently fended off those devilish nightmares you’d used to suffer from as a child but had since overcome. They’d returned, it seemed, and though you never remembered them once you woke up, he still dreaded the day that you would.

He hadn’t said one word to John during the entirety of the journey. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to, he just wasn’t the best at beginning – or continuing, for that matter – conversations. Everything that had happened recently didn’t help in aiding any conversation starters, either. Nothing was working in his favour. Thankfully, John drifted off a little over a quarter of an hour into the journey, effectively crushing all worries towards awkward conversation and such. Though the relationship between the two men wasn’t completely uncomfortable, they’d never been in a situation like this together. Not to mention the fact that John didn’t believe he’d ever seen with his own two eyes a time when Mycroft was actually driving himself.

The cottage Marie and Chester Holmes lived in was nothing special, and yet as soon as the house came into view, hundreds of memories ambled back into the minds of both you and Mycroft. Above everything, it had been your childhood home, the house you’d grown up in, and Mycroft himself had lived there many years before you were born, as well as Sherlock. The Holmes siblings – namely the two men – were notorious for claiming their childhoods were filled with nothing but horror and bullies and everything nasty, and yet, in reality, it had been the complete opposite. Even before you were born and the two decided to make a truce in regard to petty arguments simply for your sake, they’d had the childhood all children would be perfectly happy with and even jealous of. Family trips to the beaches around Wales, small holidays away to Cornwall… there’d been nothing horrible at all about the life the two had been blessed with, and it’d suffered no change as you were born and passed through it just as they had.

You’d woken not ten minutes before the car reached the cottage and Mycroft parked it in the driveway behind the blue vehicle your father hadn’t changed since Sherlock was born. You blinked tiredly as the sun streamed through the window, warming the top of your head. For November it was frighteningly sunny. Weird. It felt as though it should be raining... or something. Sure, the sun didn’t do much to chase away the coldness of the autumn air, but, visually, it supplied a picture of summer. Rain would have been best suited to describe your mood these past few weeks, you decided.

Had it really been weeks? It felt like days.

Mycroft’s tutting drew you out of your thoughts. “That damn car needs to be changed for a new one. A better one. I have told them time and time again.”

John, having woke around an hour or so ago, rose an eyebrow. “It’s a car. It does the job.”

“A car is not just a car, Doctor Watson. If it were, would I really be driving around in this?” He gestured a little exaggeratedly around him at the black vehicle you didn’t even want to know the price of. If your brother had been a little more normal, you figured he’d have found an interest – a hobby, even – in cars. They fascinated him, especially the old ones, and you remembered only a couple months ago you’d vowed to take him to one of those vintage car shows they held nowadays. You weren’t sure about that vow anymore. Maybe you’d still fulfil it.

John rose both eyebrows as your brother stepped out of the car, turning to give you a look. You had to smile. Though the two had, as previously mentioned, a relationship that didn’t exactly relate to the term ‘strong’, they could engage in friendly banter if the opportunity arose. Mycroft was a lot more like Sherlock than he probably wished to admit, consequently making it easier for John to speak to him, and vice versa. You sat up a little straighter and leaned over to undo your seatbelt as Mycroft opened your door. “I like the car,” you mentioned as you stepped out next to him.

Your brother refrained from rolling his eyes. “Yes, well, you have lived with Sherlock half of your life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The man smiled faintly as you moved to cross your arms over your chest. He found that you were getting stronger every day.

“It means that you do not have much of an eye for expense, dear sister.”

You, on the other hand, were entirely incapable of stopping yourself from from rolling your eyes. “Money isn’t everything, Mycroft,” you reminded him as the two of you began walking towards the house, John quickly falling into step next to you. “That car holds tons of memories from our childhood. Even you know that.”

“Mhm, I suppose.”

John smiled. “What kind of memories?”

“There’s a huge dent on the door from when Sherlock took his driving test,” Mycroft told him. “The whole ride went smoothly until the very end when he parked the car and accidentally swung the door open into a lamppost. Mother never got it repaired simply because of the newfound memory it held.” He chuckled, only stopping when he realised that both you and John had become quiet. He realised it’d been the mention of Sherlock’s name. Damn, he mentally cursed himself. ‘Too soon’, he believed was the phrase.

“I didn’t-”

“I’m going to take my driving test in that car,” you interrupted, turning a smile up at your brother. He returned it, albeit a little sadly, knowing you’d done it simply to make him feel less bad about himself. He often forgot that the people who were truly grieving were right next to him at every moment of every day.

“You most certainly will not. You will drive my car, not that old rust bucket.”

You shook your head, but the smile remained on your lips all the same. It was nice to see your brother somewhat back to his ‘old ways’, if you could call it that. He’d changed in the last couple weeks. Of course, it was nice to see him so comforting and caring, but you almost missed the cocky arrogance that was so uniquely Mycroft. Seeing his personality come roaring back to life like this was almost a relief. You’d never wish for him to change because of you.

“Y/N!” All three of you snapped your heads around to face the door to the cottage you were slowly approaching, seeing Mrs Holmes walk out the door, wrapping her knitted cardigan tighter around her to fend off the biting wind. She rushed across the path to you, face a worried mess, to put it lightly, and you unexplainably found yourself feeling as though you were about to burst into tears at any moment as soon as you lay your eyes on her. You weren’t sure what it was; you’d been perfectly fine before. But, now? You took one look at your mother and felt the sudden urge to cry. And so you did. As soon as she reached you, opening her arms and quickly pulling you into her embrace, you let your tears flow, burying your head in her shoulder and breathing in the scent of lavender and soap and gingerbread… you’d missed her. You’d always missed her – what sixteen-year-old girl didn’t miss their mother when they no longer lived with her? – but it seemed different, now. After everything that had happened, you just needed your mother, you supposed. Not your brother, or a close friend, though both Mycroft and John had been perfectly wonderful. Your mum.

“Oh, my darling.” You felt her hand go to the back of your head, cradling it while she moved her own head to place a kiss to the top of your hair – unruly from the car journey. Her voice was more of a comfort to you than anything had been since Sherlock jumped from the building. A relief. You let your tears fall, holding on tightly to the woman and feeling her return it with all the strength she possessed.

After a few moments, she stepped back and reached up, cupping the sides of your face with her warm hands. She brushed her thumb over the tears decorating your pink cheeks. “I am beyond glad to see you, sweetheart,” she said with a watery smile, and you smiled faintly back, moving your hand up to place over hers. Your mother shook her head at the look on her little girl’s tired face before turning to face Mycroft. Something passed between the two of them that you were too upset to understand, but it was brief enough for you to let it go.

“Let us get out of this chill.” Your brother sounded quick to get away from the woman’s gaze.

As soon as you all entered the cottage, your mother enveloped John in a hug, holding him as tightly as she had you, and the man did not show any sign of resisting whatsoever. He’d needed it as much as you, even if he’d only ever met the woman once in brief passing when both she and your father had come to visit Baker Street a couple months or so after the two of you and Sherlock moved in. “Oh, John,” you heard her say. “I am so sorry.”

John cleared his throat, stepping away slightly. “So am I, Mrs Holmes.”

“Oh, it’s Marie, dear. You know that.” She smiled sadly before turning and giving her eldest son his own hug, no exchange of secretive or otherwise glances making you believe that what you’d briefly speculated outside had been absolutely nothing.

Truthfully, Mycroft had been terrified about taking you to see your parents, simply because he worried that neither of them would be good enough actors. For obvious reasons, they knew that Sherlock was not actually dead, but they – namely Marie – had been especially upset when they realised neither of their sons would be letting you know. They wholeheartedly disagreed with Mycroft’s decision, and Mycroft knew that, making his anxieties of them choosing to go against his wishes and tell you the truth rise even higher. Nevertheless, his mother seemed to have no intentions of doing so. Currently, anyway. He’d let her know over the phone that under no circumstances would he be taking you to see her and your father if their goal was to fill you – and John, for that matter – in on their little plan. From what he could see so far, however, Marie was acting more like the grieving mother than the angry old woman that had greeted her eldest son over the phone only a couple weeks back.

“Your father’s popped down to the shops for a moment,” she said, squeezing your hand. You gave her a small smile and nodded, hiking your backpack a little further up over your shoulder. She turned and inwardly sighed. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Her voice was quiet, but the mere question brought your heartbeat up a notch as you turned your eyes on her and blinked a couple times before replying.

“Uh- o-okay, I guess…” you said hesitantly. Mycroft moved forward and placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Why don’t you go and put your bag in your room, Y/N? You can show Doctor Watson where he will be sleeping, also.” He gave you a soft smile, the one you’d come to find comfort in a lot recently, and stepped back when you nodded.

You should have remembered. There were about seven photos lined up on a glass table by the front door. You should have remembered that about five of them had Sherlock’s face in them. If you had, you would have saved yourself the pure force that you felt when you turned to tell John to follow you but instead came face to face with the photo frames. Your eyes scanned over them quickly, mind registering them quicker than anything before. It was all Sherlock. Sherlock holding you the day you came home from the hospital. Sherlock and Mycroft at his graduation ceremony. Sherlock with little plaits adorning his curly locks, put there by you. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. You felt an overwhelming surge of emotion, and your hands began to get clammy. Your eyes watered. That was becoming a daily thing, now, wasn’t it? Though you’d been getting good at controlling it recently.

Not today, it seemed.

Without a single word leaving your lips, you turned and bolted up the stairs.

Your mother moved to follow you, but Mycroft gently grasped her hand and shook his head once she’d turned to look at him. “Mother, leave her be. Doctor Watson, would you mind?” John, as expected, nodded and quickly moved towards the direction you’d run in. “Her room is the second door on the left.” He waited until the man had left his sight before turning back to the woman standing, distraught, next to him. She had tears pooling in her blue eyes, and Mycroft felt himself succumbing to his own slight emotions at seeing his mother so upset. “Mother-”

“This is unfair, Mycroft. I don’t like it.”

Neither do I. “I know.” He glanced at the top of the stairs before moving a little closer and lowering his voice. “But it is the only way. She is getting better, Mother, trust me… it is just being here that brought back her emotions. She is still grieving. Let her do so and in her own time she will come to live with it.”

Marie shook her head. “She should not have to grieve! She should not have to live with it! Sherlock is still ali-”

“Alive in her heart, yes, I know.” He hadn’t wanted to hiss, but he was slowly becoming irritable as he quickly turned his eyes back on the top of the stairs, assuring himself that your bedroom door was definitely shut. “Listen, Mother. If I believed you would tell Y/N and John, I would not have brought them here. Yes, I understand that she is your daughter and you want what will make her happy – I also do, just as much as you – but if we told her now there is a high risk of her getting killed. James Moriarty’s men are still lurking, and Sherlock has gone to find them and… relieve them, let us say, from their duties. Both Y/N and John will find out in time, I promise you, but for now, we must keep it secret. For their own sake as well as ours.”

“Hey, you alright?”

You were lying flat on your bed when John walked in, staring up at the ceiling, the bag you’d brought up with you carelessly tossed to one side. Strangely, your tears seemed to have been magically sucked back under your eyelids, leaving your eyes nothing but watery orbs of dim light, gazing aimlessly at the white paint above you. When you heard your door open and gently shut a moment later, however, you turned your head, feeling slightly grateful that it had been John who’d walked in. You honestly felt as though you didn’t have the strength to deal with anyone other than him.

Somehow, it seemed as though he was the only one who was feeling the same as you.

All you could manage was a nod, and John made a face you couldn’t quite decipher before moving over to you and seating himself on the edge of your bed. He glanced around, briefly noticing that two photo frames on a low shelf had been knocked over. “This is a nice room. Very…” He smiled faintly at the amount of pink in the room you’d most definitely argued against when Sherlock had jokingly suggested you paint your room back in Baker Street that colour. “… not you.”

You breathed a laugh. “It was very me when I was a kid. I loved pink as a child, God knows why.”

John patted your knee and you slowly moved into a sitting position, scooting next to him and allowing him to wrap an arm around your shoulder to pull you against him. “I think every little girl likes the colour pink, don’t they?”

“I guess.”

The man rubbed your upper arm and you felt his chest heave with a sigh. “I know this must be pretty overwhelming for you, hm?”

“Just a bit.”

“Yeah. Was it the pictures?”

Your mind subconsciously trailed back to the wooden frames on the table by the front door, encasing old photos of your brother. Your dead brother. Yes, it had been the pictures. “Mhm… just being here brings back so many memories, you know?” The tears were pooling yet again. When would they ever stop? Would they ever stop? “The last time I was here, he was, too. It’s hard to think he’ll never- he’ll never be here again…”

John’s hold around you tightened, and you shut your eyes, feeling him turn his head to press a kiss against your temple. “I know, sweetheart, I know. This all sucks. It’s horrible, and it’s shit, and it sucks. I know.”

You nodded against him, sniffling and swallowing the newfound lump in your throat. Damn right, it sucked. You knew it did for him, too, and it pained you greatly to see just how hard he was trying to keep his emotions at bay. You knew John. That man was completely different, Mycroft had said, when he was at the hospital waiting for the tens of nurses to exit the room they’d taken Sherlock to. He hadn’t been able to get through to him, and it was no wonder to you. He’d lost his best friend, and, to make matters worse, he’d watched himself lose his best friend. Nothing was more cruel than that. But, he had been coping tremendously well recently, leading you to the fact that he was one hundred percent keeping it tucked away inside him for when he was alone and away from you. Because you were the one he was keeping it away for. It was no secret.

Opening your eyes, you blinked a couple times to regain relative focus before turning your head slightly. “I don’t want you to have to hide your emotions away because I’m here,” you said quietly.

John set his mouth in a thin line, staring straight ahead at the knocked over photo frames. He gently shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You shouldn’t have to act okay just because you don’t want to upset me. Please, John… I know you’re trying to help me, but the only thing that will help me now is if you help yourself. Make it easier on us both so we can support each other through this shit like you said we would.” Your voice trembled with every word, but you knew they were clear enough to register in the doctor’s tired mind.

A moment of silence passed, and you felt him shift a little before turning and enveloping you in his arms. You wrapped your own back around him, burying your head in his chest while he rested his chin on top of your head, and the moment you felt him take in a shaky breath, you breathed a brief sigh of relief.

By acknowledging his aching emotions, he was moving one step closer towards healing. It was a small step, but it was better than nothing, and the result of it all would prove that, in time.

“Did you... have a nice holiday?” John asked after swallowing a bite of homemade chicken pasta. He and the Holmes family were sitting around the kitchen table, eating dinner. Chester, your father, had arrived back home about an hour and a half ago, and Marie had set to making it while you sat curled up next to him on a couch in the living room. John helped your mother with the cooking as a way of distracting himself, and Mycroft took the time away from home to answer some emails and calls related to work.

Marie glanced up and offered a smile. “Oh, yes... yes, thank you, dear. Though... I do wish it hadn’t lasted for as long as it had,” she said, and John nodded in understanding.

“Of course. Yeah, of course. But you couldn’t have known.”

“Maybe it was for the best. Funerals are- funerals are not something I like to attend. Maybe it was best we did not go.” The dining room fell silent for a moment, the only sound being the soft clatter of cutlery against the ceramic plates.

“Don’t you think Sherlock would have wanted you there?” you asked after a moment, and your mother looked up from her meal.

“I don’t know, and I suppose we shall never get the opportunity to ask him.” Not even cutlery could be heard after that. Marie had said it with such a sudden force and almost temper that it had surprised even Mycroft, who gave his mother a look. John was glancing a little awkwardly down at his plate, and Chester was staring sorrowfully at the wall opposite him. Marie blinked when she saw her son’s glare and shook herself a little. “Oh, goodness! I am terribly sorry. Forgive me.”

You sighed. “It’s fine, Mum.”

“No, sweetheart, it’s not fine. I’m sorry. Truly.”

“Mum, it really is okay. Everything’s fine.”

You all returned to eating, each thinking to yourselves. It was strange for a Holmes family dinner to be awkward, even with the added presence of John. The five of you, including Sherlock, had always had the best meals, even if your brothers ended up arguing in the middle of it. Honestly, it would have been weird if they hadn’t broken into one at some point during a meal. It was what made them so special. Nevertheless, now, there seemed to be a tenseness in the air around you, broken only slightly when your father spoke up.

