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cowboyified · 3 years ago

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Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them.

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest.

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’.

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places.

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep.

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge.

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door.

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room.

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life.

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday?

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with.

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun.

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass.

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why.

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault.

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years.

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.”

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist.

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all.

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field.

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring.

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore.

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace.

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him.

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar.

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that.

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic.

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway.

“Am I to be forgiven?”

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind.

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails.

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest.

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

#wip dump #wincest #my words

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dex-xe · 4 years ago

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ahhhhh I'm LOVING these little fics, they're wonderful!! if you're still taking requests and are up for it, maybe "you're just a softie" with fanny and mary? :o

Mary & Kitty Fluff #10: “Stop moving and let me braid your hair.”

Fanny & Mary Fluff #37: “You’re just a softie.”

(I’m not thrilled with how this one turnedout but I think it’s soft and cute anyway. I have no idea what a girly sleepover consists of,, I have never been to one so someone please enlighten me XD This was posted on ao3 first btw,, as are all my fics - usually about 2/3 days before they’re up on here)

Prompt list

Inbox

After months of begging, Kitty’s fabled 8th of March arrived. Alison had actually decided to bring the date forward by a considerable few moths, feeling guilty about denying Kitty what she had been unable to do for over 200 years: her beloved sleepover.

Alison gathered as many spare pillows and blankets as she could find around the house and piled them onto Kitty’s bedroom floor. She’d had Mike attach fairy lights across the ceiling, creating a low canopy of glowing lights across the room.

Before inviting Kitty, Mary, and even Fanny into the room for her planned girly evening, Alison had had to sit the rambunctious boys down (of which she included Mike) and tell them under no circumstances to enter Kitty’s room. Robin had tried multiple times to join in, Pat had insisted that the next sleepover be for everyone, Julian had even called discrimination - a concept he was familiar with but it was new and novel to be on the receiving end. But after placing ‘keep out or else no TV’ signs on the door, Alison felt confident they wouldn’t interrupt.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Kitty exclaimed, throwing herself down on the bed beside Mary, smiling brightly at Alison. “I’ve never been to a proper sleepover before! Have you, Alison?”

“When I was at school, sure,” Alison plonked herself down on the floor, wrapping a duvet around her to keep her warm under her pyjamas. “Never one with a bunch of dead people though, at least not to my knowledge.”

“What precisely do these nights consist of, Alison?” Fanny asked, perching on the chair beside Kitty’s desk.

“Well, you eat way too many snacks, which I guess isn’t possible. And give makeovers, again not exactly doable. But we can play games and talk about boys, right Kitty?”

“Yes please!” Kitty squealed. “We can give makeovers!”

“We can?” Alison questioned.

“Can I do your hair, Mary? I’m rather good at it, my sister always asked me to do hers. She would never do mine though, it’s a shame she never quite had the time.”

“Alright,” Mary said nervously, glancing at Alison.

Kitty squeaked and reached into her breast pocket to draw out a small tin compact with a tiny fold out comb, an item she had been incredibly pleased to have followed her into the afterlife.

“Won’t it go back to normal soon?” Alison asked, pouring herself a small glass of lemonade.

“Oh I would imagine so, but I am rather good,” Kitty began to carefully brush knots out of Mary’s messy hair.

“So, a game!” Alison said, smiling to herself. “Snog, marry, avoid! The rules are: you get given three guys, literally any men but I suppose we should stick to the men of Button House, and you have to choose one to snog, one to marry, and one to avoid - as in you never get to see them again.”

“What be a snog?” Mary asked, flinching away as Kitty hit a knot in her scraggly hair.

“Stop moving and let me braid your hair!” Kitty gently pulled her back.

“A snog is like a really passionate kiss,” Alison chuckled, watching Fanny pull a face.

“This game is abhorrent!” She scoffed. “I’ll play no part in it!”

“We shan’t tell anyone what you say!” Kitty said with a high-pitched giggle. “I promise! Oh please, Lady Button, we won’t tell if you decide to kiss Julian or someone!”

“If you’re going to scoff at the games, you’ll have to leave. This is Kitty’s sleepover really, don’t spoil it!”

“No, I shan’t spoil it,” she pursed her lips and glared at Alison. “But I reserve my right to not ‘snog’, as you so horrifically put it, anyone.”

“If it will stop you complaining,” Alison said.

“Then I shall ask first, yes?” Fanny contemplated for a moment before turning to Mary perched on the edge of the grandma-duvet bed opposite her. “Mary: you must choose between Robin, and Julian. Yes, and Michael!”

Alison spluttered on her lemonade, “can we not include my husband in the game?”

“Well, you did say ‘any man’, did you not?” Fanny asked.

“I’d snog yer husband!” Mary exclaimed, drawing raucous giggles from Kitty behind her who collapsed back onto the bed, her head fazing through the pillows.

“I regret every decision that has brought me to this moment,” Alison groaned, still smirking into her glass.

“And I marry Robin, cause he be funny and make a good husband,” Mary nodded as if she was saying something incredibly wise and philosophical.

“And then avoid Julian? I can get on board with that,” Alison grinned.

“I woul’ rather he fall mysteriously from a window than marry him,” Mary smiled.

“That’s a fair decision,” Alison said.

“Reasonable choice,” Fanny agreed.

“It be you’re turn, Kitty,” Mary leant back to look Kitty in the eyes. “Pat, yeah? Humphrey, or Thomas?”

Kitty brushed through Mary’s dark hair contemplating for a minute before she came to a predictably Kitty conclusion: “this game is so cruel! I don’t want to avoid anyone, can I marry them all please?!” She cried.

“Absolutely not!” Fanny chastised.

“Good to see you’re getting into the game!” Alison said.

“Polygamy, even in game form, is always unacceptable!” Fanny said.

“I would marry Pat, he seems like a good husband,” Kitty said. The others hummed in agreement, the stories they had all heard of Pat’s life certainly gave off that picture. “And then I would do the... the kiss with Thomas!” Kitty giggled her way through her sentence, but quickly sobered up when reality hit. “Oh no! Oh gosh, then I must avoid Humphrey! No, I can’t leave Humphrey!”

“It’s not real, Kitty,” Alison decided to reassure her rather than laugh. “None of us would ever want to leave Humphrey.” Kitty nodded slowly, dropping the comb she was using to her side and beginning to twist Mary’s dark locks between her fingers. “You have to choose people for me now!”

Kitty stopped to think: “Okay! The Captain, Pat, and Thomas.”

“Modern men for you Alison,” Fanny nodded.

“I’m not sure I’m really the Captain’s type! Don’t reckon he’s ever even looked twice at me!” Alison laughed. Fanny glared at Alison, pressurising her into not going any further with that idea but both Mary and Kitty looked confused at her. “Never mind, so I would definitely marry Pat, I feel like he’d get on my tits less than the others!”

“How dare you talk of Patrick like that? Abhorrent language!” Fanny cried.

“It’s a phrase! It means get on your nerves! Christ, I’d never- I don’t even want to think about Pat- he’s my friend!” Kitty and Mary screeched with laughter as Alison’s cheeks turned more crimson by the second as she buried herself further into the duvet heap. “No more thinking about Pat, thank you! I’d snog Thomas cause I reckon it would literally make his life complete, and then leave the Captain to court... his type.”

“Now, Alison, the Captain is a good man and shouldn’t be written off. He would make a virtuous husband and deserves enjoyment he was denied in life,” Fanny objected.

“Oh I don’t doubt that,” Alison muttered, barely above a whisper with a sneaky smirk plastering her face. “But I am beginning to see how your marriage went so poorly!”

“What?!” Fanny screeched.

“Look!” Kitty said, manhandling Mary slightly roughly to turn her around to show her hair. “I think this is the best I’ve ever done! Look how wonderful this is, Alison!”

Alison jumped up off the floor to inspect Kitty’s hard work: “woah, that is pretty good! Very neat, Kitty, I wish you could do mine!”

“Oh, I wish that too, Alison!”

“Okay, final round!” Alison threw herself back down onto her duvet. “Fanny: Captain - seeing as you have such affection for him, Humphrey, or-“ Alison paused, contemplating who Fanny would hate the most. “Or Julian!” She finished triumphantly.

“Avoid, Julian!” Fanny responded without missing a beat. “And I would not participate in your ‘snog’ with anyone.”

“What, so you’d marry both Humphrey and the Captain?” Alison teased, remembering the disgust that had overrun Fanny when discussing bigamy. She took a small sip of her lemonade and watched as horror spread across Fanny’s face.

“Absolutely not!” Fanny cried.

“So, who will you marry?” Mary questioned.

“Humphrey is lovely, although it might be a little unusual to have a headless husband,” Kitty commented. “But the Captain is also very nice when he wants to be, even if he can be a tiny bit controlling. Occasionally.”

“Well, after my George I think Humphrey would make a welcome break. I am not in need of controlling, thank you!” Fanny nodded wisely. “Humphrey, I believe, was greatly unhappy in his own marriage as well. We spoke at the wedding and he gave me some... rather interesting advice. A thoroughly decent fellow, I believe.”

“You’re just a softie!” Mary commented, looking to Kitty for approval who giggled softly still fiddling with Mary’s braids which were coming untwisted as they were unsecured.

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to get with Julian?” The other three all turned to Alison, who was lying, legs-crossed on the floor smirking up at Fanny. “Well, he’s certainly got the moves to ‘get to know you’ as you said.”

Mary and Kitty collapsed into giggles, clutching at each other from their position on the bed and doubling over with laughter. Fanny’s face crumpled into disgust, before a tiny, hidden smile spread across her face.

Alison continued to tease, digging into a couple of details as what Julian might get up to, causing even more laughter including from Fanny who couldn’t quite maintain the stoic, stony expression as Alison talked.

***

“What are they saying?”

“Shut up, Julian, so I can hear!” The Captain snapped. He was leaning out of the TV room door trying to catch wind of the discussion taking place only a few doors down. Robin also had his head popping through the door, below the Captain also listening intently. They had relocated from the common room to be closer to the secret rendezvous they had been banned from.

“Aw man!” Mike cried. “Fourth loss of the night!” He threw the Xbox controller down onto the sofa beside him and rested his head back, frustrated at his poor performance.

“Bad luck, mate,” Pat said from the chair beside him. He’d taken up the role of Mike’s cheerleader, having convinced himself that he’d be a rather good gamer if he’d been able to play in life. His night of imagining he was playing kept being interrupted by the others creating plans to listen in to Alison. He turned to face the Captain, Robin, and Julian at the door to see the Captain straining around the doorframe. “Guys, stop trying to eavesdrop. It’s a girls night!”

“Hush, Patrick!” The Captain said. “I think I heard your name a moment ago.”

Pat jumped up and sped to the door, finally taking interest: “what do you reckon they’re talking about?”

The house erupted with life as uncontrollable laughter floated down the hallway, pulling silence across the TV room. Mike stood behind where the ghosts were focussed the laughter, listening to only to his wife’s giggles.

“Sleepover with some ghosts, huh?” He mumbled. “This house is weird, man!”

“Mmhm,” Pat hummed.

“I agree,” the Captain said.

“Is strange place,” Robin agreed.

Mike flicked off the TV and walked straight through the men, causing them to double over in nausea.

“Weird place,” he muttered.

#why are my tags not working today?????#bbc ghosts #ficbymax

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therealkrynnsub · 4 years ago

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The Last Trial Retrospective

Song: Flee, My Brother

1. Notice the twin beginning between Caramon's "Стой, мой брат" and Raistlin's "Беги, мой брат." Here, for the first time (except, perhaps, since "Nightmares") Raistlin acknowledges Caramon as his brother in sincerity.

2. "Flee, My Brother"--

It is a poignant title. Raistlin is about to sacrifice himself so that he alone pays the price of his actions. But how could we replicate that sentiment in 4 syllables?