“How is dance, Y/N?” he asked, giving you a smile when you met his eyes.

You swallowed a bite of food. “Uh- good. Yeah, good, I think. I haven’t been in a few weeks...”

Chester nodded. “Of course not, that’s understandable. Mycroft was saying something about a competition coming up?”

“In- that’s in a few weeks. I won’t be going, though. Not anymore. Sorry.” You were surprised to find that you hadn’t thought of the Rosen Dance Academy much since the accident, and you figured Mycroft must have arranged something in that respect also, as he had done with school.

“Don’t apologise!” your mother said, her bright face giving you immediate reassurance. “There’s always the next one.”

Your father smiled at his wife before turning to you. “Yes, there is.” He looked at Mycroft. “Son, have you spoken to her about that musical tomorrow?”

Musical? You glanced at your brother in slight questioning. He hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort, though you struggled to think of a time during the day that he’d actually get the chance. Truth be told, you’d been spending both the morning and afternoon around your parents and hadn’t really spoken to the man. Nevertheless, he seemed to know what Chester was talking about, as he glanced up from his pasta and his eyes widened in slight realisation – probably that he hadn’t mentioned it yet. “Ah,” he said, “no. I haven’t.” He turned to you. “How would you like to go and see a musical in the local theatre, tomorrow? I think there are a couple on. Doctor Watson can accompany us also.”

You flicked your eyes briefly over to your parents, and Marie smiled. “Your father and I will stay here, sweetie. This would be a nice opportunity to take some time away with your brother and John and forget about some things for a while. A nice musical will take your mind off those, won’t it? You used to go to a lot of those when you were younger.”

Yes, but with Sherlock, you couldn’t help think, but despite it all you nodded, giving your brother a smile.

“Sounds like fun.”

Sherlock Masterpost

A/N: Hey! Long time no see, huh? I’m so very sorry for the wait on this chapter... a lot’s happened in the past month or so, as well as me breaking my phone and consequently losing the header photos I made for this fic. All this has also meant I haven’t been able to get much writing done, and I always like to have a couple chapters already written after the next chapter I post, so I don’t feel pressured with writing. So, I’ll let you guys know - hopefully by the end of this week - if I’ve managed to get any more writing done and if I’ll feel ready to post chapter 8 next Tuesday as planned. :)

Also, as you’ve probably already seen, I had to make up names for the Holmeses’ parents. Marie and Chester are pretty perfect, though, right? ;) Aaaand I wasn’t sure entirely where the family home is, but the house used in the show is in Wales, so I just left it at that.

That’s all! See you in the next chapter! <3

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added) :

@sneekygeek @written-by-living-stars @waddles03 @lizlil @annekleyn @bellero @nagaindcsiar @livy1391 @shirukitsune @joe-mazzello-is-my-dad @sherlocked-bitch

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honeypiehotchner · 6 years ago

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Trust -- part eight

Mycroft is in town! This one is a bit of a shit show. But I enjoyed writing Mycroft and the reader’s banter haha

Sherlock groans loudly upon reaching Baker Street after John’s phone call. Sherlock’s brother is here. And he’s straightened the knocker. Again. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock tilts the knocker back where it belongs and shoves the door open, practically flying up the stairs.

He doesn’t like that when John told him he needed to see something, that his mind immediately went to you. But he can’t help the sigh of relief that washes over him when he finds you’re still sleeping. He also has a sudden hope that Mycroft won’t start an argument loud enough to wake you up, but then again, an argument almost comes with Mycroft whenever he appears.

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his brother as he hangs his coat, clearly letting the older know that the younger would rather he isn’t here. “What is it, John?”

“These messages,” John shakes his head. “The same number that sent Y/N the address earlier has been texting her for three days now.”

Sherlock glances at them. “They’re in Latin.” A flash of when you mumbled Beata Virgo earlier echoes through his mind.

“We’ve established that,” Mycroft nearly rolls his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“Because John phoned me,” the older brother smiles sweetly, mockingly. “And this seems to be a matter of importance.”

“Why, because she is your source of information about me?”

“Brother mine, she hasn’t given me any information.” Which is actually true. Nothing substantial, anyway. “I’m merely concerned for her well-being as she is living here now, and she is a Watson.”

“Okay, she’s not a Watson,” John interrupts, almost out of instinct, surprising himself – but he knows if you were in here, you’d do the same. “And can you two stop bloody arguing for five seconds? There are more pressing matters right now than your childish feud.”

“Yes, well, the words read wonderful sacrament and blessed virgin in Latin,” Sherlock rattles off through a breath. “Which could mean absolutely anything.”

“Okay,” John huffs, trying not to get irritated. “What about the last message?”

“No idea,” Sherlock frowns. “We know this is a man of religious background, so the last message could be referring to God.” He rolls his eyes. “How stupid.” Just at the mention of that ridiculously omnipotent being has Sherlock’s interest dropping significantly.

“We can talk about your beliefs later, Sherlock, but I don’t like that these messages are being sent to my sister’s phone when two of her good friends have just been murdered.”

And just like that, at the mention of you, his interest has returned.

“You haven’t solved those murders yet?” Mycroft asks in surprise. Everything is normally so transparent for Sherlock, especially a murder like these. It would take him minutes, maybe hours. But it’s been a month and a half since the first one.

Sherlock gives him a look. “I found traces of a drug in their systems. A depressant, maybe.”

“Traces?”

“Not enough to kill them outright. Just enough to slow them down. It was interesting to me from the start that a highly trained agent would be taken down by a hit to the back of the head, but there were no signs of drugging. Because it had been done days, maybe hours prior – and he had been watched leading up to his death.” Sherlock pauses, the excitement of this breakthrough nearly getting the best of him. “The same trace was found in Allen. Same time period. Same story.” He steeples his hands under his chin. “What doesn’t make sense is how it got into both of their systems? And where? And who?”

“Who?” Mycroft nearly laughs in hysteria. “These men were part of an undercover anti-terrorism agency and you’re wondering who would want to kill them?”

“Yes, because if we know that, then we know who we are up against,” Sherlock replies quickly, deadpanning, sending his brother a glare that might as well be lethal.

You stand in the doorway to the living room, going unnoticed until you open your mouth. “I already know who we’re dealing with, so stop arguing.”

All three heads snap to you.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock incredulously. “She was in your bed?”

“Shut up, Mycroft, his bed is uncomfortable as hell, so don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence,” you sigh, earning a shocked look from the man, but you’re too tired to care. You’re also too tired to notice Sherlock’s faint look of hurt after your comment. A look of hurt that he isn’t even aware of himself until he sees John giving him a strange look in response. “Look at the initials at the end of each message.”

John furrows his eyebrows. “G-O-D. God? We’re dealing with God?”

“No,” you shake your head with a loud sigh. You’re genuinely too exhausted, worn out, and every other adjective under the sun, to deal with these men. Your patience is going to wear thin. You plop down on the couch, stretching out, and your eyelids immediately threaten to close. “We’re dealing with a man who thinks he’s God.” You cover your eyes with your arm. “It didn’t hit me until I was sleeping. O magnum mysterium,” you begin, practically chuckling to yourself. It should’ve been obvious, in fact, it was, you were just too stupid to see. “et admirabile sacramentum, ut animalia viderent Dominum natum, iacentem in praesepio! Beata Virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt portare. Dominum Iesum Christum.”

John obviously doesn’t understand. “What does all that mean?”

“It’s a responsorial chant,” you explain to John. “A.k.a. the theme song for the exact cult I figured would pull this type of bullshit. You know them, Mycroft. They caused England a bit of trouble a few years ago.” You pause, muttering under your breath so no one can hear, “And he’s the one who shot me in the bloody shoulder.” You open your eyes to see Mycroft giving you a rather confused look. You give him an equally disappointed look in return. “Seriously?”

“Miss Watson—”

“L/N,” you correct him. “For Christ’s sake, I’m not a Watson. I’m a L/N.”

“Miss L/N,” Mycroft corrects himself through gritted teeth. “You of all people should understand the amount of threats I sort through on a typical day. You are going to have to be more specific.”

You glare at him. “Mr. Holmes, you of all people should remember the one cult big enough to cause the government of this country trouble. Don’t look shocked. Yes, I knew you were Sherlock’s brother from the moment I saw you.”

He nods. “Very good. Now, who are we dealing with?”

“Gidon. Gidon Dietrichson.”

Mycroft closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Gentlemen, would you mind giving us a moment?”

You heave yourself off the couch, yanking the door open. You gesture for Mycroft to step into the hallway, and thankfully he obeys. After making sure both doors are shut, you cross your arms and wait for him to begin.

“I thought you killed him.”

“Then you can imagine the surprise on my face when I put the pieces together, Michael,” you hiss.

Mycroft, however, looks more than amused. “Glad to see you’ve finally figured matters out.”

“Michael Holland, what the hell kind of pseudonym is that?”

“A very good one, apparently.” He’s too pleased with himself. “Why do you suspect I was more than willing to wipe your record? It wasn’t the first time I’ve given you a pardon.”

You glare at him. “Forgive me for thinking you were being generous. I should know better of you.”

He hums. “Yes, now, what do you suppose we do?”

“Well, for starters, we can stop pretending like they can’t hear us.”

That’s it for Mycroft as he shoves the door back open, seeing John and Sherlock standing fairly close, looking entirely guilty and obviously just having moved away from the door. You stroll in behind him, almost throwing yourself back down on the couch out of exhaustion, stretching out with a sigh.

“Now,” you lace your fingers together, placing your hands over your stomach. “Come at me with the questions. I know you have them.”

“Michael Holland?” Sherlock asks, rather incredulously. You smirk, knowing you’ve just given Sherlock something else to tease his older brother about. You know he’s silently thanking you.

“Yes, Michael, care to elaborate?” You smile sweetly.

“You’re still as childish as ever, Y/N,” he sighs. “I needed some undercover work to be done off the books, as you say. Y/N was willing.”

“I needed money,” you shrug. “He happened to have some, all I had to do was investigate a cult – which, in case you were wondering, is the same one going on this killing spree.”

“You worked…for Mycroft?” John asks slowly.

“Don’t look at me like that. I liked danger, and he was willing to pay me to stay in the middle of it. I wasn’t gonna ask questions about who he was, I needed money. Not his life story.”

“Yes, she needed funding for her…habits,” Mycroft practically sneers, tapping his umbrella on the ground. “I do hope you’ve left those behind you like I suggested.”

“I have, thank you very much.”

“Habits? What habits?” Now John is back to being furious, on top of his concern. Both of which you absolutely do not need to deal with right now.

“I swear I don’t know why I associate with you.” Mycroft continues smirking, knowing you’re addressing him. “You’re more annoying than Sherlock.”

“Y/N,” John takes a step closer to the couch. “What habits is he talking about?”

You force yourself into a sitting position, giving John a firm, but pleading, look. “Can we talk about it later? We should kind of be focused on the God we’re chasing.”

Realizing that that is, in fact, true, John nods. “I won’t forget,” he assures you, and you nod. He never does. “But okay. Who is he?”

“He thinks he’s God – right now, at least. The cult…It’s odd. They have women who they think are creators of Gods. Every time they bear a child, a living God dies. Because only six Gods can live at once.”

“They’re famously known as The Congregation. It’s a sex trafficking cult,” Mycroft explains further, the detail John absolutely did not want to hear.

“You sent her into a sex trafficking cult?”

“I was already there,” you clarify, holding your hand up to John in hopes of calming him. He still looks like he’s ready to punch Mycroft in the jaw, though.

“What do you mean you were already bloody there?”

“Nothing happened,” you assure him first. “They didn’t touch me, it didn’t get that far.”

“It didn’t get that far?!” John screams. “You’re telling me you willingly put yourself in there to toy with them? Do you have any idea how stupid and dangerous that was?”

“I’m not condoning my actions of the past, John, I’m just telling you what happened,” you snap, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, that was where I ran into Tony. He was sent in to shut it down, but obviously that didn’t go as planned. I shot at Gidon, but he got away.”

“Yes, but The Congregation was obliterated months ago – on my orders,” Mycroft informs you.

The glare you send him might as well have been lethal. “And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you ran away.”

“Well, apparently all but one were obliterated because now he’s killed Tony and Allen.”

“You said…the Gods,” John shakes his head at the sound of it, “are recycled, basically, so maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s someone else. Someone who took his name? Someone with the same initials?”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“What makes you so certain?” Mycroft asks.

“Can you possibly think of anyone more dramatic? Don’t answer that,” you breathe, rubbing your forehead. “I’m the one who shot him, Allen gave the order, Tony was on the ground with me. It makes sense they’d come after all of us.” And manage to kill two of us.

“The Congregation of Six Divines,” Sherlock speaks. Up until this moment, he had been sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, thinking, no doubt visiting his mind palace. The name Gidon Dietrichson sounded familiar from the moment you said it. He knew he had heard it somewhere – somewhere coupled with The Congregation. The Congregation’s full, official name was The Congregation of Six Divines. “Six is significant. Six bullet holes in Allen’s body. Tony had been in London for six days. Six weeks since Tony’s death, Allen dies, too,” Sherlock pauses. “Six Gods live at one time.”

“‘O Magnum Mysterium’ is six minutes long,” you supply another piece of information, since you doubt Sherlock has ever listening to a religious chant in his life.

He snaps his fingers, giving you an excited look. “This is brilliant!”

John gives him a look because, really, it isn’t that brilliant. Two of your friends are dead. And it appears that you’re to be next in line.

“But why was Allen shot six times and not Tony?” John asks, almost absentmindedly.

You close your eyes. “Tony was religious. Allen was not. I’m assuming shooting the cross into his chest had something to do with that.”

“Ah,” John nods, studying your face. He doesn’t like the sound of any of this, so he knows you can’t be handling it much better. You were put through literal hell when Tony was murdered, and your behavior earlier after discovering Allen already made John worry if you were going down the same road, but…the contrast he sees right now is immense. You’re awake, talking – willingly talking about Tony and Allen and this cult whereas when Tony was killed, you hid in your room for three days. And John isn’t sure if he should be grateful that you appear to be as okay as you can be for the moment, or if he should worry more.

After Mycroft steps out to take a phone call, John moves to lift your legs on the couch, so he can sit next to you. Thankfully, he lets you stretch your legs across his so you can remain comfortably lying down.

“So…you used to work for Mycroft Holmes,” John scoffs, chuckling. “Wow.”

“No, I worked for Michael Holland,” you snicker. You think maybe you should call Mycroft Michael from now on. You know it’ll get a rise out of him, and that’s your goal. “The bastard. Got me shot for no good reason. He should’ve just obliterated all of them in the first place instead of trying to get me to do it. Now I’ve gotta worry about Gidon again.”

“No,” John replies, causing you to open your eyes. “Right now, you need to worry about getting some sleep.”

“I can do that,” you nod, giving a brief glance to the side to see Sherlock with his eyes closed, still thinking. You imagine he’ll be doing that all night.

Your sleep is interrupted, though, as soon as Mycroft – Mikey? Mike? This could be fun – steps back inside the flat.

“I’ve updated all of your surveillance levels, especially yours Y/N. Do you have any idea where this man might be now?”

“No clue,” you deadpan. “I suggest we wait.”

Even John doesn’t like your tone. “Wait?”

“Yes, wait,” you reply, like it’s all obvious. “Didn’t you notice a pattern?”

Sherlock is thinking, but he’s still listening to the conversation around him for once because he voices the pattern. “Six Divines. Six Gods. Six bullets. Six minutes. Six days. Six weeks…” He pauses, his eyes shooting open. “Surely he won’t wait six months before striking again.”

“But it does look that way, doesn’t it?” You rub your eyes. “I swear, he’s a pain in my ass, Gidon. I should’ve aimed better the first time.” The original idea was to injure him enough to bring him in for questioning, but obviously that didn’t happen, nor do you think it was ever going to happen.

Sherlock retreats back into his mind palace, and at the sight of this, you hear Mycroft mutter a goodbye before he exits the flat. He doesn’t feel much better from this information session, instead feeling more concerned. Not only for your safety because now Gidon Dietrichson is on the loose again and apparently heading for you next – but also concern for Sherlock.

Specifically, Sherlock’s relation to you.

You were asleep in his bed. Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock, the same boy who refuses to share clothes or socks, specifically, let you sleep in his bed – willingly. Albeit for a short amount of time before you walked into the living room, but you were still there. And while you said Sherlock’s bed was uncomfortable, and for them to not expect this, Mycroft could tell you didn’t entirely mean it. And the look that crossed his brother’s face at your comment only worried him more.

Sherlock doesn’t make connections. The closest he has ever been with anyone is John Watson, and that alone was hard for Mycroft to stomach – that Sherlock had a friend. But now you are here, in what Mycroft assumed was a semi-permanent destination that has now clearly become permanent. And you are quickly becoming friends – at least in Sherlock’s mind, even if he doesn’t realize, though Mycroft is starting to believe neither of you realize you are becoming friends – with the one man who you told Mycroft was an absolute ass when he wanted to be.

Not to mention, the obvious fact that you spend more time in 221B than you do in your own flat. While there was no ready evidence, it does leave Mycroft to wonder if you’ve even been conscious of not sleeping downstairs anymore.

Realizing he’s let his concern get the better of him, Mycroft shakes himself out of it. His brother is allowed to make connections. And if you are anything like the girl Mycroft remembers, then he knows you won’t let the connection go farther than it should.

#Trust #sherlock #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sibling!reader #half-sibling!reader #john watson #mycroft holmes #mycroft #oh the british sarcasm #this one was fun to write #it's also a bit of an information dump #so apologies about that

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sanguinarysanguinity · 6 years ago

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You made that amazing vid, Something Good, and know so much about various Holmes adaptations. What less-known adaptations would you recommend for watching and where to find them?

Oh, gosh, so much of this is a matter of personal taste! For myself, I like a competent, capable Watson, a Holmes that feels human joys and frailities, and a strong, affectionate relationship between them. So, things I love that deserve a bigger following:

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson (1979-1980), starring Geoffrey Whitehead and Donald Pickering, is one of my two favorite discoveries from making the vid. Holmes is reserved but warm-hearted (and excellent with children!), and Watson is strong and active, with much to contribute to the partnership. (There’s a little bit of a through-line where Watson teaches himself Holmes’ methods, getting better and better at it as the series progresses.) Furthermore, the Holmes-and-Watson dynamic is lovely, with lots of affectionate, teasing banter. (In fact, Holmes can barely stop trolling Watson for long enough to solve a case!) Honestly, this is my comfort adaptation, the one I’m mostly like to put on when I’m blue or anxious and want to feel better.

(Also, Holmes and Watson wear eyeliner, and who doesn’t need a Holmes or Watson in eyeliner?)?

If I understand its history correctly, it never aired in the UK or the US (and thus is far better known in Italy and Germany than among anglophones); further, it was tied up in a rights battle for yonks, so the only DVD release that I know of is dual-language German. But if you can tolerate somewhat-deteriorated VHS rips, most of it is available on YouTube. (Try this playlist, or this one.) I love it well enough that I gave myself the German DVD for a birthday present: it’s region-free, so it’ll play on both US and UK machines.

名探偵ホームズ | Sherlock Hound (1984-1985). Charming and sweet and silly (omg, Moriarty and his over-the-top mecha!), this is my other big favorite from making the vid. This is Japanese anime (the original six episodes were directed by Miyazaki, before the project got tied up in a rights battle and he moved on to the other things), set in a steampunk universe where everyone is a dog. (Except for Moriarty, who is a wolf.) Hound himself is hands-down one of my very favorite Holmeses: courteous, warm-hearted, human in his frailities, passionate in his defense of his clients, and with a child-like joy in his calling. Watson is fierce and growly and stubborn but also very warm-hearted, and the two of them are smitten with each other. (And both of them with Mrs. Hudson. Everyone loves Mrs. Hudson: even Moriarty!) Moriarty is ridonk over-the-top and I adore him: a brilliant inventor but a sad disaster at criminal masterminding. If you want more info, I have a longer post on Dreamwidth about why I love it, complete with links to various moments in the series.

If you’re in the US, the whole thing is available on the studio’s YouTube channel, although they have the episode order wrong and a few eps misnamed: start with “The Four Signatures” and continue to “The Mazalin Stone,” then you’re fine with playlist-order thereafter. Outside of the US I have no idea how to lay hands on it, sorry.

If you do subtitles, there are three Russian adaptations that are well worth your time:

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson (1979-1986) aka “Russian Holmes”

My Dearly Beloved Detective (1986), and

Sherlock Holmes (2013) aka “New Russian Holmes”.

The original Russian Holmes (1979-1986) is much like the Jeremy Brett Granada series in its loving regard for canon, and is similarly well-respected. Livanov and Solomin are a charming Holmes and Watson, and I honestly like their Reichenbach better than Granada’s. I find it a little slowly-paced overall, but if you’ve finished Granada and want something similar but with its own take, this is a solid choice.

My Dearly Beloved Detective is… gosh… a female-centric tragi-comic satire, maybe? It’s a bizarre little film, but I am fond of it. Its premise: all of England, much taken with Conan Doyle’s stories, cried out for a Holmes and Watson of their very own, and Shirley and Jane were hired to fulfill the need; unfortunately, Scotland Yard is jealous of Shirley’s and Jane’s success, and conspire to take them down. The film has as devoted a femslash following as you might expect, but I don’t think it will spoil too much if I warn you that nearly all the fic is pining or fix-it or both.

New Russian Holmes is a subversion of the original Russian series, where instead of a romantic fog-and-gaslight Victorian London, we get something much more gritty and Dickensian. I adore this series’ willingness to get down into the muck and wrestle with Holmes canon, but a lot of people hate it for that very same reason, so ymmv. I will say, however, that Panin is one of the very best Watsons running, and anyone who disagrees is categorically wrong.

All three of these (and more besides!) can be found via @spiritcc, who is part of a fan-driven subtitling team that has heroically provided English subtitles to a variety of Russian Holmes adaptations. Masterpost for video and subtitles here.

Mystery Queen (2017) is a Korean drama that was released too late for us to use in the vid, but ugggggghhhhh it hurts me that it’s not in there. Holmes is an adorable, sweet, scythingly sharp housewife who is studying in secret against her family’s wishes to become a police detective; Watson is the highly-decorated police detective that she ends up collaborating with. I cannot convey how much I adored the first season: on the one hand, emotionally complex cases that ripped my heart out; on the other, fanservice slathered on with a goddamned trowel. (In the first episode, Holmes and Watson went from meet-cute to Three Garridebs in seven minutes flat.) I just. I mean. It’s a hard-fought Holmes-and-Watson relationship, but good god I love them each and together, and by series’ end either one would walk through fire for the other. I haven’t watched season two yet, but I have high hopes for it.

You can watch it with English subtitles on Vicki.com: Season 1 and Season 2.

And that’s my starter list of favorite lesser-known Holmes things – I hope you find something here you like! If there’s a specific kind of thing you’re looking for, let me know and I’ll try to make you a rec – this fandom is large enough that there’s a Holmes and Watson for nearly any taste. ;-)

#mightymads #long post #sherlock holmes #moreholmes #whitehead holmes #sherlock holmes and doctor watson #sherlock hound #my dearly beloved detective #new russian holmes #mystery queen #queen of mystery #something good (will come from that)

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thesportssoundoff · 5 years ago

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“Conor McGregor is back! Excitement may vary. Excitement in this card may vary! Excitement is really yours to have and hold, folks” The UFC 246 Fight Preview

Joey

January 13th, 2020

The UFC kicks off its 2019 schedule after a few long weeks off with a card that will, with very little sarcasm in play, play a hefty part in defining the way 2020 rolls out deep into the year. UFC 246 from Las Vegas, Nevada is a weird card on paper but it's also very significant and significance can sometimes create card quality/card quantity. Conor McGregor vs Donald Cerrone is a significant fight, one that figures to ask and answer a lot of questions for both men. For better or worse, the future of two divisions could be mapped out in one night depending on the results of one which fight which again parlays to its perceived significance. The PPV main card is "fine" although it clearly lacks a significant co-main event and the televised prelims are actually respectably spiffy as they're essentially four well put together "prospect of note vs proven veteran" fights with some good early ESPN+ prelim action too. Again I don't know if this card is good or bad---just that it's a significant card of fights and by the time Friday comes along, that long term delay in high level MMA is going to be eating at us SO we'll be all in on this one.

2020 Stat-O-Matic:

Debuting Fighters (): Ode Osbourne, Aleksa Camur Main Event Exemption:

Short Notice Fighters (): Main Event Exemption:

Second Fight (): Askar Askarov Main Event Exemption: Vs Debutantes:

Cage Corrosion (Fighters who have not fought within a year of the date of the fight) (): Conor McGregor, Brian Kelleher Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor

Undefeated Fighters (): Aleksa Camur, Maycee Barber Main Event Exemption:

Fighters with at least four fights in the UFC with 0 wins over competition still in the organization (): Alexey Oleinik, Justin Ledet Main Event Exemption:

Weight Class Jumpers (Fighters competing outside of the weight class of their last fight even if they’re returning BACK to their “normal weight class”) (): Donald Cerrone, Conor McGregor Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor, Donald Cerrone

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- So what necessarily is the end game here for Conor McGregor? As has been the case since he broke out onto the scene and KO'd Jose Aldo, much of Conor's "plans" feel less like plans and more like thoughts he forces into existence. The good stuff like being a double champ and finagling a big money Floyd fight and the bad stuff like the Khabib lead up or believing he could just beat Nate Diaz up 15 lbs because it seemed like fun all feel like the decisions of a guy who sort of just decides he's going to do something and then does it regardless of the long term impact. Conor had the chance to fight Justin Gaethje and instead pushed for Frankie Edgar fight, ultimately leading us to the here and now where he'll draw Donald Cerrone up a weight class after a year plus layoff. In the time between Conor's LAST fight and this one, he's been arrested, accused of sexual assault, accused of fathering a child out of his marriage and feel free to fill me in on anything I may have missed. What sort of made Conor McGregor a superstar was that he flirted with the concept of being a character completely in control of everything he did and 2019 at the very exposed him as somebody lacking any semblance of control within his life. Either way, it's hard to say what the future holds for McGregor with a win. We know a loss means it's over as four losses in his last five pro fights (I'm counting Floyd here for completionist sake) would probably kill whatever credibility he had and whatever legitimacy he garnered over the course of three years running through the UFC ranks. A win? It's hard to say with a guy who when he's right has the ability to dictate what he opts to do next. A win? Conor McGregor would fight Jorge Masvidal in a big money fight, a third Diaz fight, a GSP fight where both fighters can cash out or go and chase down Khabib. If one truly wishes to get stupid, I suppose fights with Pacquaio, Floyd or Paulie Malignaggi exist out there as well. The first step isn't so much winning this fight but winning this fight and getting back to what made this whole act work to begin with.

2- This is historically the sort of fight Cerrone doesn't show up for and gets forced out of his element but there's some things here I think that do tilt the scales slightly in his favor. For starters, I DO believe in ring rust and Conor hasn't fought in over a year and has fought just twice since the end of 2016. You can argue that wear and tear means Cerrone is shop worn but I feel as though he fights better the MORE he fights and the more active he is. For a fighter like Conor who lives or dies based upon how sharp his timing is, I think it's fair to wonder if the long layoff is going to shake him. We saw him struggle with his timing vs Khabib and while Khabib is on a whole different galaxy than Cerrone, I'd argue it's worse to be slightly off vs a dude like Cerrone who does have the starch in his strikes to do more than flash KD you. Also Cerrone is probably the first guy since Jose Aldo that Conor's had to be mindful of walking into smoke with the legs. Also Cerrone's been campaigning at 170 lbs on and off since 2016 and so you have to assume if this is about being comfortable at the weight class, he's got the nod over Conor.

3- Under normal circumstances, I'd say "I think Conor's defensive wrestling is somewhat understated and the idea that anybody can take him down and sub him is a fallacy" but I also have ZERO idea if he's actually done any serious grappling training or if he's just hoping Cerrone's going to play nice and strike with him for a bit.

4- Which fight is more undesirable for Amanda Nunes; a Holly Holm rematch where she can't realistically top what she did in the first fight or a Rocky Pennington rematch where she'll be tasked with trying to sell/expand upon one of her most boring fights ever?

5- I wonder who is more broken in theory between Holm and Pennington. Rocky looked to be on the verge of going from solid WMMA fighter to a damn good top 5-ish woman at 135 lbs after dominating Meisha Tate but she broke her leg, took a lot of time off, followed that up with a dud vs Amanda Nunes and then got stalled out by Germaine de Randamie. She rebounded with a win over Irene Aldana which almost felt more about Aldana being a putz and less about any sort of sign of a rebound for Rocky. It's worth remembering that the fight vs Holm was the one that got sort of signified that Rocky was better than people realized but it required her to pressure for fifteen minutes and that's sort of gone away for her recently. As for Holm? She's fought Rousey, Cyborg, Tate, Shevchenko and Nunes. She's pushing 40. She had an extensive boxing history that suggests she's taken plenty of damage. She just got KO'd for the first time in her UFC run the last time out and at this point it's fair to ask if Holm's durability is going to be shot. This fight is why Aspen Ladd figuring shit out is really important for this division.

6- Maurice Green and Alexey Olenik being on this main card is curious until you realize that this main card has two WMMA fights and a fight at lightweight on it. Sometimes beef gets called in to "bulk" up the main card.

7- Anthony Pettis sure picked a fine week to announce a UFC lawsuit, am I right?

8- Let's talk about how great these prelims are for a second. Sodiq Yusuff vs Andre Fili is a battle of exciting prospect and proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Nasrat Haqparast vs Drew Dober is a battle of exciting prospect vs proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Maycee Barber vs Roxanne Modafferi almost feels like the potential crowning of Maycee as a 125 lb contender by taking on a former title contender who STYLISTICALLY will at least give us a reason to double check her ability to do things such as defend takedowns and deal with pressure. Lastly I REALLY do love this fight between Chas Skelly and Grant Dawson as Dawson has slowly gone from somewhat awkward wrestling savant to a more well rounded pressure fighter while Chas Skelly is one of those ultimate gatekeeper types for young fighters. These are all great fights worthy of going out of your way to see on ESPN.

9- We're four years now into the Alexa Grasso project and I still don't know if she has the fight smarts to ever take the next step in her career. A good test vs a declining Claudia Gadelha who still has something to offer.

10- How much ya wanna bet Maurice Green allows Olenik to pull him down on top of him?

11- Justin Ledet's run at 205 lbs has been weird as his lack of athleticism for the weight class plus what feels like an odd lack of strength (How he was burly enough to fight at HW but gets chucked around at 205 lbs is a mystery to me) has made him go 0-2 in the division. After a lengthy lay off, he's back at 205 lbs against Aleksa Camur. Camus is a training partner of Stipe Miocic and he got in here off the Contenders Series where he had a crazy fight that exposed him to be a) wacky as all hell and b) a bit too raw for my liking in the UFC. This feels pretty winnable for Spirit of Truth lookalike Ledet.

12- Ode Osbourne vs Brian Kelleher is an early FOTY candidate to me.