"My brother, flee" was obvious but just didn't cut it; the way that the notes were arranged it didn't sound natural.

Instead, we kept the title as "Flee, My Brother" and adjusted the first line as needed, while retaining "brother" in a different place:

Raistlin (Final Draft): "Get out of here. My brother, it's not too late."

*I also love how this is the anti-Lord of Nothing song. He is able to avert the destruction he caused as God in a timeline that never happened. Unlike in that song, this is not a hopeless "it's not too late yet."

3. "The stars went cold, I saw their light expire"

Such a chilling line.

Again, in THIS song "It's not too late yet to make the sun burn/ Banish the darkness, grant the stars' return."

4. "Вы победили, вы остались правы"

(Rough draft): "You've won the battle/ And your point's been proven."

Irina Kruglova asked us to rewrite this line so that everyone could tell that "You" specifically meant "You all." That's right--"Вы" is not just the formal "you" but also "you" plural. Who is it referring to? All of Raistlin's opponents who ever disputed his endeavor, including Takhisis.

Raistlin (Final draft): "You are the victors/ and your point's been proven."

5. "Без мира бог ничто, как мир без бога!"

This was written so simply in Russian.

Literally: "Without the world, God is nothing, as is the world without God."

It wasn't so easy, on the other hand, to rewrite into singable English. We went through several options:

"There's no God where there's no world, and conversely!"

"Without God, there's no world, and no world without God!"

"God's nothing with no world, as it is without him!"

"No God's where there's no world, no world's where there's no God!"

"God's nothing with no world, and vice versa."

Finally, we chose:

Raistlin (Final draft): "God's nothing with no world/ It's nothing without Him!"

6. Raistlin (Final Draft): "He shall not carry out this plan of ruin."

Note that we say "this" instead of "his." Raistlin was not planning to destroy everything.

7. Ни каяться, ни плакаться не буду

Не стоит поучать почти что бога:

Не извлечёт он должного урока,

Ему всего-то не хватило Чуда…

Ни каяться, ни плакаться не буду

(Raw translation):

I will neither repent, nor whine.

Preaching to an almost-God is pointless:

He will never learn a proper lesson,

What he lacked was simply a miracle…

I will neither repent, nor whine.

This was the most difficult stanza in the song.

For the first line we didn't want to use the not-so-pretty word "whine," even though we have this proud image of Raistlin refusing to pathetically make himself the victim in this song. That was even an option at one point: "I shan't repent, nor make myself the victim."

In that version, we rhymed with the last line in the stanza: "When he could master all but mere creation"

After changes to the stanza as a whole, the final draft became: Raistlin: "I shan't repent, nor wallow in self-pity."

8. Our thinking had been, at first, that Raistlin had come to terms with the fact that he could never be a proper god because he lacked something that couldn't be learned. Takhisis would have told him, "One who hasn't a heart cannot hope to create life" in "Lord of Nothing." But, no, he still doesn't get it (Maybe he still needs a couple decades in the Abyss to think about it.)

Irina broke the meaning down in plain English for us:

"I'm still far too great for you to teach me something I don't know

Your moralising is useless, especially now

I did everything right, it should have worked, yet the miracle didn't happen"

With that new understanding we were able to infuse the stanza with the bitter tone it needed:

Raistlin (Final Draft):

"I shan’t repent, nor wallow in self-pity/

I don't need your advice--your noble preaching/

How can a mortal teach a god perfection?/

What I was lacking yet remains a mystery/

I shan’t repent, nor wallow in self-pity"

9. "Не стоит поучать почти что бога"

Before we leave this stanza, let's take a moment to remember the pain of finding an English equivalent to saying "an almost-god" and making it sounded good sung. "Demi-god," though not entirely accurate, would have worked, if not for a strage pause:

Raistlin (Rough Draft): "All preaching at a de_mi god is futile"

We were going to imply it with more words:

Raistlin (Rough Draft): "It's useless, if one falls just short of Godhood."

We decided to instead show his incomplete otherness by separating him from what Caramon is ("how can a MORTAL") while also separating himself from perfection ("TEACH a God perfection?") After all, if Raistlin needs some higher being to teach him the meaning of a mystery, then he certainly isn't a fulfledged God yet. This phrasing also emphasizes how hurt he really is, and he can't help but to take it out on Caramon just a little bit.

10. The most recent version of this song includes new lyrics from Crysania that are tinged with sorrowful realization. Actually, I am surprised they added new lyrics seeing as the Alternate Finale hasn't been performed as part of the full staged production.

"А все-таки, как горько сознавать,

что сказка о красавице и монстре

осталась сказкой... И пускай непросто

чудовище в себе расколдовать -

и все-таки, как горько сознавать..."

(Raw translation)

"After all, it's so bitter to realize

That the fairy tale of the beauty and the beast remained only a fairy tale.

And though it's not easy to disenchant the beast inside yourself,

It is so bitter to realize..."

We could have repeated "At last I see" but we saw the opportunity to amplify that bitter realization by beginning her part with the conditional "Though now I see." We finish the song conclusively with "I finally see!" which is somehow more tragic than "At last I see."

#dragonlance #the last trial #последнее испытание #find the lyrics of the english adaptation on the krynnsub facebook group #Beauty and the Beast #Crysania #Raistlin Majere #Caramon #Flee My Brother #Alternate Finale #Krynnsub

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sidneycarter · 4 years ago

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ink and cocoa stains

its me, back with part 2 of the love letter au ! part 1 can be read here. i think it would make most sense to read part 1 first, but im sure this could be a standalone if you wish.

Sid x Sullivan

Pretty PG again

Father Brown finds out why Sid has been feeling so blue.

Father Brown has noticed the concerned glances Lady Felicia has been throwing at Sid all evening.

He’s glad he’s not the only one that’s noticed his unusually down mood.

Under normal circumstances Sid would be dancing along to the wireless, teasing Mrs McCarthy, and wolfing down his Shepherd’s pie. Tonight he’s done nothing more than gaze gloomily at the sugar bowl, prodding lifelessly at his dinner.