#MMA #UFC #McGregor #Cerrone #Pettis #CDF #Holm #Pennington #Prospects

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thesffcorner · 6 years ago

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The Word Is Murder

I haven’t been conflicted on a book like this, in a while. The Word Is Murder is a murder-mystery novel written by Anthony Horowitz. It follows, Anthony Horowitz as he gets approached by a Detective named Hawthorne to write a book about a case he’s been called to consult on: the murder of a woman who just six hours prior, went to a funeral parlor and planned her own funeral. I read Anthony Horowitz’s previous book, The Magpie Murders, but before that I had been a massive fan of both his work for the Hercule Poirot and Midsomer Murders TV series. I had mixed feelings on The Magpie Murders; I thought the actual mystery was great, but there were many points in the book, where I felt like Horowitz used the characters as mouthpieces for his own opinions and frustrations with current politics, culture and the publishing industry, and I found I didn’t agree or like with a lot of what he said. So I’m having a real hard time discussing this book, because, unlike in Magpie Murders where you could make the argument that description is not endorsement, and that those are the opinions of the characters (even though one of the character seemed to be quite an obvious self-insert), here we are reading from the PoV of Anthony Horowitz. He has written himself into the story like John Byrne into The Trial of Galactus. It’s a literary device that creates interesting tension, because I was left wondering how much of the book was actual life, and how much was fiction. But it also created a massive problem, because it was very hard for me to distinguish between the opinions of the characters and the opinions of the author when they are literary telling me that I should view them as the same person. I am not in the habit of seeking out media that I know would piss me off. I am aware that homophobic, or racist, or xenophobic people exist, and I don’t think that authors should only be allowed to have them in their fiction as villains. But I’m just tired; tired of having to read about horrible men that I’m forced to sympathize with or excuse their behavior because they are ‘geniuses’; tired of uncritically presenting dangerous and violent ideas in fiction; tired of the unawareness of who your audience is, and alienating so many people because of callousness. Horowitz seems to really like layers in his book; there’s a lot of meta commentary in his work, not just on the genre of crime fiction, but also on the author as a person who is both responsible and part of the story. And unfortunately, to me this whole book read as one long meta on ‘problematic’ white men, and why we should just ignore their very obvious failings, and even sympathize with them because they are so good at their job. Before I go into that, let me talk about the actual plot of this book. This is a very classic, very Sherlock style murder mystery; there are many references to A Study in Scarlet, which at this point is probably the most overused and over-referenced Sherlock Holmes story. I will say that the references were relatively subtle, and the mystery was interesting enough to keep me engaged on its own level; I wanted to know who had killed Diana Cowper. I also appreciated that, like a good mystery writer, Horowitz had given us all of the clues to the case, and the misdirection came in how the characters interpreted the clues or what they considered important. I really liked the little argument between Hawthorne and Horowitz about what details are written into the book, and how mentioning or omitting the wrong thing can lead the audience into the wrong direction. The push and pull between writing something that is true and something that is compelling was very interesting, and I enjoyed the bickering between Hawthorne and Horowitz about that. Unfortunately, I have to say that I would have probably preferred this story, had Horowitz not written himself into the book. For starters, there’s a moment in the book, where he’s having a meeting with Peter Jackson and Steven Spielberg, that’s such a shark jumping moment, I had to pause the book and skim it. It made me feel such a severe case of second hand embarrassment, not to mention how much I LOATHED that Horowitz allowed Hawthorne to bully him into doing what he wanted anyway, and said nothing about it. The older I get, the more I sincerely dislike when people try to modernize Sherlock and Watson’s dynamic. The early seasons of the BBC show got away with it, because early on, Sherlock wasn’t a complete prick to Watson, and what they were dealing with was on national security threat levels. Sherlock wasn’t just some random detective, he was solving an international conspiracy, and even still, I disliked how easily manipulated and spineless Watson was in a lot of scenarios. Here, it’s even worse, because this isn’t supposed to be fiction; it’s supposed to be real life, and having Horowitz blindly decide to go chase down a lead and then getting himself in mortal peril was ludicrous! Not to mention Hawthorne BLAMING Horowitz for interrupting him during an investigation and which leads to a character’s death because Hawthorne gets distracted (????) and then again blaming Horowitz, instead of just telling him not to go anywhere near the lead suspect or just simply letting him tag along to Canterbury! The other thing I really hated, were the actual characters themselves. We will get to Horowitz, but I want to talk about Hawthorne first. Hawthorne is supposed to be the Sherlock type character; I liked that he had a chameleon type personality where he would change his character based on who he was talking to; what I didn’t like was his casual xenophobia and violent homophobia. The xenophobia was quite subtle, but once you were looking for it, it was there. He treats the immigrant, queer and black characters supremely poorly, is a lot meaner to them and snappier, while being needlessly kind to the white, straight women. I also didn’t understand why Horowitz had grown to care for/like Hawthorne; Hawthorne was a dick to Horowitz the whole time, he hijacked his life, his free time, his house, ruined what was probably the most important meeting in Horowitz’s life, he almost got him killed because he refused to talk to him, and was needlessly and purposefully secretive about his life. I also hated all the little jabs he does at the expense of Horowitz’s writing; if you hate the way he writes so much, then why the fuck do you want him to write your book? Then we have the fact that Sherlock, the most famous asexual character in the literary canon, was turned into a divorced straight guy who is a raging homophobe, for no goddamn reason! Why was it necessary to give Hawthorne a wife and child? So he can act all indignant around the queer characters? So he has a justification for pushing a 60 year old man down the stairs with handcuffs? His homophobia is never properly addressed; it doesn’t influences the plot, he doesn’t grow and change, and I downright refuse to believe that Hawthorne is a real human being and any of this happened. He is entirely Horowitz’s creation, so why would you chose to write about a white homophobe, instead of someone, anyone else? What message are you sending to your readers, queer readers who like your work and stories? That we should gloss over Hawthorne foaming at the mouth because a rich man dares to be openly gay, and calling him a pervert and implying he’s a pedophile, because why… to humanize him? Implying that he must be closeted himself, because it’s 20 fucking 19, and the stereotype that all homophobes are closeted queers still won’t fucking die. Then we have Horowitz. I’m assuming making himself kind of dense and very overprotective of his writing was intentional, but even still this character just made no sense. I like that he was proactive, but why on Earth did he agree to write with Hawthorne? Why was it necessary that this was himself, and not a character? Because if I am supposed to believe that Horowitz the character, really is Horowitz the author, then I am left with the uncomfortable realization that he is someone who is willing to excuse and gloss over blatant homophobia, and xenophobia, just because Hawthorne is good at his job. Plenty of people are good at their jobs, and they don’t go around calling gay men perverts and pedophiles, or push cuffed suspects down the stairs! Even the limp anger Horowitz has when he realizes that Hawthorne is a homophobe, is not because he actually cares about those gay friends he has; how it would make them feel knowing that he’s glorifying a man who wants them dead or in a mental hospital. No, he’s worried writing about Hawthorne might ruin his career. Then he uses this as a way to lash out at the ‘media’ who supposedly took his statement that a landlord refusing to provide a service to a gay couple on religious basis, as what it actually is: homophobic. No, death threats are never called for, but you don’t get to pretend people are just sensitive, because you exposed either your ignorance or your bigotry for the press to see. Then we have the ending. Horowitz is just petty? I mean sure, he did almost die, though I wonder how he didn’t realize until that point that the woman at the signing was related to Hawthorne. The mystery was good. Horowitz’s writing is always good. But I can’t get behind any of the messages, and I do NOT want to support a series about a homophobe and his author friend. I will not be continuing the series and I don’t think I will read anything else from Horowitz again.

goodreads

#the word is murder #the word is murder review #moni talks #book review

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peanutbutterjellyleopard · 6 years ago

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The Smarter Holmes

So we all know that Eurus is the smartest, by far, out of the three siblings. But the discourse remains about Mycroft vs. Sherlock. Obviously, it’s expressed that Mycroft is supposed to be the superior, but . . . I don’t think so.

For starters, there are overall skillsets. If it were just politics, Mycroft would take the cake (pun intended). But Sherlock is shown to have the upper hand in field work, emotions, and the fine arts. I think Sherlock takes all-around skillsets.

There’s also the fact that Mycroft calls on Sherlock’s help on multiple occasions, with Sherlock having saved his life multiple times. Now, obviously Mycroft has saved Sherlock’s life, but frankly, that’s mostly with the drugs. Yes, the criminals too, but Sherlock never specifically asks, and now he has John to help him. John is obviously less capable than either of the Holmes but is still capable of saved Sherlock. Mycroft, however, is called upon by Parliament to save them from a terror attack in TEH after he has just returned from disbanding the largest criminal connections network in the world single-handedly on behalf of the British Government, is called to stop Irene Adler in aSiB, gets rid of the worst national security threat in the show (Charles Magnessun) in HLV, is immediately after sent back into Eastern Europe, i immediately called and ‘needed’ by England (aka Mycroft) when Moriarty ‘returns’, and in the following episode, where he uncovers a loose link within the British Government’s closest inner circle (Vivian in tST). And when the Final Problem comes around, Mycroft is willing to die, but Sherlock gets both of his brothers (him and John Watson) out of there alive. Despite all these examples, the fact still stands that Mycroft is constantly saving his little brother to the best of his ability. I’d say this is a tie, but I do lean towards Sherlock on this one, just because he is called upon not just by Mycroft, but the entire British Government and Parliament, collectively.

But you all came here to see who was actually smarter, not just who was more useful. Again, I say Sherlock.

The thing is, Sherlock believes Mycroft is smarter. But if you think about it, we see the most evidence of this when Sherlock is shot and Mycroft calls him an idiot while he is trying to figure out how to fall, how to not die, etc. But the thing is, all of this is within Sherlock’s mind palace. Sherlock has thought since he was a child that his older brother was the smarter brother, so naturally, he’d be in his mind palace. Mrs. Hudson says during TLD that “he doesn’t realize how much of an idiot you [Mycroft] are!” I think that’s true. U think Sherlock thinks Mycroft is leaps and bounds smarter than he is when that’s simply not the case.

And lastly, Eurus says it. Eurus Holmes, who knows them both at their deepest levels, and is canonically smarter than either of them, says Mycroft is slower than Sherlock. Say what you want about my Queen Eurus, but I’m taking her word on this very seriously.

Look, I’m not saying Mycroft is not intelligent. He is an absolute genius, and Sherlock would not be as smart as he is without having learned from him. I think Mycroft is wiser and more sensible, as he possesses more knowledge about politics and psychology. He was even able to completely erase Eurus and Victor from Sherlock’s memories as a child. If that's not genius, I don’t know what is. He is also undeniably more mature than Sherlock.

(I do have a headcanon that basically Mycroft and Eurus don’t just have the ‘deduction’ thing but also the ‘psychologial manipulation’ thing, and Sherlock would have grown into it, but Mycroft didn’t want another Eurus so he purposely never taught it to Sherlock. But that’s a headcanon for another day.)

So yeah, I think when it comes to bare intelligence, however, Sherlock is the victor (I need to stop with these puns). But obviously, Mycroft is not stupid and comes incredibly close in intelligence, even surpassing Sherlock in many ways.

So yeah, thanks for coming to my TedTalk.

#bbc sherlock #mycroft holmes #mycroft #sherlock and mycroft #sherlock #sherlock holmes #eurus holmes #eurus #the final problem #brothers #argument #smarter

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thorne93 · 6 years ago

Text

Curious Conundrum (Part 37)

Prompt: You’re John Watson’s sister. One day you decide to visit your brother for lunch, only to meet the infamous Mr. Holmes…

Word Count: 1718

Warnings: language, flirtation, sexual innuendos (maybe? idfk), murder/crime/case related stuff, angst, jealousy…

Notes: Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong Not only did she beta, but I literally couldn’t have written half these scenes without her help. She contributed majorly, even wrote some parts of scenes. I am forever in her debt.

Also, this starts AFTER Season 2, episode 1. I don’t follow all the episodes, but it does follow the timeline and hit some major events : )

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

Sherlock awoke in another room, much like the ones he’d been on. He was lying on the table in the room, only to be woken by the little girl speaking. He was stumbling about, trying to figure out where exactly he was.

As he was trying to instruct the little girl, he asked, “Are you there yet?”

Suddenly, you heard his voice. You woke up leaning against a brick wall. You took in a large gasp of air, feeling all over your body for a bullet wound, stunned and relieved when you found none.

“I’m here!” you answered, wondering where you were. You started to feel around in the darkness, feeling...stone? Something rough. You were outside, you could hear nature - trees, wind, water…

“Y/N! Oh thank God you’re alive,” he said with heavy relief. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up. Where are you?”

“I think I’m in another cell. I just spoke to the little girl on the plane. We've been out for hours.”

“Hours? Jesus… Wait, she’s still in the air?” you questioned. Something didn’t make sense. The ground was getting closer to her earlier, and now she was suddenly somehow in the air?

“Yes, the plane will keep flying until it runs out of fuel,” he informed.

“Yes, Sherlock I deduced that much on my own…” You rolled your eyes. Honestly sometimes he thought you were some ordinary person.

“Is Mycroft or John with you?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so. John? John! Mycroft? Mycroft?” you called continuously but heard nothing but your own voice back. “No. They aren’t here.”

After a second of quiet, Sherlock finally asked, “Are you alright?”

“I’m as alright as I can be. I’m alive, you’re alive, that’s what matters,” you answered wryly.

“Okay, keep exploring. Tell me anything you can about where you are,” he demanded.

“Alright. The walls are rough, like stone, not brick. I’m standing on--”

But you stopped, realization finally hitting you.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Sherlock called in panic. “What is it? What do you see?”

“Water, Sherlock. I’m in about two feet of water. I can’t see beneath it but--” You tried to walk, but as soon as you did, your ankle caught. “My ankle is chained. It’s not flat. Hang on.” You reached down and picked up the odd thing you’d been stepping on. When your hands came out of the water and your eyes adjusted to the dim light, you gasped. “There are bones in here with me, Sherlock.”

“Bones? What kind of bones?”

“Small.”

After a second, he whispered, “Redbeard,” in your ear, then after that it was radio silence.

You wanted to panic, it felt like you should be panicking, but this once, your rational mind overcame fear. You took a deep breath, just hoping you would hear from Sherlock, and hoping your brother and Mycroft were okay. You tried pulling on the chain once more to see if it would come loose, but it was futile. All the tugging did was cut into your flesh.

“Man, I really hate his sister,” you quietly said to no one in particular. “She’s definitely not invited to the wedding.”

“Nearly home,” you suddenly heard.

“Sherlock? Hey, I’m in a well. I should’ve figured that out with the water and stone but it’s so damned dark.”

“Why would there be a well in Sherrinford?” he wondered.

“I don’t know… fresh water?” you tried.

“Shut up,” he ordered and you rolled your eyes. However infuriating, you knew he must need to concentrate to find you, the boys, and the plane.

Several minutes went by while Sherlock spoke to someone you couldn’t hear, so you waited and waited until suddenly water started to pour in on top of you in the well. It wasn’t rain either.

“Sherlock?”

He didn’t respond.

“Sherlock?” you tried again, keeping the urgency out of your voice.

Nothing.

“Sherlock, please, I know you’re trying to focus but the well is filling up.”

“Try hard not to drown, as long as you can,” he ordered.

“Oh, thanks for the tip,” you shouted back. God, what an ass. But your frustration quickly dissipated when you realized just how fast the water was rising. What was at tops of your legs was now at your waist. “Sherlock, hurry!”

Sherlock tried talking again, he wasn’t talking to you but you tried to focus on his voice to keep you calm. Eventually, the bones were floating all around you and you eyed them curiously. These bones weren’t an animals as you had suspected. They were longer than that and then --

“Uh, Sherlock. The bones in here with me--”

“Yes, they’re dog’s bones. Redbeard,” he said with an agitated voice.

“They’re not dog’s bones, Sherlock,” you stated with horror lacing your voice as you saw the skull floating by.

More chatting in your ear, but the water continued to fill up the well around you, You tried to keep your head up and back away from the rising water.

“Need your help. I’m trying to solve a puzzle,” he said and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or his other company.

“The wrong dates. She used the wrong dates on the gravestones as the key to the cipher.and the cipher was the song,” he muttered.

At first you weren’t sure what the hell he was talking about, but this was Sherlock. He’d never let anything happen to you, so you left him be. Shouting at him, begging for him to work faster, or wondering what he was doing wouldn’t have helped.

But soon the water was nearly too high, at your neck and rising quickly. You braced yourself for having to possibly wade against the chains or hold your breath however long you could.

The water started to get on the earpiece and you could barely make out what Sherlock was saying. Accepting your fate seemed imminent, so you began saying your quiet goodbyes again. They were out loud at first, but then the water came up past your mouth and nose, so you held your breath, praying this would at least be painless.

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

You weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You knew you felt a hand, a body, gripping yours and then you were warmer. Eventually, your full senses came back and you realized you were sitting in an ambulance, a warm blanket over you.

“Hey, there you are,” John said as he walked up, noticing you were more aware of your surroundings.

“Where are we?” you asked uneasily as you looked into the darkness. It appeared to be a country cottage that had burned.

“Musgrave. Sherlock grew up here. “

“But… why are we here?”

John waited a moment, then said, “I’m going to let him explain that to you.” With that, he glanced up and Sherlock was making his way towards you.

John patted your leg and stood, giving you two privacy. Sherlock sat next to you then.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” you answered.

“That's fair.”

Your eyes searched the area of emergency vehicles and you saw that Eurus was loaded up in a van.

“There’ taking her back to Sherrinford, aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so. I told her I’d take her home.”

“That’s not possible for someone like her.”

“I know but I… feel so bad.”

You shook your head. “What happened here?”

Sherlock looked up, gazing at the charred home as he sighed and answered. “Long ago, when I was a child, we played here. Lived here. I had a friend, Victor who… well… we played pirates. I called him Redbeard, and I was YYellowbeard. Eurus… her mind was already so complicated, so complex that she felt as though she wasn’t included. I suppose the adolescent psychopathy drove her to a jealous fit of rage and she… killed my best friend, because she felt she was alone.”

“That’s...the most awful thing I’ve ever heard,” you confessed.

“Yes…It is.”

Lestrade approached then and said that Mycroft was found alive and safe in Eurus old cell. Sherlock asked that he look after Mycroft.

“So… where do we go from here?” Sherlock asked.

“Where do you want to go?”

“For starters, I think my parents should know Eurus is alive,” he stated.

“Are you sure?”

“No matter what she’s done, or what she is, she is their daughter. They have a right to know.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you agreed.

“So I suppose this is it, then.”

“This is what?” you inquired.

“Well... you said you didn’t want me to say those words to you again, and after everything that’s happened I would assume you--”

You shook your head and closed your eyes. “I wasn't breaking up with you, you idiot. You just can’t say that to me anymore.”

After a moment he nodded. “Even after what I said to Molly? Can you ever forgive me for what I did? What I said? I should've listened to you. Eurus is dangerous, but my huge ego got in the way.”

You smiled. “At least you’re a big enough man to admit that. You’ve come a long way.”

“I’ve still got a very long way to go… a journey that I hope… you’ll accompany me on?” he asked hesitantly, scared for your answer.

You let out a sigh. “Sherlock, I’m not… mad about what you said to Molly. I was only hurt. No matter what happens between you and I, the fact that you chose Molly to confide in when you staged your suicide and not me will always be a thorn in my side. Irene too. Women that matter a lot to you, I worry that one day you won’t think I measure up.”

He turned to you and placed his fingers under your chin and lifted your face so that you were looking into his eyes. He was never this tender or sweet in public.

“Y/N Watson, how many times must I tell you that you are, always have been, and always will be enough?” he questioned with soft wonder and concern.

A tiny smile touched the corners of your mouth.

“And how many times do I have to tell you, that I’ll always say yes to you?”

“I guess we’ll just have to keep doing it,” he noted before he kissed you gently.

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

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#curious conundrum #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock fic #sherlock holmes #john watson

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sagamemes · 7 years ago

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podiots sentence starters, part i. contains 143 lines of dialogue collected from episodes one through three of the vidiots’ fortnightly podcast podiots. i’ve edited some lines to fit roleplay better, and randomised the order. contains two mentions of violence against nazis---last two sentences on the list, if don’t want to see it---feel free to change those into your muse’s in-universe equivalents, as well as edit anything else needed to fit your muse’s mouth or life better.

❝ after my dad showed me that, i never trusted him again. ❞

❝ that’s actually an explanation for a lot of ghost sightings, carbon monoxide poisoning. there are symptoms that cause like hallucinations and feelings of dread and fear. ❞

❝ i would be called chocolate thunder, and i’d wear a cape. ❞

❝ would you just get over it? i was a kid! ❞

❝ it was just this weird rag doll girl who happened to be in a bikini just falling, forever. ❞

❝ is there ever not a sexual element to it?! ❞

❝ well, you’ve clearly never met a salaried genie who’s on a retainer. ❞

❝ you’ve had your money taken. ❞

❝ i just want people to pay attention, for fuck’s sake. ❞

❝ you guys are really into your obscure shit. ❞

❝ it’s a bit like class tourism, isn’t it? ❞

❝ that’s what i was saying, this is---this is probably not legal. ❞

❝ you asked to bring weird things. ❞

❝ boy, do i hate facebook! ❞

❝ to be fair, her balloon animals are quite impressive. ❞

❝ jesus, why aren’t you on neopets yet? ❞

❝ you can’t always afford the homemade stuff. and typically, there’s less of it. and sometimes it’s not very good. and you’re paying a premium! ❞

❝ i’m so fucking over [thing]. to be fair, i ruined it for myself. ❞

❝ he’s just some time traveller, fucking with them with a fucking mp3 player. ❞

❝ what the fuck is a ‘num noms’? ❞

❝ so it’s a miracle that [name] didn’t asphyxiate himself as a child, and it’s amazing that i didn’t have some kind of cardiac issue almost immediately in my late teens. what do you bring to the table here? ❞

❝ i’m a big fan of weird gameboy stuff. ❞

❝ i’m like that rabbit from alice in wonderland. tiny, and late, and white. ❞

❝ it’ll make you terrified of ever going to a hotel again. ❞

❝ i like watching it but it’s not teaching me anything. ❞

❝ no, i don’t think there was any bubbles in it. ❞

❝ what do your mums think about what you’re doing? ❞

❝ gho-mophobic. that was a really difficult pun. ❞

❝ should we just start it? should we just go without him? ❞

❝ not that i could out-style you in any capacity. ❞

❝ i shouldn’t have asked for a horse. ❞

❝ our problem was nobody would take us seriously. ❞

❝ i’ve spent months trying to explain the job to her. my old job, she kind of got that, but now... ❞

❝ about halfway into the first [food] i went ‘oh... this is a lot of food’.---/i ate it all/, and then i felt sick for the rest of the sunday. ❞

❝ you were skirting around it, but if you ask me, directly, that’s what i’m going to say. ❞

❝ say a ghost laid a ghost poo on the floor, does it just stay there forever? ❞

❝ do you have an answer to this? because i’ve never given /any/ thought... ❞

❝ i’ve heard somewhere you can do that now. ❞

❝ my mum thinks you’re very funny, [name]. ❞

❝ no, that was all you. every penny, all you. ❞

❝ not the reason i was there, but it was a nice benefit. ❞

❝ stop. i mean---don’t stop. but /stop/. ❞

❝ [name] is the kind of man who’s so rich, he thinks a can of beans costs two thousand dollars. ❞

❝ just before going/coming in, my taxi driver said ‘oh, be careful, people get stabbed around here, bye!’ ❞

❝ be aware that this is /not/ a donation to a charitable cause. ❞

❝ i just do shots of olive oil. ❞

❝ no wonder he’s so fucking weird. ❞

❝ get a big old truck, for all that junk inside your trunk. ❞

❝ you’re not supposed to put cotton swabs in there, let alone a lit flame. ❞

❝ fuck you... [name]. i’m gonna... suck. your dick. ❞

❝ i’ve admittedly grown more bold with my culinary disgusts. ❞

❝ my chocolate shotgun, it’s a legally non-threatening weapon. ❞

❝ you did look very smart. very respectable. ❞

❝ everyone’s pulled the legs off a daddy longlegs, but that’s just like level one, that’s where you leave it. ❞

❝ see, that just sounds like batman. ❞

❝ i forgot that was the origin of this. ❞

❝ i feel like there’s something in the air. ❞

❝ there’s cosplaying and dressing up, and then there’s furries. ❞

❝ obviously, he--i mean i say obviously, like it’s /logical/, but... ❞

❝ if they did that, it’d be a lot more convenient for me. sometimes, it’s not the end of the world, is all i’m saying. ❞

❝ i am a freak. i have hands and feet, and if you’d saw me, you’d be petrified. ❞

❝ they have a meal deal which is like [£40/€45/$55]. and you get like a 25" square pizza, like seven garlic breads, and several ice creams. i could never make a dent in that, but the idea of it sounds very sexy. ❞

❝ well, he’ll be back soon! ❞

❝ you know, like a hammer throw---if i tied a string around it, i think i could throw a ps2 pretty far. properly like, swing it around, lean against it, do a spin. ❞

❝ day to day... i don’t eat breakfast. ❞

❝ we’re trying to be on everything, that’s our goal. ❞

❝ my finishing move would be called the ‘fuck you.’ ❞

❝ but i could never do that, i've got stuff to do! ❞

❝ i like dad rock. ❞

❝ if you’re having a party, i’m going to tell you what to do. ❞

❝ she looks far more normal than i expected. ❞

❝ i asked metaphorically, not physically. ❞

❝ i asked for some ___. we got about fifty. we only needed five. ❞

❝ there’s still time to save this american icon. ❞

❝ there were two [job title]s in there, who were like, super young and sexy men with really nice hair. ❞

❝ it’s read like it’s a documentary, not like ‘haha, and then he died!’ ❞

❝ i don’t want my lampshade looking at me! ❞

❝ give him something to do, he’ll be quiet, [name] and i can go to the shops and talk about where our marriage went wrong. ❞

❝ you don’t need to look at the front. usually, you’re behind ____. if he’s got a nice arse, that’s all that matters. ❞

❝ what’s your favourite cereal? ❞

❝ i’m just saying---sometimes local shops are shit. ❞

❝ i don’t think if you know this, [name]---i think you do, because you told me. ❞

❝ you take kids to a mcdonald’s, they’ll play at mcdonald’s. ❞

❝ you exist and then you don’t. ❞

❝ [name] is going through some financial issues, by which i mean, it’s fucked. ❞

❝ that’s a bit morbid. ❞

❝ i was thinking about ____ earlier. yeah, it crosses my mind at least like once an hour. ❞

❝ i had a great day, we went outside for lunch, i got gelato, it was great! ❞

❝ the tabloids loved the story. ❞

❝ you have to be really confused. ❞

❝ i really wanted to include h. h. holmes in this list because he’s my favourite murderer. ❞

❝ we’re not journalists, we’re just idiots on the internet. ❞

❝ it’s not the kind of name you gloss over. ❞

❝ ‘how did it get there?’ this is a /talking mongoose/ and you’re wondering how it got there? ❞

❝ is he a cat?! ❞

❝ i bought a replacement [name]. ❞

❝ i grew up in a village that didn’t even have a supermarket. ❞

❝ he was just---he was borderline abusive in my own house. ❞

❝ that’s gonna take you forever! ❞

❝ okay, well, i’m uncomfortable, what are we doing? ❞

❝ we’re not like... ‘i think i can make a joke about fighting your mother while playing a game’. we don’t know that well. ❞

❝ he’s like a genie, we only get one wish per day. ❞

❝ you take a drink and then you’re like ‘i don’t wanna drink too loud’ so you end up taking a tiny amount but then you don’t want to swallow too loud so you sort of inhale it a little bit and you’re like ‘i can’t cough, i can’t cough’... ❞

❝ now, [name] just heard that i wanted the attention and instantly decided he needed it instead. ❞

❝ we’re in dire need of new shelves. that money is going straight to shelves. ❞

❝ i never played ____. i kinda missed that train. ❞

❝ i could do the face for free. ❞

❝ it’s immediately feeling very warm in here. ❞

❝ presumably, this guy owns a lot of toys, so num noms is a thing. ❞

❝ i think that’s just a [region/state] thing. ❞

❝ let’s play a game called ‘how many people did they murder?’ ❞

❝ who is getting out of this room alive? ❞

❝ it’s like that song about the grandfather clock. ‘and it stopped, short, never to go again, when the ooold maaan died’. ❞

❝ [in the tune of new york] you’ll get punched in yoouur face. ❞

❝ don’t---don’t entertain his odd nonsense! ❞

❝ i don’t like people! i want my own space! ❞

❝ that’s something i always found really fascinating, like just wanting the username ‘batman’. how early would you have to be just to be ‘batman’? ❞

❝ you can’t complain about something disappearing if you’ve not been using it. ❞

❝ oh yeah, i always go to the dentist and get my brows done. ❞

❝ i loved [old place], and [this place] is also very lovely, it’s just a lot more expensive. ❞

❝ it’s a shame. just a couple of months longer and you would’ve had some employee rights. ❞

❝ there is a very good balloon elmo in this picture. ❞

❝ so, with all of this, what do you think the result is of this kind of upbringing and toxic relationship with your mother? ❞

❝ yeah, think about that. maybe we don’t like you. ❞

❝ they're’s so comfortable, i could almost fall asleep. ❞

❝ could you take this bottle of water, pour it in the sink, fill it again, and bring back to me? ❞

❝ it’s a sex number, i like it. ❞

❝ so what did the police do?---return him to [person]. ❞

❝ i wish /my/ mum thought i was funny. ❞

❝ okay, that’s gonna be interesting, having someone with a blade on my throat. ❞

❝ they can fire me if they want! they can fire me! ❞

❝ i don’t know why i said ‘basically’ like i’m about to explain how the internet works. ❞

❝ before, i had---there’s a shame element, isn’t it? you don’t want to do it because you’re afraid of judgement. ❞

❝ at one point, he had me squatting barefoot in my own bath. ❞

❝ eventually, we’re just gonna have to buy a storage locker for all this stuff. ❞

❝ i’ve got quite a sizeable list, i won’t talk about all of them. ❞

❝ how did we become the internet goblins we are today? ❞

❝ are you allergic to a.i.? ❞

❝ at least this is something you’re self-aware. if it was something other people had picked up on... ❞

❝ we have yellow and black, kind of a barry b. benson inspired look. ❞

❝ i was very disappointed at like eight when i found out they weren’t called ‘the food fighters’. ❞

❝ oh yeah, kicking hitler and shooting nazis is a lot of fun. ❞

❝ i’d love to throw a bop it extreme at hitler’s face, is what i’m saying, and i could do it from a long distance away. ❞

#rp meme #sentence meme #rp sentence starters #rp sentence meme #starter meme #category: ask #category: sentences #podiots #* meme.#* sentences.

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sunken-standard · 7 years ago

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Halloween Sentence Meme Fill

From this list, requested by @anitaww-blog: And for the Halloween starters: “This isn’t one of those Santa Clause things, is it? I don’t want to know what kinds of presents he would bring.” Thank you.

"Oh dear God," were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth as he stepped into Molly's flat. He hadn't even been in Italy for a week and it looked like Molly had moved out and sublet her flat to a combination party supply/ New Age shop. Bats and antique glass bottles filled with coloured liquids and fake cobwebs and rustic brooms and—were those dried bunches of herbs? When did she acquire a complete articulated skeleton? He'd not seen that before, though why she felt the need to put a witch's hat on it was beyond him.

"Oh, you're back!" she said, popping up from behind the breakfast bar like some deranged shop girl.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked, wondering if he had, in fact, actually stepped through a vortex in spacetime and ended up in a different universe.

"It's called a dress," she said, moving to the middle of the kitchen floor and holding out the side of the gauzy black skirt while her other arm extended to nowhere, the fringed shawl (also black) she wore looking vaguely like bat wings as she did an odd little twirl, bowing her back so her hair hung past her bum. He tried not to stare at where the very low v-neck of the dress gapped and he could see the lace of her bra (even that was black) or at how the high-heeled side-button Victorian boots made her deceptively long legs seem even longer.

Down boy, he thought, blurting the first not-creepy thing that came to mind. "You look like you rode a bicycle through a clothesline in Camden Market."

She gave him a look that was the physical equivalent of a wtf? and yes, fine, it made more sense in his head because he'd pictured it like an old film, some kind of out-of-control bicycle chase complete with rollicking piano score and horrified Goth onlookers. In his defence, he'd only had a nap on the plane and before that he hadn't slept in days.

"Why are you dressed like that?" he recovered.

"It's the Great Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes!" she grinned.

"Wh—pumpkin?"

"It's from a cartoon. The Great Pumpkin visits all the good boys and girls on Halloween night and—"

"This isn’t one of those Father Christmas things, is it? I don’t want to know what kinds of presents he would bring. Probably something naff and covered in purple glitter. And themed. Halloween," he scoffed. "How very American."