Even now, as everyone has retreated into the snug for a game of Cluedo, Sid had declined the chance to join in.

“Do you mind if I use the study, Father?” He’d murmured quietly. “I need to... write a letter.”

Father Brown knew better than to ask, knowing that Sid would volunteer information quite freely when he felt ready. “Of course. There should be paper and pens on the desk. Stamps are in the top left drawer.”

That had been quite some time ago now. Father Brown has narrowed down his suspects, and he’s almost certain it was Professor Plum with the Candlestick. In which room, however, he isn’t so sure.

Lady Felicia makes a final accusation, suggesting Professor Plum with the Candlestick in the Billiard’s Room. She’s right of course, and she leans back with a triumphant grin.

“Ah! Drat.” Father Brown says. He’d been so close, yet so far.

Mrs McCarthy smiles as she clears away the board. “I wasn’t even close,” She ponders. “Anyone for a hot cocoa?”

“Oh please Mrs M, that would be wonderful. Victory has exhausted me.” Felicia says, collapsing back against her chair.

“That would be lovely, Mrs McCarthy,” Father Brown adds. “I shall go and enquire if young Sidney would like some.”

The study door is fractionally ajar, the fire still crackling low in the hearth. Father Brown pushes the door open gently. “Sid?”

A smile takes over his face when he spies the reason for Sid’s extended absence. He’s fallen asleep, mouth open and snoring softly, against a pile of books stacked on the desk.

He’s surrounded by piles of screwed up paper - Father Brown can see the furious lines where things have been crossed out and amended.

There’s one sheet that’s been kept in somewhat pristine condition on the desk in front of Sid. Father Brown approaches slowly. He knows he shouldn’t be prying, but his inquisitive nature combined with his concern for his friend’s sadness takes over.

He peers down at the paper over the top of his glasses.

My Tommy,

I’ve always thought of you as that, funny as it is. Mine. From the very beginning, if I’m honest. Since that first day you strolled in to Kembleford nick with your fancy tailored suits and your fancy polished shoes and your fancy slicked back hair. Then you told me you were arresting me on suspicion of arson. From that moment, you were my Inspector. The one that I could wind up, the one that I could poke and tease and push and see how long it took you to crack. Something about you caught my attention and I couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop until I got your attention in return.

Then you started working with the Father more, and we became something like friends. You’d think I shouldn’t have needed your attention any more because a lot of the time I had it. But by then just a little bit of your attention wasn’t enough. I needed it all the time.

I spiralled if I’m being honest, especially after that time you let me stay for a cup of tea when I fixed the Police Cottage’s plumbing. I had, what, twenty minutes of just me and you, and then I decided that I wanted you all to myself. It’s quite selfish really.��

You see, I’m a simple man, Tommy.

I don’t do commitment. I’m not one for romance usually. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s what Lady F says. I chat to the girls and I flirt with them and I charm them, but that’s all it is. It’s never meant anything to me. Never meant anything at all.

You, on the other hand, were a whole new kettle of fish. You made me feel something. Always. Can’t explain it. Don’t know why. Don’t know how it happened. I just know that you got under my skin.

I think it really hit me, properly, for the first time, when you came to the pictures with me and the Father - that time we went to see House of Wax. It wasn’t even that scary, but you looked TERRIFIED. I knew how I was supposed to feel in that moment. I knew I was supposed to laugh at you, the big, brave Inspector quaking in his boots. But all I could think about sitting there in the dark was reaching out and holding your hand. I wanted to make you feel better, to walk you home safe from the dark, to tuck you up under my arm until your heartbeat slowed down again.

I don’t know how to write letters like these, you know. I’ve never really had need before. But what I’m trying to say, Tommy, is that I’ve fallen in love with you.

If I’m being quite honest, I don’t know what the hell to do about it. Sometimes I think you deserve so much better than me, but I can’t bring myself to let you go. Selfish, I know. I can’t see you as anything other than mine.

You deserve poetry and perfect letters and beautiful things and I won’t be able to give you that. But what I can offer you, if you’ll take it, is me and all of my heart, which has been yours since the beginning.

I won’t ever be able to explain how I feel for you in words. If I could kiss the life out of you right now I would. But I know you’re mad at me, and I know it’s my fault. If there’s any motivation for being better, it’s you. I’m really trying.

I hope you understand, Tommy. I hope you do, ‘cuz at this point I don’t think I could live without you.

I’ll speak to you soon

I love you,

Your Sidney.

Father Brown raises his eyebrows as he finishes the letter. He feels a little choked up.

Sid and the Inspector.

He’d had his suspicions. There are only so many sly glances, lingering touches and evenings spent together before he would start to presume something.

The only slightly surprising element here is that Sid appears to have fallen deeply in love. Father Brown traces back the contents of the letter and things about all the times he’s seen them interact. He’s surprised now that he didn’t become certain that this was serious sooner. Certainly from Sid’s point of view.

He remembers House of Wax. He remembers Sid’s arm lying across the back of Inspector Sullivan’s chair for most of the film.

And those seconds of eye contact at crime scenes seem to carry much more weight now.

How wonderful, Father Brown thinks. How lovely it is to experience love. He hopes it works out for them. It almost certainly will, if he has any say in it. Next time they go to the cinema, he shall resolve to sit a few rows forward. He can say his eye sight isn’t what it used to be, and it is true his glasses prescription hasn’t been updated for a while.

For now, he’ll keep the whole thing quiet. Shan’t tell a soul. Clearly there’s been a bit of an argument, so he’ll wait for Sid and the Inspector to work something out on their own terms.

Father Brown returns to the doorway and raps his knuckles against the door a couple of times. Sid jerks awake with a startled “’Ullo?”

There’s a sheet of paper stuck to his cheek which he removes quickly when he sees the Father.

“Sid, Mrs McCarthy is making some hot cocoa before we retire for the night, and we were wondering if you’d like some?”