"It was ours first, I'm taking it back. Besides, Halloween is the one month a year I can dress like Stevie Nicks every day and not feel silly. Well, not as silly as I normally would."

"Who?"

She spun again and looked at him expectantly; he wondered if she'd stopped by Baker Street recently for one of Mrs. Hudson's soothers.

"Nevermind. How was the case?"

"Exhausting, ultimately disappointing, but it's one less favour I owe Mycroft," he said, finally slipping out of his coat.

"Mm. Better luck next time, I suppose. Are you hungry? The ladyfingers should be cool by now."

He looked at the tray on the worktop and yes, exactly what he expected, complete with almonds for the finger nails.

"Oh how novel."

"I've got mince mice and mummy breadsticks in the oven, if you can wait about," she glanced at the clock, "half an hour?"

"Sounds delicious," he said flatly. He was hungry, though. And tired. "I'm going to have a lie-down until then."

She waved him off and he trudged up the stairs, wondering how they'd ended up an old married couple without so much as ever having kissed; mystery for the ages, he supposed.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he got to the bedroom; gone was the paisley-print duvet and the eight thousand coordinating throw pillows. The bed was made up in a deep red velvet with black embroidered trim and draped in some kind of sheer black fabric somehow attached to the ceiling and wrapped around the bedposts.

Where had she been storing all this? he thought. It obviously wasn't new. He shrugged it off and stripped on his way to the wardrobe, only to find that the plain cotton pyjamas in his drawer had been replaced by black satin. That was going a bit far, but whatever, he didn't care, he just wanted to sleep.

He woke up rather suddenly to a child standing over him with a knife; he rolled on reflex and the knife plunged into the pillow, sending feathers flying.

"You hesitated, Eurus. Next time only savour the moment after you've successfully stabbed someone."

"Yes, Father," she said glumly. "Mother says breakfast is ready."

"Mm. Go untie your brother and make sure he doesn't wash his hands. Wiggins!"

"You rang?" He appeared from the shadows, looming over the bed.

"Do clean this up. Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?"

"Inna basement, inn't she?"

"Mm. It's Thursday, I suppose she's summoning Mrs. Turner for tea again. Honestly, I wish she'd just content herself with demons, ectoplasm is so hard to get out of the carpet," he muttered, turning this way and that in the mirror, deciding if his moustache needed to be trimmed. Wiggins held out his dressing gown, but Sherlock opted for the pinstripe jacket instead; no time for lounging this morning.

He went downstairs to the dining room, the table already laid for breakfast. Eurus and Mycroft came running in, Mycroft covered in dirt. Soil from the western corner of the garden, by the look of it. Eurus did so love the family plot; he smiled fondly as he wondered who she'd dug up to replace with Mycroft this time.

Molly came floating in, resplendent as always in her hobble skirt and blood red lipstick.

"Mycroft," she scolded. "what have we said about grenades at the table?"

"Always pull the pin out first," he repeated glumly.

"That's right," she smiled, setting down a thick slice of chocolate cake in front of him. She rounded the table to Sherlock's place and they watched proudly as their son pulled the pin and handed the grenade to his sister. Eurus scowled at him happily before digging into her own breakfast of frogs' legs and balut one-handed.

"Wretched morning, isn't it my darling?" Molly said, laying a hand on the back of his neck, brushing her fingers through the ends of his curls.

"Absolutely dreadful, cara mia," he said, taking her other hand and kissing his way up her arm.

"Sherlock," she sighed happily.

"Sherlock," she said rather less happily. His eyes flew open and he was momentarily disoriented; the material under his mouth was still black crepe, but why was he—

He sat up, blinking awake. "What?" he asked, trying to sound more coherent than he felt.

"I said, it's time for dinner, if you're hungry. Which, apparently you are, since you were saying something in Italian and gnawing on my arm just now. Had I known you were turning cannibal I wouldn't have bothered with the shopping this week, I would’ve just brought something home from work," she tittered, awkwardly extracting her arm from his grasp.

"So you didn't redecorate your bedroom to look like something from a vampire film?"

"Noo..." she said, looking over her shoulder at him on her way to the kitchen. "You started telling me about the Pope giving you a tour of the secret ossuary under St. Peter's and then you just passed out on the sofa."

"So you didn't make mince mice on a stick or mummy bread?"

"No? I made a mummy's head," she said, directing his attention to the platter on the breakfast bar. It was both creative and rather gruesome.

"Would you like to have dinner sometime?" he asked impulsively, their dream-children still fresh in his mind. Every journey begins with a single step.

"Um, we're about to?" she said, scrutinizing him. "You didn't forget to mention a head injury, did you?"

Bollocks, he thought. So much for that. "It's only a slight concussion, I've had worse from walking to a doorframe," he lied. Smooth, Holmes.

She huffed a breath and rolled her eyes.

There was always next time, he supposed.

(The mummy head is real. I know what I'll be making for dinner tomorrow night...)

#anitaww-blog #halloween sentence meme #sherlolly #sunken's secret stash

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hikari-kaitou · 7 years ago

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Shit DGS Sherlock does, Chapter 1

The stuff in this installment is just miscellaneous bits you get by investigating random stuff, so no need to worry about spoilers. Cut for length. This dummy does a lot of shit XD

I: Ah, Naruhodo-kun! Perfect timing!

I just finished frying the bacon and was about to call you down!

R: Yeah, good morning, Iris-chan. It smells great again today.

So, listen to this: something surprising happened this morning…

Sh: Shh! Silence!

...How about some light mental calisthenics before breakfast, folks?

R: H… Holmes-san!

Sh: Hohoh… I see. Oh my, so that’s how it is.

I believe… I see it now. The truth that my deductions have whispered to me.

R: Wh-what do you mean…?

Sh: You… voila! Experienced something surprising this morning!

...How was that, Mr. Naruhodo?

R: Ah….

Sh: Oh, come now. It was simple. I shouldn’t even need to explain.

For starters, your hair is an absolute mess this morning, sticking out at all angles.

Secondly, you seem to have forgotten to fasten the 3rd button on your jacket.

From those two things… I can conclude that something happened to startle you this morning.

R: …..Um, can I say something?

Sh: Oh, by all means! What is it, Mr. Naruhodo?

R: My hair is just like it always is. It’s been like this ever since I met you…

Sh: Hmm? Has it?

R: And… this button was popped off last night

...by you.

I: What?! Holmesy did that?!

Sh: …….

Ah, now I remember. It happened after dinner, didn’t it.

I took up my famous instrument like always, and was enjoying playing a solo in its warbling voice.

That’s when… this stinking famous instrument suddenly snapped its 3rd string.

I was so furious that without even thinking about it, I just reached out and plucked off the button in front of me.

R: ...Can I please have my button back? I can’t close my jacket anymore.

Sh: What, you expect me to know where it is? Isn’t it lying over there somewhere?

R: (...harsh.)

*********

Examine [Iris’s shelf]

R: (There are a bunch of different kinds of medicine bottles arranged on this cute looking white shelf.)

I: Ah! There are some dangerous chemicals in there, so don’t go tasting them no matter how hungry you are!

R: ...Obviously I wasn’t going to taste them. I’m not a child.

I: I know, but Holmesy gulped down a whole bottle of one of my alkaloids not that long ago!

R: ...What?

I: He said he was hungry.

R: ...Anyway, I guess I better be careful too.

***********

Examine fireplace

…Man, fireplaces are just the best.

Watching the flames dance is so soothing.

I: Cleaning the chimney is a major pain, though.

R: I know… You get covered in soot right away.

I: Come to think of it, one time last year, Holmesy said he was gonna clean it himself,

But he ended up getting stuck in the chimney and making a big commotion.

R: Holmes-san is pretty tall and skinny, but I guess even he’d get stuck in there, huh…

I: Ever since then, he’s started groaning every time he dozes off near the fireplace.

#dgs sherlock holmes #dgs 2 #naruhodo ryuunosuke #ryuunosuke naruhodou #Iris Watson #Sherlock you big dumb ilu #translation

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notafeeling · 8 years ago

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Baker’s Four - part three

Last Part | Masterpost | Next Part

A/N I’m not too happy with this chapter but I figured it was better for me to stop scrutinising it and start writing/editing it, and here it is!

Pairing: poly (Prince/Morality/Logic), eventually all of them

Genre: VERY ANGSTY NEAR THE END, fluff, au, baking au, human au

Word Count: 3 200 (are you proud)

Warnings: transphobia, implied/referenced abuse, swearing, tad bit of violence (like, one punch)... i think i got everything??

Summary:

Logan could tell it won’t be a good day but surprisingly, it is. If you don’t count seeing Ann and Missy fight, the mysterious buyer, slaving over an oven, the other fight, having to call the authorities and oh, apparently today wasn’t at all good.

The first few weeks of having Ann in the bakery passed without a hitch, for the most part. Logan, ever cautious, had been keeping an eye on their newest employee despite this. The things one could find out from simple observations were… unsurprising; to him, at least.

For starters, there was the way Ann always came early and left late, and never once in those long hours did he cease working. The only time he did was if Patton ordered him to take a break or if his brother, Missy, called and needed something. Logan was quite pleased with this, as it was nice to finally have another diligent worker amongst them. Don’t get him wrong, Roman worked his ass off to keep this bakery running, same goes for Patton, but they enjoyed goofing off far too much.

The next thing Logic noticed was how Ann did everything he could to get out of serving. That was one of the only things he could be faulted on. Although, Logan supposed, there must be a good reason for it, especially considering his nickname. Whenever Roman gave him the customer shift, Anxiety argued non-stop, insisting Patton or Logan were a better choice for it. Roman originally wouldn’t budge, so Ann, pale and shaky, admitted defeated before slinking off behind the counter. Luckily, Patton always took pity on him and Prince eventually stopped trying to get Ann to serve altogether.

And finally, there was Missy in general. The boy often stopped by, prompting Anxiety to disappear around the back to get their spare food and hand it to him. That amount of sweets constantly surely couldn’t be healthy. Not to mention all the times over the weekends where he would come in and set his homework down, and go at it for hours. Anxiety would try to help him as best as he could, which was… odd to see him filling in the role of a parent. As Missy was still in high school, they must have someone besides Anxiety at home that would help with homework and the likes.

But then again, he thought, there was that time Morality had driven Ann home and came back distracted, and Logan knew him well enough to know that meant he was worried. After that, Pat was even more protective over their youngest worker. Curiouser and curiouser.

Logan decided that as long as the brothers were okay and Ann’s work ethic wasn’t affected by this, then he shouldn’t pry into it too much. That didn’t mean he’d stop his observations though.

Sighing, he figured he’d been reading too much Sherlock Holmes recently. He needed to get ready for work now.

He reached for his glasses on the bedside table and started going about his morning routine. Logic made a coffee for both him and Patton, who had crashed next to him the night before. Roman had already left, judging from the untidy mess in Logan’s bathroom. This was the last time he offered to be the designated driver and let them sleep at his place. Prince had the most luxurious apartment of the three, with a bed actually big enough for all of them. It was just common sense.

Back to the task at hand, he re-entered his bedroom to gently wake Morality, telling him that breakfast was on the bench, before he left. He had work to do today.

While Roman would arrive at the bakery before him, it was agreed that actually opening it up would be left to Logan. It didn’t help that Prince seemed to be particularly stressed that morning, judging by the chaos throughout Logan’s apartment. This meant that someone must have placed a particularly large order. It wasn’t going to be a good day.

Pulling up in front of Baker’s Dozen, he saw Ann talking to Missy outside. Ann, usually passive, was scowling at Missy, of all people. Not wanting to intrude, he waited by his car, but their shouting drifted towards him in bits and pieces.

“You don’t – job – we’re fine!”

“Parents – money – let me –“

“No – they’re not –“

“Don’t – treat – child – what they’re like!”

“Listen – your brother –“

“You can’t – me – goodbye.”

And with that, Missy turned and stormed off. Ann remained standing there, clenching his fists. As Logan got closer, he could see the boy shaking.

“Anxiety, what happened?” he tried to keep his voice calm, but it was well known that he wasn’t… the best at comforting people, and seeing someone on the verge of tears put him off his game a bit.

Ann jumped and looked up from the ground. He wiped his eyes, swallowed, then smiled. “Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he lied with a shaky voice.

Logic frowned. “Something quite clearly happened. How about we bring this inside and you can tell me about it? If something is upsetting you, then it is in the best interests of everyone to attend to this problem, otherwise it may affect your work ethic. Of course, if you don’t feel comfortable with it, I could always call Patton and leave you two to talk.” He unlocked the door and swung it open, gesturing for Anxiety to go first.

Roman poked his head out from the kitchen when he heard the two enter. “You will not believe what this person expects us to make in 12 hours! I tried telling him that there was no way we could pull it off, but he insisted. His child’s birthday or something. Must be pretty spoiled and, dare I say, the richest kid alive.” Prince laughed a little, adjusting his apron and disappearing behind the door again.

Logan let Anxiety slink off to the kitchen, obviously avoiding their conversation. Fair enough. As long as he and Roman were finally getting along. It had taken almost the full first week for Princey to decide that Ann was alright, and a week after that for both of them to relax around each other. Now they constantly argued. Despite Logan thinking it’d be better for them to act more professionally, he was glad Ann was comfortable around each of their group. Just not comfortable enough to open up, apparently.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the ringing of the bell.

“Hey, Lo!” Morality waved, as if he didn’t see him this morning. “Why is this place still so dark? I thought you would’ve opened up shop by now.”

Logan smiled, allowing Patton to kiss him on the cheek. “Well, something came up. Ann assures me that it’s fine, but I’d like you to talk to him sometime soon. He seems to trust you most out of all of us. It’s understandable, I suppose, considering you were the one to induct him into this job.”

Morality only hummed before slipping off to the kitchens, turning on the lights as he went. Logic watched him go. Once he was out of sight, Logan turned back to the door and flipped the sign to open. Time to start the day.

From there, the hours which usually whirled by in a series of orders and calculations, dragged on as he slaved in the kitchen. He’d do anything to get out of here on this particular day, with Roman shouting orders back at them as the other three tried desperately to keep up with the demands of customers and the other order placed this morning. Unfortunately for him, it just wasn’t going to happen.

Instead, he spent his time listening to Morality’s jokes and trying to get something out of Ann, who had been silent ever since their earlier talk. The sullen boy somehow found more and more jobs for himself to accomplish whenever Logan tried to get close, making the logical one extremely frustrated. He knew he promised himself he wouldn’t pry as long as Ann was working fine, but the thing was, the kid was pushing himself. Sooner or later, he’d crash.

“Logan, can you come over here for a sec?” Patton called.

“Sure thi-“ Logan swivelled around, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. There was a splat as he was hit hard with an unidentifiable object and then- he could only see white. “Patton, what is this –“

“Sugar for my sugar!”

Logic, caught off guard, actually laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he sighed, wiping the sugar from his face. He went over to the taps and carefully washed his glasses – if he scraped off the particles, then it could scratch the lens. “Also, don’t waste the ingredients!” Despite how hard he tried to sound scolding, it wasn’t working with that damn smile on his face.

He spotted Ann biting his lip, looking like he wanted to say something. Maybe now they’d find out what the commotion this morning was about…

“So, uh, are you two dating?”

He could hear Patton choking on the cookie he was eating behind him. Good.

“’Two’ is a bit of an understatement, but yes, Morality and I are dating.” Logan could now hear his boyfriend laughing. Maybe he should offer Pat another cookie…

Anxiety considered this. “I suppose that does explain a few things, but, if I’m honest, I thought Patton and Roman were dating. I’m not very good at noticing things... and I don’t understand why you said two was an understatement- oh.”

Ah, realisation. Logan turned back to his dedicated bench and continued working. There was so much to do and so little time, he couldn’t waste a second worrying over how Ann saw them now. A tiny part of his mind, however, was uncomfortably aware of the way Anxiety was staring at them. He could feel it, and it was putting him off.

“Ann, if you’re uncomfortable working with us now that you’ve discovered the nature of Roman, Patton and I’s relationship, feel free to leave at any moment.” Logan didn’t care that Morality would probably reprimand him for being so brash. They had spent so long hiding it from Ann and now that he’d let it slip, he’d rather take the blame than let his partners get hurt.

“No, it’s not that!” Anxiety assured hastily. “I just realised that you barely look at the recipe when cooking and a lot of the times, don’t even follow the method. How do you do that? Like, I know that for some of them you’ve baked thousands of times but I still constantly need to check the recipe because I’m always unsure on the exact amount of ingredients I need. I’m not even that forgetful, I just…”

“You may have trouble with object permanence.” Seeing the other’s blank stare, Logan happily explained. “Object permanence is basically the ability to recognise that an object – or in your case, a measurement – is still there even though you can’t see it. It’s quite a fascinating study, usually based around infants.”

“Great. So I’m a child, now,” Anxiety grumbled.

“Both you and children whine, so I can see the resemblance.”

“And I to think I thought Morality was the only one who makes ridiculously bad jokes.”

“Hey!” Patton called. “My jokes are egg-cellent, thank you very much.” They didn’t have to turn around to know that he was holding an egg. “And I know they crack the both of you up.”

Suddenly, Logan’s hair was full of runny egg yolk. He didn’t bother to face him to tell him off, instead choosing to sigh and speak to the wall. “Patton, I swear to god, one more joke from you and I’m sending you out there and going to make you explain to Roman why you’re banned from helping today- what on earth are you doing?!”

He had turned around, as Patton was being suspiciously quiet, to see Anxiety holding open one of the lower kitchen cupboards just as Morality finished climbing in.

“Well, you didn’t want me out there, so I figured I’d go back to my roots.” Before Logan could ask what he meant, Patton gestured to all the pans around him.

Logic rolled his eyes. “Get out of there.”

“Alright,” Morality shrugged and climbed out. “Although you should never force people who aren’t ready out, I guess I should just say it. I’m pan, everyone!”

“Anything else you have to say?” Logan arched an eyebrow at him, ignoring the snickers from Anxiety.

“Yep! You ace everything you do!” Patton walked over and pecked Logic on the cheek, before heading back to his designated work space. Ann saw Logan smiling, but didn’t mention it.

They resumed working, spirits lifted slightly and, of course, Patton acting way more affectionate now that he knew he was able to. Hours started flying by and soon, Roman appeared to tell them that the person who placed the order was arriving any minute. Logan reported that they had indeed finished baking and packing the food, which made a weary Prince smile.

He was glad – Roman worked himself far too much. All that was left was transporting it, and as the guy requested to pick it up himself, there wasn’t much for them to do. They traded stories as they closed the store, Prince telling them about some of the rowdier customers and minor scuffles.

“-and when I told them that we didn’t have it on the menu, they shouted at me! I’m surprised you didn’t hear,” Roman rambled.

“That simply won’t do. I know arguing with a customer is bad for business, but that’s just bad manners. Next time, point them out to me and I’ll remind them that we don’t take that kind of behaviour.” Logan felt personally offended by the audacity of some people.

“You know,” Ann began, swinging his legs from his place on the counter, “I didn’t really see it at first but you guys have one of the best relationships I’ve ever witnessed.”

Logan paused in his wiping down of the tables to gauge Roman’s reaction. He had forgotten about his earlier slip-up and knowing his boyfriend’s defensive nature, he was somewhat worried that he’d take it the wrong way.

Instead, he laughed fondly. “Yeah, I agree.” Then, there was a knock at the bakery door. Roman pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against. “That must be our buyer!”

Logan watched as he straightened his outfit and brushed off imaginary dust. Perfectionist. Ann was too busy chatting with Morality to pay attention.

“Good afternoon, sir! We have your order all prepared, all we need is the payment to go through.”

Roman let the stranger into the bakery, stepping aside. Ann looked up and froze, but the man smiled upon seeing him.

Logic glanced between the two of them. What was going on, exactly?

“Ah, it seems you know our newest employee, Ann,” Prince began awkwardly.

“That I do, although if I remember correctly, that is not my son’s name,” the guy chuckled.

Ann bristled. “Since when did you know anything about me?” he snarled, stunning the other three workers into silence. “What the fuck are you doing here?! And, if I remember correctly, you don’t even have enough money to pay for this.” By now, he had hopped off the surface and was facing his… father?

Regardless, it was quite clear that their usually timid employee was pissed.

Anxiety’s relative seemed nervous. “C’mon, uh, Ann.” The distaste in his voice when he said that made all of them bristle. “Don’t be like that! Besides, I got this for Missy! I know I haven’t been the best father to her-“

“Shut up,” Ann snarled. “Don’t you dare say another word about my brother. You are the worst thing to ever happen to us. He deserved a lot better than the childhood he got, and you are not re-entering his life. I won’t let you.”

“Well, it’s not like you have any choice. Your mother and I may have let you steal our child away from us, but he is still legally ours!” All warmth had disappeared from both of them.

“We are not your property!” Anxiety shrieked. “You lost your right to call him your son the minute you thought it was okay to treat him the way you did.”

“We raised you the same way we raised him and you never complained. What’s so different about Missy? Just because your special snowflake of a sister-“

“Leave. When my brother told me you had contacted him, I thought he was kidding. But you know what you wanting to come back into our lives did? He thought it was his responsibility to take up more jobs because he knows you’re incapable of wanting anything to do with us if you’re not getting something out of it. Now pay these people for slaving over an oven all day.”

Suddenly, the man (Logan refused to think of this beast as Ann’s father) settled down and appeared to be rather sheepish. “Actually, I was hoping you’d pay for it. You know, as a birthday gift for your brother. From both of us – and your mother. We wanted to get him something, but we’re a bit tight on money at the moment. Speaking of, would you mind lending us a few hundred bucks to help your old man? You see, I kind of made this big bet and it backfired on me, but I assured your mother you would help us, like you usually do. You wouldn’t want to let her down, now, would you?”

Ann snapped – and punched him in the nose.

The man roared and took a swing, but before it could connect, Roman stepped in, twisting his arms behind his back.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” His voice was low and dangerous, and he didn’t seem to care that the guy was hissing in pain. “Logan, if you could please help me file a report? This barbarian tried to assault my employee and is unable to pay us what he owes. Such a shame he accidentally ran into a wall and broke his nose, isn’t it? Morality, help dear Ann while we sort this out.”

“You got it,” Logan murmured, already pulling out his phone. “And Ann, you can take the food home, free of charge.”

“You’ve earned it,” Patton chirped, placing a protective hand on Anxiety’s back as he led him into the kitchens. He couldn’t see them, but Logan could hear Morality making sure Ann was okay and attempting to distract him as he wrapped up his hand. Anxiety must have given the damn bastard what he deserved if his hand needed attending to.

As Logan was reporting the incident, he couldn’t help but wonder what they were all going to do about this. He knew Patton and most likely Roman were going to be extra-protective, but there was the cold feeling in knowing that sweet, sweet Ann had to face so many hardships so early on in life. Logic knew that he had only begun to scratch the surface in understanding him, and he hoped dearly that nothing else had, is or would harm Ann. He didn’t think he could keep his calm if he found out to what extent Anxiety had suffered – hell, he almost lost it today.

At least they could begin to stitch up the seams.

A/N As mentioned before, I’m not too happy with this chapter and I feel like I could do a lot better, but oh well. Next chapter will be much happier and center around our favourite prince.

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justira · 7 years ago

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STORY STARTERS MEME

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

@petite-neko tagged me, and I have never been tagged for anything before in my life. But, uh, sure, let’s do this!

I definitely do not know 10 writers on tumblr because I am very terrible at doing The Tumblrs and also I mostly talk to artists on here? But why not, let’s tag my partner in crime @sevdrag; @wordsdear, who I know writes; and @kaizokunohime, who doesn’t write prose but does write story ideas/prompts, and I’d like to see how those do with this meme.

I have no idea what is meant by “first lines” here? The first sentence? The first block of text until whitespace? idek, I tried to keep it reasonable. This is in reverse chrono order, so first story is most recent.

1. Acclimating

[One Piece — Law/Luffy, Law & Strawhats — E, 31.3K ]

Law probably should have seen this coming. It wasn't his splintered self-worth that made him avoid things like this (and what business of anyone's was it, anyway, if he lived for Cora-san's memory? He'd been living on borrowed time for over a decade, and every step he'd taken since then had drawn him closer to a confrontation he expected (hoped) he wouldn't survive). But his utter lack of interest in making himself likable because there was nothing much to like certainly helped cut down on complications. Or, it usually did. The standard rules did not seem to apply to Strawhat. Black Leg had warned him, although, all things considered, that shouldn't have been necessary.

2. A Slow and Vicious Hemorrhage

[BBC Sherlock / Hannibal Movies — Holmes/Watson — M, 5.5K, WIP]

The air gets heavier, down here, cooler and tinged with inescapable subterranean damp. John breathes it in, steadily; it doesn't particularly unnerve him. It reeks of institution and he's had practice enough with those. It's not calming, precisely, but it's familiar. It's all familiar. It's all fine.

It is.

His hand tightens on the two case files. It doesn't stop the tremor, but he rubs his thumb across the labels, the rough reality of them, already thoroughly ragged from the flicks and scrapes and polishing and various pointless attritions of dozens of fingers, despite the very recent dates stamped on both of them. Two dates, two names. Neither name belongs to Sherlock Holmes.

3. Swimming Lessons

[Final Fantasy X — Auron/Braska/Jecht — T, 1K ]

Auron sputtered as Jecht dunked him under the water again. He came up for air, gasping, to hear Braska rebuke Jecht. "Jecht, he can't swim." Braska's tone was just this side of sharp, showing that Jecht was testing his patience; good, as he had surely tested Auron's. Auron clawed his hair out of his face where it had escaped his tail. Jecht was already too far away to shove. Braska floated over to him, touched his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

4. This Stolen Interstice

[Dragon Age: Origins — Duncan/Teagan — M, 8K]

The Grey Warden came during the harvest. The field Teagan was working was cradled in one of Rainesfere's rolling valleys; trees rose high on all sides, crowning the surrounding hills and wind-murmuring to each other as the harvesters worked. The air was thick with dust and chaff and the smell of fallen leaves, just edging into cold. That hint of crispness settled pleasantly on Teagan's skin as he worked amidst the slice and whisper of sickles and threshing, the barking of dogs weaving through the rhythmic sounds — no laughing children, not during the harvest, as all but babes were put to work at some task or another. He found one such child suddenly in his path — Rogher's youngest. Deliah? That must be it.

"What is it, Deliah?" Teagan wiped his brow as he stood, stretched his back.

"There's a man to see you," the girl mumbled, shy before her bann. "Mama says he's a Grey Warden."

The words spilled a chill down his back, much harsher than the gentle bite in the air. Darkspawn, here?

5. The Storm That Sweeps So Quiet

[Final Fantasy Tactics — Alma/Tietra — T, 1.2K]

Alma's spine aches. She has been bowed over this tome for entirely too long. Study is normally a pleasure, particularly the histories or the great tales of the Church, but this day she set aside to get through an endless dissertation on courtly graces. Studious as Alma may normally be, her heart is not in this. Today, the floor is distractingly hard beneath her folded skirts, even with the spare cushion. Her bodice itches unreasonably. Behind her, Tietra's quiet breathing and quieter warmth brush down Alma's back; she had persuaded her friend to take the window seat and regrets it not one bit, discomfort or no. It's not Tietra's fault that Lord Haverell's text drones so. Outside, the sunshine drips between tumultuous clouds; the air is heavy and moist, and the clouds tower high. It is not a day for study, not at all.

She runs her finger down the rich vellum of the page and listens to its smooth whisper. Behind her, she hears Tietra shift, the soft sigh of fabric and the rougher-edged rasp of pages rubbing together. Well, if Tietra feels it too...

6. So let it out and let it in

[Supernatural — Castiel & Mary, Castiel & Dean, Castiel & Sam — G, 5.1K]

"Jay Bird Family Special," the waitress announces, clear and cheery above the lunchtime clinks and conversation buzzing through the diner. She tips Mary a wink. Mary grins back as Heather sets the giant platter in front of her, gently intercepting baby Dean's hand going straight for the steak. "Your man running late?"

"Course not!" John pops up behind Heather. He's breathless under a thin sheen of sweat, his face all smiles and engine grease, and Mary could not want to touch that handsome curve of jaw more.

Instead, she puts a mild growl of threat in her voice, not even trying to cover the laughter crowding up alongside it. "If you think you're getting those paws anywhere near my food or my son—"

7. And Under Sky, the Shelter

[Final Fantasy Tactics — Ramza & Rapha, Marach, Mustadio, Agrias — G, 1.4K]

The hill cups gently around a lee; pebbles gather in the shadow where the wind abandoned them, making for a stony bed, but it will serve well enough for their purposes. Ramza, at least, is tired enough to collapse where he stands. He watches Agrias survey the site and thinks dully about what to do if it does not meet her standards of defensibility. It is well that she nods in approval, as he had not managed to think of any alternatives. The weariness runs too deep in his bones, leeching at thought, at care. It frightens him, distantly. So many have ceased to care, it seems. He rouses himself with a shake that feels like trying to shift mountains.

Tired to numbness or no, camp must be made, the birds cared for. The birds and — his teeth tug at his lip as his glance lands on Rapha and Marach, hovering at the edges of the group — the people. The tasks have been long apportioned, but in their ever growing and shrinking company, they reassign the routine often enough. It is just that he is too tired tonight to think on it.

8. There the Bones of Us May Lie

[Final Fantasy XII — Ashe/Balthier — T, 2.5K]

The hollow starlight sinks into ashen softness before her as she boards the Strahl; the hungry roar of the Cataract is hushed, made muted and metallic. It is like sinking into water, reversed. The quiet is the same, the sense of distance, but as she ascends there is no persistent buoyancy, no insistent upward press. Weight seems to sink down on her instead, settling deeper about her shoulders like a mantle.

It's familiar.

The silence of the ship eats her sigh, giving back nothing. And that, too is familiar — comforting, even, to have no wraiths answering those unmeant nighttime summons. The Occuria's illusion of Rasler is shattered, and Vaan isn't here to haunt her either, sleeping below with the others; Ashe is alone if not exactly unfettered. It is beyond her, just now, to judge whether that is better, and that is, in any case, irrelevant. There is little point in dwelling on it, now.

9. Best Hand

[Ace Attorney — Apollo & Trucy, Phoenix — G, 0.5K]

Apollo eyed the backs of Mr. Wright's cards. Wright kept them low, hands resting easy and relaxed on the table — Trucy was just the opposite, her fan of cards held up in front of her face, casting conspiratorial glances over the top. Hiding her smile. Trucy had something; Apollo'd figured that much out. Not as good as his own hand, though, he was sure of it.

(Now if only...)

He looked back at Wright. Nothing to see. Nothing to sense; bracelet quiet and loose on his wrist. (Damn! It's not just that he used Trucy for the games, he's impossible to read anyway!) Apollo resisted gritting his teeth.

10. Eclipse

[Final Fantasy IV — Kain/Cecil, Kain/Rosa, Cecil/Rosa, Kain/Cecil/Rosa — G, 1.5K]

In the old forgotten passageways beneath Baron Castle the walls exhale ghosts like vaporous winter breath: a fine spice on a hunt for treasure, harmless old haunts that feather around them as they creep down the halls with their stolen torch, their voices a nervous-laughing titter of echoes.

When the revenant comes Kain's blood freezes and he sees the panicked bloom of Rosa's untutored magic, shielding them; Kain's lips parting in awe and breathlessness as they flee.

But as they tumble back down the halls, to light and safety and a likely spanking, it is Cecil who clutches his hand.

11. Where Memory Rests

[Thief: Deadly Shadows — Garrett, The Shalebridge Cradle — G, 2.3K]

Thick exhales of steam crowd the night air, damp on your skin, as you make your way through the noise and shadows of the City. Grit has gathered close to the walls where you walk, giving the soft sound of your steps a rougher edge. Your fingers trail where a gas arrow once crystallized: a pipe carrying hot air hisses quietly at the leak. Magic lies thick in the air since the Final Glyph, dispersed and unformed. You can feel it in your hand. It washes across the red new scar like warm breath, like the air trickling from the pipe. The elemental crystals form faster, now, and someone harvested this one before you.

It doesn't matter. You have other things on your mind tonight.