Sid stretches and yawns, looking tired but like a little bit of weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Yes please.” He says, folding up the letter in front of him and tucking it in to his pocket.

Father Brown smiles as Sid heaves himself up off his chair. “It’ll be ready in a minute. Join us in the snug when you’re ready.” He says.

He bows out of the room and heads to the kitchen to tell Mrs McCarthy it’s cocoas all round. A gentle smile plays on his face for the rest of the evening. Sidney Carter, He thinks with a chuckle, the old romantic.

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therewasatale · 4 years ago

Text

Ritual

On Ao3.

The ritual was in session for at least an hour. The members of the cult chanted louder and louder, in the warm humid atmosphere of the cellar. In the dim light of the hundred blood red candles the tied-up victim feebly tried to get free from her restrains but with no avail. The leather was too strong, and she was drugged to be just aware of her surroundings.

The cult leader flipped the page in his occult book continuing the dark incantation they were repeating when suddenly the pentagram on the other side of the room flared up and two figures appeared. The cult leader didn’t even had time to become surprised when the taller one, a thin dark person an expertly tailored suit, wearing sunglasses hurried to him, and knocked the book out of his hand.

"Would you shut the hell up?!" He shouted with slightly twitching left eye.

The cult leader blinked a couple of times, stunned, and his flock, about a dozen man and women wearing dark foreboding clothes, complete with blood red belts, slowly fell silent as well.

"FINALLY!" Exclaimed the stranger and rubbed his temples. His companion, a shorter man, with fair blond hair and a suit which style would be more at home in the previous century, looked around curiously. When his eyes stopped at the sacrifice he slowly walked up to the altar.

At last, the cult leader managed to compose himself.

"Who the hell are you? " He asked finally his own anger mounting. "Do you have any idea how long does it takes to set up the summoning ritual?"

"Based on the time you were shouting in my goddam head about one and a half hour!"Responded the taller stranger bitingly. The cult leader puffed up himself up and drew his ceremonial knife.

"Now listen to me you assh-" Before he could finish his sentence the tall stranger snorted and then raised one of his fingers and then he tapped it against the cult leader's chest. The occult master disappeared, leaving behind a small puff of acrid smoke, clothes, and the sacrificial knife, which fell to the ground clanking. His flock moved as one person towards the tall man who just calmly raised his finger again. The sudden rush of humans halted, well out of finger reach.

"Before anyone tries to do something nasty." The man slowly removed his sunglasses showing the crowd his vibrant yellow eyes. "Just remember I have a much vibrant imagination on that part. "

The cultists shuddered and knelt down as one.

"Oh my dark master…" One who, based on his slightly fancier robes must have been the second in command in their little religious organization, spoke up. "Why did you punish your devoted servants?"

"Don’t 'oh my dark master' me. Have you got any idea what another demon would have done with the lot of you?" Asked the man with almost palpable indignation.

The cultist glanced at each other.

"But, dark master, we done everything written in the book." The demon rolled his eyes and extended his arms.

"Really? Did you really? Because I think the only two things that are genuine here is the book and the sacrifice." At that some cultist glanced towards the girl who oddly quieted down. They tried to raise some objection about the fact that the demon's companion was meticulously worked on untying her, but then the yellow eyed stranger bent down and got something from the floor. It was the ceremonial dagger. The demon started talking without even reacting to those who tried to speak up.

"Look at this! What is this? The book definitely asked for a sacrificial dagger. This is a steak knife painted with gold spray paint. Come on guys you couldn’t have believed this would work. "

"Its…Well…. We have a pentagram." Protested one of the cultists.

"Yes, made out of red paint and glass instead of a priest's blood and crushed rubies. A demon can really tell, I assure you." Sneered the yellow eyed stranger.

"Candles, the candles must be right." Stated another cultist in vain hope.

The demon sniffed into the air and then sighed.

"Cherry scented ones from a supermarket. Not exactly created from the fat of a slaughtered lamb is it? Look, you can't just half ass these things. All or nothing, most demons are really stickler for traditions. I know. I have worked with them." He rubbed his forehead and noticed the small washing machine at the very edge of the room. It was hastily covered in a star patterned tablecloth. The demon sighed wearily." What the hell do you wanted to summon a demon anyway? "

"For money." Said one of the cultists

"And fame, and dark evil powers." Added the right hand of the previous leader who realized that without his boss, now he might get a chance in the spotlight.

"Become a politician then. You get all the dark evil powers with fame and money as you want. Or a financial advisor, maybe a lawyer. If you don’t want to get that quiet so vile, do organized crime. You all get to go down either way, but at least you get to live a little before that."

There were some murmurs from the members of the cult and then the self-titled new leader spoke up.

"And if we don’t want to do that? " The demon's eyes glinted maliciously.

"Then you can follow your leader wherever I sent him." There was an ocean of menace behind those eyes. Suddenly every cult member began to reconsider their life choices and found out that a life full of normal everyday evils might be infinitely better than just dying right here at the hands of an occult one.

"I am also taking your book." The demon reached down and grabbed the ancient tome with the same elegance and reverence one would treat a morning newspaper.

"But…" The second man in the cult stepped closer but the demon once again raised his finger and waggled it. The man stepped back into the line.

"And we will be taking this poor girl too."

Suddenly the cultist realized that the demons companion was still in the room. During their talk with the black clad stranger he managed to untie the sacrifice, and gently led the barely conscious girl to the pentagram.

"What?" Asked the leader of the cultists and the demon at the same time.

"Excuse me, can we have a minute? I need to talk with my friend over there." The demon briskly walked to the other man and stepped right next to him. They started a muffled conversation, but the cultists do manage to glimpse some tidbits here and there, along the lines of:

"Look you can't just pick up every stray when you see them. We were at a DINNER we can't just arrive with a half-naked young women. Its impolite."

"Oh come on, Crowley, when was the last time something being impolite ever worried you?"

"Five hundred bc…That's not the point here. Look can we not do this right now."

"If you won't let me take her home before we continue our dinner, I shan't continue our dinner at all."