And besides, you can always get it back.

12. the silent fulcrum in the interstice

[Kingdom Hearts — Kairi & Riku & Sora, Kairi & Naminé — G, 1.2K]

It begins with her hands: she plunges them into the place where earth meets sea meets sky. The light falls fragile across the grains, soft contrast to their coarse texture against her palms, her bare knees. The damp sand is heavy in her palms and something stirs in her as she pauses, hands suspended, full of infinite possibilities: This is how worlds are created, she thinks. Memories, falling like sand, like stars, like snow (where does she remember snow from?); she pauses, hands suspended, full of infinite worlds.

She can't remember the last time she did this, or maybe she never stopped: this is where she sat and stitched together a star, a promise; this is where she stood and watched the horizon and waited, or tried to remember what she was waiting for. The sand is heavy in her hands, and she wonders if this is any different, or if it is all reconstruction and remembering.

This is how worlds are created, and she sinks her fingers into the sand.

13. Same As It Never Was (cowritten with @sevdrag)

[Final Fantasy VIII — Rinoa/Squall, Laguna/Squall, Quistis/Rinoa, Kiros/Laguna, Quistis/Rinoa/Squall — E, 72K, WIP]

“I’m sorry, Commander, sir,” the waiter said over Squall's shoulder, “but we don’t have that particular vintage — our sincere apologies. Can I recommend another bottle — on the house, of course?”

Squall tried not to grit his teeth— too hard, anyway, because they were already grinding a little at the waiter’s placating, admiring, sorry-to-your-famous-personage-please-be-kind tone. He glanced up. Rinoa was smiling at him, that smile of hers that carried beaming wattage like a Thundaga to the chest, and even though it still made his heart skip a beat he could read in it what neither of them was saying: her hesitation playing across her face, the tense strain of her smile even as his own lips quirked back in response.

“Not a problem,” he said, aware that his voice was gruff and sounded irritated; maybe everyone would assume he was aggravated about the wine.

14. Coward Heart

[Final Fantasy X — Auron & Braska & JechtI — G, 3.6K]

The caves cast light back at them, fractured reflections and the rock's own native glow: the water was still and star-littered, pinpricks of light beneath a surface so motionless that Auron could barely tell where water ended and the pressing dark of the caverns began. All the light should have illumed the air, but the icy breath of the place seemed nearly solid, swallowing the light before it could reveal more than it hid. Auron had drawn his sword long ago, its rasp loud and echo-inhaled. Even the fiends glowed, here, great gelid flans with galaxies glittering inside them, dissolving into pyreflies like gentle novas.

Auron's gaze slid to Braska. In the gloaming, Braska's eyes seemed wide and white, his robes silver-edged black, all the careful distinctions of colour — red, for mourning; purple, for hope; blue, for seas and skies — lost in the half-light. Jecht was a suffocated flame beside him, the leaping fish on his sarong like the empty spaces between licks of fire as he shrugged off the wool-lined jacket Braska had finally convinced him to wear.

15. Disconnect

[Final Fantasy VIII / Kingdom Hearts — Maleficent & Squall — G, 3.7K]

He opens his eyes to the sight of water falling up. The spray coats his face, his clothes— he tries to sit up and make sure Lionheart is dry in its sheath and realizes that everything, everywhere, hurts.

(Rinoa.)

He makes it to his feet, checks on Lionheart. The gunblade survived the trip, maybe in better shape than Squall had. He flexes his hands, staring at them. They still feel numb. (Did it hurt you like this? Your magic?) His spells are gone, eaten up by the trip from Traverse Town. He hadn't counted on this exhaustion. (Yeah, and Cid had said it was impossible and called me an idiot. Whatever.)

It doesn't matter. He heaves himself away from the rocks he'd been leaning on, and starts climbing.

Analysis, I guess?

Okay well the immediate thing I notice is that I used the word "interstice" twice in this set of titles and that's just mortifying.

Decent mix of fandoms! 14 fandoms counting crossovers, although 8 were Final Fantasy of some kind.

I counted 6 past tense intros (though one of those fics switches to present tense halfway through, which is 15K words past the opening lines), and 9 present tense ones. That's a 2:3 ratio of past to present, and I actually had never realized I wrote in present tense this much. In the grand scheme of fiction writing, past tense is heavily more common so I guess this sample puts me in the... minority? I find present tense more immediate. I rarely actively CONSIDER which tense to use, I just start writing in whatever FEELS right for the idea. The first story where I actively considered tense was "Acclimating", the most recent story on here. Whoops >.>

Also I don't tend to open with dialogue. For short fics (less than 10K) I tend to write mostly in order, and I find writing dialogue difficult, so I tend to kind of "settle in" with a story by writing description first, and only after I'm properly settled try some dialogue. There were only 4 stories with dialogue in the opening lines here, and only 2 that actually had dialogue as the first thing in the story.

Fewer em dashes than I expected, as I know I overuse those. But not, apparently, in the opening lines. I wait until the reader is settled in/committed before pulling that shit on them.

I seem to vary between starting in the middle of things vs. doing a bit of setup. I couldn't really pin numbers to this one, as it's a bit more nebulous. For example the very first sentence of "This Stolen Interstice" (that word again, shoot me now) is in medias res, but then I back up to a bit of scene-setting. So who even knows!

Anyway, this was a fun exercise!

#gpoy #asks #my stuff #my fic

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 8 years ago

Text

The Other Woman - Request

Requested by anon: Hi i just read your latest Sherlock x reader and loved it ! Please could I request One similar where reader meets Irene when she talking to Sherlock on his chair but the reader sees how far she can push Irene by doing things with Sherlock in front of her !! & @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl: I was wondering if you could do a Sherlock fic where he and the reader are close, but Irene Adler comes back around, ticking the reader off, but they get into a competition until reader ends up in Sherlock's bed, both pissed to the core. Well, it ends in angry smut, but they need it more than anything. & anon: May you do another one where Irene turns up again and Sherlock picks the reader!

Pairing: Sherlock x reader.

Word count: 1,828

Warnings: Smut - unprotected, angry - and Irene being an asshole.

A/N: This took too many surprising turns. Also, I used my favourite quote from Romeo and Juliet because it was fair and necessary.

Enjoy!

* <--- If you don’t want the smut, reall until here. ;)

Sherlock was sitting on his usual seat, while (Y/N) occupied Watson’s couch. A heated debate was being held by the two, it was something about a pumpkin patch and another victim dressed in pink. They seemed to be absolutely focused on the topic, acting angry at the other’s suggestions as part of their game – yes, game – in order to keep the appearance of being focused on the victim rather than finding yet another excuse to spend time together.

“Maybe the dress was blue.” (Y/N) snapped, lifting her eyebrow.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock exclaimed, but his fake anger was soon vanished by a smirk and a chuckle.

They’re happiness lasted two seconds more, because afterwards the typical soft moan that identified Irene’s text messages invaded the air. Sherlock and (Y/N) stared at his phone in silence. Sherlock didn’t know if he should check it, considering the kind of relationship he was hoping to achieve with (Y/N).

“Aren’t you going to read it, Sherlock?” A third voice spoke from the door. Irene was there, wearing a tiny black dress that accentuated her subtle yet classy curves.

“Irene.” Sherlock whispered.

“Missed me?” She winked towards him. Sherlock cleared his throat to show his discomfort and turned to look at (Y/N), trying to check her reaction. The girl was still, looking down at the ground. “See you’ve got a new pet?” Irene joked, as her eyes landed on (Y/N).

“She’s not a pet, Irene.” Sherlock hissed. (Y/N) instantly lifted her gaze to meet with Sherlock’s eyes. “Everything okay?” He mouthed towards (Y/N) and she nodded.

“Well, of course she’s not a pet.” Irene continued, waltzing around 221B. “She’s less than that… A submissive little bugger.”

“Irene…” Sherlock warned.

“Don’t worry, Sher.” (Y/N) spoke softly, as an idea got to her head. “Not everyone can see what is obvious to a trained eye.”

Sherlock smiled mischievously. “You couldn’t be more right, my dear.”

(Y/N) got up from and walked towards him gracefully; she leaned closer and left a soft peck over his lips. She winked at him and then looked at Irene. “Fancy some tea?”

The look on Irene’s face was priceless. She looked bitter, and disappointed; her dominant behaviour made her vulnerable to other’s superiority.

“Like I said: a servant.” Irene insisted.

“More than that, dear.” (Y/N) said as she moved to be face to face with the dominatrix. “Because at least I got him to kiss me back.” (Y/N)’s voice was merely a whisper, a hiss, but it impacted Irene like the loudest noise at the earliest hour in the morning.

(Y/N) moved to the kitchen and started preparing tea. Irene fumed at Sherlock, who replied with a cocky smile. Truth was, that was the first time they kissed, and Sherlock couldn’t think of a better way to call her his than having someone like Irene as witness.

The tea was ready in three minutes. (Y/N) handed a cup to Irene another one to Sherlock and kept one for herself. Irene sat at the leather couch, expecting (Y/N) to go back to Watson’s seat, but instead she used Sherlock’s lap as chair, and the detective couldn’t help but to smile widely at her.

They drank their tea in silence. Irene was giving them the deadliest death glare ever and (Y/N) trying to act as cute and cheesy as possible.

“So, is your relationship so poor you two have to over act when another person is watching?” Irene snapped, leaving her cup at the side table.

“What?” Sherlock fumed.

“I saw you two talking for a good half hour and neither were acting like…. This.” Irene observed, “Unless of course this is a plan to get me jealous.” She batted her eyes flirtingly.

“Not everything spins around you, Irene.” (Y/N) snapped angrily.

“You would’ve known.” Irene mocked, “Not everything spins around me, but certainly nothing spins around you.”

“Shut up.” (Y/N) commanded.

“It’s the truth!” Irene continued, “If I hadn’t disappeared, you wouldn’t be all over Sherlock right now.”

“Irene…” Sherlock begged hastily.

“After all, he risked his life to save mine.” She said cockily, “Has he ever done that for you?”

“I’m not a whore that has to run away.” (Y/N) snapped quickly.

“A boring girl, then.” Irene muttered, “I wonder what he saw in you… If he has seen anything.”

(Y/N) got up and so did Irene, meeting face to face with her. “I wonder what he saw in a woman like you.”

“Beauty, brains and adventures.” Irene said.

“How poetic, I’m sure those are the only things he saw in you.” Her sarcasm was palpable.

“You can’t blame a man for liking a real woman’s body.” Irene lifted her eyebrow.

“A man, a woman, or basically anyone in London wealthy enough to pay for your services.” (Y/N) spoke quickly.

“At least I’m an expensive whore, not a third class assistant wanting five minutes of fame.” Irene replied in the same tone.

“That’s only because you’re famous enough already.” (Y/N) tilted her head angrily, “Oh, my bad, your vagina is. You are only the wearer and the least important part of it all.”

Irene remained quiet for a bit. Her hand tickled, she wanted her leash and show that audacious child who the boss was. She looked down at Sherlock who was still on his seat and observing the women’s competition. “Aren’t you going to say anything at all?” Irene inquired angrily.

“She has a point.” Sherlock gestured at (Y/N) and smiled sassily.

“Of course.” Irene whispered, “Apparently, you don’t need a real dominatrix to get you tamed. No! You only need a girl who is less smart than you so you can feel like your pity, average intellect is enough to compensate for how awfully dull you are. There’s a reason Sherlock Holmes has only two friends.”

Sherlock got up as well. His fury was visible in his pale face. Irene was unimpressed, she wanted to trigger him and she had achieved it. What Sherlock did to her didn’t matter, she wasn’t afraid of him.

“You’re only jealous because the only man that has shown a little interest in you is with someone better than you.” Sherlock hissed, unable to find the right words.

“Better than me?” Irene laughed sardonically. “How is this… girl better than me?”

“For starters, I don’t have to worry if either getting smacked or catching an STD.” Sherlock huffed.

“That’s because you haven’t even had her.” Irene clicked her tongue. Sherlock and (Y/N) froze. “Yes, it’s quite obvious really.”

“At least she can make me beg for mercy without even having me.” Sherlock insisted. His jaw was clenched and the height difference he and Irene had created an intimidating aura.

“Fine, if this is how you want to play…” Irene alternated her gaze between the two of them. “Good-bye, Mr. Holmes, I have better things to do than to spend my time with a virgin detective and his assistant.” Irene walked confidently towards the door.

“Just leave.” Sherlock insisted in a low voice.

“On my way. I hope your new whore is as exciting as your adventures. Don’t call me when you get bored of her.”

“I certainly won’t.” Sherlock muttered.

“Call me or get bored?” She inquired, “Never mind, it is bound to happen anyway.”

Irene left 221B for what they hoped was forever. *

(Y/N) and Sherlock remained quiet for a while. They were angry, furious, ready to explode.

“I’m not a cheap whore.” (Y/N) whispered bitterly.

“And I’m not a virgin…” Sherlock added. (Y/N) looked at him with confusion. “What? Janine would’ve suspected if I didn’t…”

“I don’t want to hear it.” (Y/N) interrupted him.

“Fine.” Sherlock granted, “Do you want to continue with our debate?”

“No, I want to kill someone.” (Y/N) fumed.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that… yet.” Sherlock mumbled.

“I just…” She groaned angrily. Sherlock understood her frustration; it was the typical Irene Adler effect. “Couldn’t you get a less… Awful ex-girlfriend?”

“She was never my girlfriend.” Sherlock said listlessly.

The argument continued, heating up with each comment from them and, unlike their past conversation, it wasn’t as an excuse to keep talking. However, because of the rage behind those words, a carnal craving was born.

“These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness

And in the taste confounds the appetite.”

They were kissing, a kiss that was far from equal to the first one they had shared. It was rough, violent even, and it expressed their anger in ways no word could.

Their minds were blurry, and so were their criteria. Soon, they were falling to Sherlock’s bed, ripping their clothes of, searching to satisfy their needs, to pour their anger in one another until it vanished to a faraway memory.

Sherlock pushed her back in bed, where her head was buried in the pillow as her hair spread all over the white case; her arms were pinned above her head. He aligned with her entrance and thrusted into her without further announcement.

(Y/N)’s back arched as she moaned loudly. She took him in as deeply as he could go. His curls falling – bouncing – over his face and sticking with the sweat layering his skin. (Y/N) was furious, yet she felt her anger ease at the view of a sweaty Sherlock over her.

His nose was slightly scrunched and his jaw was clenched. His eyes were shut tightly and low moans left his parted lips. (Y/N) tried to reach him, but Sherlock kept her arms still over her head. She sighed in frustration, but allowed Sherlock to have the control he wanted.

The bed’s headboard hit the wall with each thrust as the springs from the mattress squeaked under them. (Y/N) moaned along, flustered by the dominance Sherlock exerted in her.

With a coarse groan, Sherlock came and (Y/N) followed seconds later. He fell over her, breathing in her scent. They took a few minutes to steady their breaths and then they glared at the other in confusion.

“Are you still upset?” Sherlock inquired weakly.

“No.” She said in the same voice tone, “Are you?”

“No.” He tried to roll to his side, but (Y/N) held him in place. Sherlock had let go off her hands.

“What are we now?” She asked desperately.

“We are whatever it is that you want us to be.” Sherlock replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the planet.

“What do you want us to be?” She insisted.

“More than what we were.” He answered.

“That is a little too vague.” She complained.

“It’s all you’re getting from me, I’m afraid.” He smiled cheekily.

“That’s exactly why you can’t keep a girlfriend.” She argued, but a sly smile curved her lips.

“Girlfriend? I like that.” She rolled her eyes.

“Is that your way of asking?” He chuckled.

“Only if the answer is yes.”

“Then yes.”

*Requests are ALWAYS open.*

Masterlist.

Sherlock Tags: @resurrection-huntress @oaisara @charlottemalfoy @zena-dukmak @just-a-blog00 @wefracturedmotivation @beccamullz @newts-fan-case @sugarshai @vancepter

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #sherlock imagines #imagine sherlock #sherlock imagine #sherlock smut #sherlock fluff #sherlock x irene #adlock #sherlock oneshot #sherlock one shot #sherlock one-shot #sherlock au #sherlock reader insert

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