"What? Don't be like that…"

"I said what I said." With that the man in the lighter suit puffed himself off. His companion answered with a now clearly audible.

"Fine."

The demon, named Crowley, turned back towards the cultist. "We are taking the girl too. She was a sacrifice after all and I'm a demon. And I haven't even eaten out your eyeballs or something like that like any of my old coworkers would have. So how about you sit a little here thinking about the prospects I raised and I won't be forced to vaporize any of you before we go? Sounds like a plan isn't it?"

The cultists slowly nodded, wholeheartedly agreeing with the not being vaporized part, and being generally lukewarm about the other things.

"Wonderful. Off we go then…What?" He asked as his companion gently tugged on his sleeves and whispered a question in his ears. "No of course not. I know you are particular about that. He just has some swimming to do." The demons companion nodded smiling, and waved at the cultists.

"In shark infested waters." Added Crowley before he disappeared in a puff of sulfurish smoke. The other man snorted, and also popped away with the girl they were meant to sacrifice.

There was a long and awkward silence in the room followed by a bit of shuffling. After a couple of minutes one of the cultists spoke up.

"Brendon…"

"Master Occultist." Corrected the former second man of the cult, rapidly climbing at the top of the ladder before anyone could dispute his ascension.

"Master Occultist….what the hell just happened here?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale #gocrowley #crowley #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #The Emperor in Silver

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ifyourelostiamtoo · 5 years ago

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Intellectual negotiations

Prompt: Hermione proposes to Tom, and Tom says yes.

PSA: This is a dialogue writing exercise.

Hermione: Riddle!

Tom: No.

Hermione: You’re not betrothed to any woman that I know of.

Tom: True, the prospect of settling down does not interest me in the very slightest. And I daresay you feel the same?

Hermione: The Ministry seems to value success of any kind. Society benefits from marriages in a manner that no other relationship does. Thriving partnerships between individuals imply they possess certain attractive traits such as conscientiousness, conformity, self-discipline, extraversion, trustworthiness, among others. With these in mind, I’m not opposed to one, no.

Tom: Imply they possess. Whatever spurred this on? Ms. Brown’s engagement to your red-haired knight in shining armour?

Hermione: I need your help in securing a lifelong partner.

Tom (chuckles): You must be at your wit’s end to ask for assistance. Well… I’m quite, shall we say, indisposed as of the moment. Give yourself a year, I’m positive the second you witness your friend, red-eyed with snot dribbling down her nose, rushing to your side after a trivial marital dispute will you see the light. Marriages are pathetic spectacles of dramatic actions.

Hermione: But you swore to take care of your older sister!

Tom: I haven’t forgotten my bloody promise, Hermione. I can arrange a few suitors to your liking after I’m finished with my latest endeavour. So if you are contemplating offing yourself tonight, I suggest you postpone it.

Hermione: And if I find them severely lacking?

Tom: I’m sure you will. A friendly reminder that your sanctimonious tendencies’ only accomplishment is scaring off men of sound minds and able bodies. You’re the most insufferable of swots. Perhaps an attempt to appear more desirable is in order?

Hermione: You find me tolerable, you swot.

Tom: I value your mind. Your temperament matters very little. This conversation is below you, although I, uh, understand your desperation. What I can’t wrap my head around, is how you find Weasley so appealing. It’s the strangest of things.

Hermione: I’m not, he isn’t… You’re fond of my company. I’d wager you sorely missed my presence when I paid my Bulgarian friend a visit.

Tom: You mean Viktor Krum, the world’s most famous seeker? Half-man, half–

Hermione: Nott half-mentioned you were an hour or two early picking me up from King's Cross...

Tom: I simply misread the time of your arrival. Anyway, it’s foolish tempting me to rid myself of your companionship, my dear. I'm begging to be persuaded by just about anyone. Although I’d hate to search for another to engage in verbal fore—(clears throat)—duels with, it’s not an impossible task.

Hermione: And who would replace me? Mulciber? Carrow A, or perhaps, Carrow A? Lovely Lestrange, who confuses clockwise for anti-clockwise? Unlike your lackeys, Viktor’s a sensible man. He's spending next summer with me.

Hermione: He has a pair of eyes and ears—and a tongue—that he puts to good use.

Tom: Vot you don’t fancy ‘im, nor do you appreciate his talents in flying.

Hermione:

Tom: I thought so. Brooms are for sweeping dead leaves. You're a bloody swot. You deserve another bloody swot. And if you’re insinuating my lack of abillity befriending wizards of exemplary stock, look no further than Bellatrix Black. Powerful, cunning and partial to me. Also, a Black.

Hermione: She’d lick your boots if you wish it.

Tom: I wish it. She will oblige.

Hermione: Oh, shut it, Tom! With what you’re up to, there can be no telling who you brush shoulders with. Promising myself to individuals you consider cattle—

Tom: Do not mistake my restrained contempt for anything else. Why don't you consider employing tactical strategies you picked up from playing chess with Ronald? The purebloods have some utility to boast of, aside from their elves, manors, and dwindling health and wealth. Being wed to a Malfoy would be advantageous, truly—

Hermione: They’re valuable to you and you only. Oh, you're so salivating at the possibility—an alliance with one of the ‘Sacred Twenty Eight’ to ensure your footing in the wizarding world!

Tom: I can secure their approval without auctioning off your—virtue. Four centuries have passed since Henry VIII. And Hermione, forgive me, but you have nothing, not even fifty galleons to your name.

Hermione: I’m resourceful enough to earn a measly fortune. Should the Ministry reject my inquiry, I can still be Hermione Granger, best-selling author of—

Tom: Your reputation precedes you.

Hermione: A pseudonym, then! Faced with the possibility of unhappiness for the entirety of my wand-wielding life, crawling on my knees for an inkling of respect I will never receive? Not a chance, thank you, I’d rather starve.

Tom: I won’t allow it. Nobody would dare, for they will be met by my— You’re the pragmatic one. Better accept you're growing old a spinster.

Hermione: I’m not craving for romance—I just cannot resign myself to a miserable co-existence with a man I shan't speak to! A marriage of convenience does not bother me in the slightest, but—

Tom: Then, if you fear that I cannot find you a fitting match, or if my ambitions are getting in the way of your—happiness, then I suggest that you search for one yourself. Or take on lovers if your need to… arises.

Hermione: I have.

Tom: Have what, exactly?

Hermione: Found someone, I have. We’re well-acquainted—he’s every bit as determined as myself, maybe more. Brilliant thinker who can see the bigger picture, perfect foil for someone as meticulous as me. He’s this tall and well-built, just about your size, really. Irritatingly handsome and charismatic, can make puking an art form. Our conversations are plenty stimulating and challenging—

Tom: I think I’ve heard enough. Pray tell, then, why pester me with such betrothal nonsense? Are you seeking my blessing instead? If you’re confident with your belief that you’ve met your equal, then by all means, go ahead. Tell me the date and time, and I will be there in my best robes and behaviour to send you off towards the proverbial English sunset. I can even write you a toast if you require one. To Mr. and Mrs.—Severus Snape!

Hermione:

Tom: Should or shouldn’t I judge you badly? Granted you’re a smidge inferior to me, but you’re the only person who can almost keep up.

Hermione: I measure up to you! I happen to possess the same number of Outstanding N.E.W.T.s as yourself! I have managed a perfect Arithmancy score, broken Hogwarts records—

Tom: Oh, you’ve never failed to remind me how I—

Hermione: I’m asking you. To marry me.

Tom:

Hermione:

Tom: I’ve always thought the Sorting Hat made a terrible judgment putting you in Gryffindor, but it’s clearly incapable of mistakes. A neat piece of old-world magic, don’t you reckon? Now, if you’ll excuse me…

Hermione: Wait.

Hermione: Tom Marvolo Riddle! I said stop right where you are! No, not one step!

Tom: I suppose I am permitted to shuffle in place?

Hermione: Are you so thoroughly displeased with my proposition that you cannot even offer me a denial—

Tom: My father... has allowed me to sell part of my inheritance. I was holding off informing you of this development until the deed of sale is finalised, but when you’re such a troublesome, impatient woman to deal with, it’s unbecoming.

Tom: The flat’s in Bloomsbury. I have plans to build an extensive library of sorts. If we are to live together in the near future permanently, I suggest—

Hermione: Permanently?

Tom: Did you ever picture yourself with someone else? Well, I have never imagined such a thing. We’re merely continuing our co-habiting arrangements – we’ve lived under the same roof since we were 10, for Merlin's sake. You can keep your dignity intact for as long as you wish.

Tom: I suppose a signed document changes nothing between us, and if it makes you feel more secure about your future…

Hermione:

Tom: Hold out your left hand. There.

Tom: Close your eyes.

Hermione: What for?

Tom: If I’m not mistaken, a congratulatory kiss is compulsory after accepting another’s hand in marriage, or am I?

Hermione: You’ve never been interested in upholding traditions.

Tom: Matrimony is, one that you’ve coerced me into. I’d rather not smell of spittle, but the prospect of you harping about how ungentlemanly I am…

Hermione: Not to worry. I’m plenty satisfied with the outcome of this conversation.

Tom: Wouldn’t you want to be… more than satisfied?

Hermione: I’m not the one making declarations of celibacy…

Tom: Just shut up and close your eyes, Hermione.

Hermione: I’m keeping my surname.

Tom: Very well. I need a whole study to myself. Bigger than Little Hangleton’s. Strictly off-limits to your abomination of a pet. But if you want to volunteer Crooks for target practice…

Hermione: Is it a yes?

Tom: I agree to be your husband-in-waiting, Hermione. Shall I see you at dinner?

Hermione (beaming): Will you offer a toast?

Tom: You’re the most dreadful witch I’ve ever met.

#harry potter #tomione #tom riddle #tom riddle jr #hermione granger #fanfiction #hermionegranger #tomriddle #riddle #granger #gryffindor #slytherin

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allyvampirelass29 · 5 years ago

Text

Painting the Fire

A Vampire Diaries Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins

Niklaus Mikaelson smirked to himself, the paintbrush poised in his slender fingers, as if he were conducting an orchestra, coaxing the lyrical likeness from the canvas, his determined hand roving in brave strokes, ending in a slow wisp of a tenderly crafted raven curl.

"Really Nick, are you seriously painting that irksome assassin yet again?"

Klaus winced, reluctant to move the brush from the canvas. Ah, and how the notes have soured......

He turned slowly to look over his shoulder, clearly perturbed. Ironic for his little sister to have used the term, "irksome," being, herself, the very personification of the word, sighing in a huff, arms crossed, as she leaned forward, her face crinkled in harsh scrutiny.

"Come now, Rebekah, don't be nasty, not in the face of such...….. untamed loveliness."

His raspy voice got very quiet then, touching his fingertip to the mocha coloured cheek of his fiercely exotic subject, a gentleness stealing over his features, as the fiery dark eyes looked back, gleaming with danger and desire.

"Tal."

"Ever the poet, aren't you, Brother? Untamed, oh most definitely but lovely?" Rebekah scoffed tossing her long, straight blonde hair back, her impudent face continuing to frown. "You should have made her angrier, more inaccessible, with her signature "bite my ass," expression."

Klaus' lips curled into a fond grin, his usual piercing blue eyes, playfully dancing, knowing that expression his sister had so eloquently described all too well.

"What is it about this one, Nick? She can be so horrid to you, say the most frightful things! She supposedly works for you, is sired by you, and yet still defies you at every turn!! Why ever would you desire a creature that runs so hot and cold on you!? Is it just because she gives you something to chase? Poet and Predator, of course, I should have guessed. All the women in the world fall at the feet of the Great and Terrible Niklaus, but this one fights back, makes you play her game, and you're all too happy for it!!!

Rebekah threw her arms out exasperated as she spoke, mocking him, turning her head from his raven-haired masterwork, as though it pained her to look at it.

"Rebekah, if you're going to be dramatic, I'm going to need another scotch," He simpered coolly, dipping his brush into the blood red paint, his tongue pressing against his bottom lip, as he put the finishing touches on her own sassy Spanish lips, and the ruffles of her off the shoulder dress.

"Why this one, she asks...…" He spoke aloud leisurely, more to his painting than the frustrated petite blond being difficult. "Shall we enlighten her, Darling?" He asked Tal's flirty eyes in a hushed rasp, brushing the blood red paint over her shoulder, watching the satin form around her skin, the answer hot on his lips.

"The Fire...….." He whispered with a harsher, more hungry edge, swooping the crimson ruffle around the small of her open back. "Natalia..... My Spanish Rose...… From the moment I found her, picked her up, broken, I felt it. The fire, the delicious potential, burning inside of her. She's my Masterpiece, Rebekah, not just in artform, but in body, in flesh. I've stoked that fire, both starved and fed it into an unstoppable force. My femme fatale, as flawless a killer, as she is breathtaking a beauty. I want to taste that fire, become...… one with it."

"How very lovely of you, Nick," Rebekah chortled back, placing her hand on his shoulder, and he bristled, not trusting her overly zealous smile. "It's too bad. I feel sorry for you, I really do."

Klaus seethed as she squeezed his shoulder in feigned comfort. "Whatever do you mean, dear, dear, Sister?" He managed through clenched teeth in careful threat.

"It's too bad," Rebekah continued, smiling even more charming, leaning down to look him in the eyes, her brandished blade finding its mark. "That she's madly in love with Damon Salvatore...…."

Klaus leapt up from his seated place at his easel, shoulders heaving, and his eyes snapped furiously, flashing gold and glowing. "What the HELL did you just say!?!?"

"Oh c'mon, Nicky, it's disgustingly obvious. Your Spanish Rose has already been plucked by your worst enemy.......... You want to talk about flesh? His hands know every inch of her caramel skin, while the only thing you're caressing of her, is that cold, rough canvas. Of course....... there's our answer, the rub for your sick little obsession. You're only drawn to her flame because it burns so hot for someone else. Paint the fire, Brother, but by your own foolishness be prepared to PERISH in it!!!!

"How DARE you!!!!" Klaus roared, murder in his glowing gaze. "Aughhhhhhhh!!!!" He let out a thundering yell, flinging his arm out, knocking several glass jars of paint to the ground, each of them smashing against the white marble floor, red, black, yellow, and blue paint bleeding into each other in a chaos of colour. He stepped forward, and gripped Rebekah's throat, his thumb pressing hard against her jaw, and to his utmost frustration, she continued to smile.

"My, my, jealousy is not a colour I often see you dripping with, Nick, but please, don't claw the messenger. Trifle with your angry, difficult, sour-faced little tart all you wish, but don't forget who first tasted her fire."

"SILENCE," Klaus roared again, his grip tightening on his sister's throat, leaning in dangerously, trying and failing to hide his catching hatred. "Be careful, Little Sister, or I'm going to have to be very unpleasant, and that shan't be fun for either of us."

"I'm only protecting you, you braggart, preventing you from wasting your time on something that's long been won. You'll never have her, Nick, not while Damon Salvatore remains in existence!!!!"

Klaus rubbed his lips together furiously, mischief glinting in his harsh glare.

"Well there's an obvious solution then, isn't there...…..?"

"Please, don't tease. She's not worth it, Nick. If you're going to finally off a Salvatore, and nearly get yourself killed in the process, it should be over something that matters."

"She is the ONLY thing that matters, you spiteful, ridiculous girl!!!"

"I'm being ridiculous? And yet you're the one swooning, and moaning over her, painting and drawing her over and over again like she's the Venus de Milo, all when she could NEVER love you the way she loves him!!!! She'll always choose him, Nicky, always, and I think a part of you already knows that. You hold onto her, like she's your last human breath, but she's not holding you back, now is she? In fact....... You are the ONLY thing keeping her from what she wants most in this world........ HOW can you call those chains anything akin to love!?"

Klaus clamped onto Rebekah's wrist painfully, his hybrid claws emerging, his lip furled with his rising fury, his golden eyes narrowed. "You're REALLY starting to piss me off, Rebekah, and we both know what happens when you upset Big Brother...…"

"Bite me." She seethed, the black veins dancing about her eyes.

"Tempting........ But there are just so many more appealing ways to punish you, Sweetie, beginning with your darling blonde errand boy. Shall I bite him instead? Or is it your old tortured flame that tempts you more these days?" Klaus laughed cruelly, tilting his light-coloured auburn curls, already knowing the answer. "Talk about loving a lost cause....... How does it feel, Sister, to always be the second choice, the consolation prize?"

"YOU tell me!!!! Go on, you preening narcissist!!! Tell me she loves you with all of her thorny heart!!!! Tell me I'm wrong!!!!!" She shot back, trying to get loose of him, but he grabbed her other wrist too, his scruffy angular jaw raised in defiance, his claws holding her in place, and there was a part of him that wanted to mirror what her words had done to him, and rip her heart right out.

"You're. Wrong," He seethed, his jaw clenching, as he moved in closer, the violent heat of his anger, scorching. "Damon Salvatore is her EX, as in EXPELLED from her heart, her mind, her immortal life. She's MINE, now, do you understand? If I asked her to kill him for me, surround him in her fire, she'd DO it, let him burn, for all that damn smart ass Casanova has done, is hurt her something most cruel. Oh yes, she blames Katherine for the slaughter of her family, but it's Damon's hands that drip with their blood, having hurtled her in Katherine's warpath. He brought this devastation down on her, he REJECTED her for that conniving attention whore, and even now he suspects he can win her back with only a smile and a wink, believing with such hubris that's all it takes, when she deserves to be fought for, BLED for!!!!"

Rebekah struggled in his grasp, leaning forward, glaring back. "And you, Brother...… Is it YOU who must bleed for her? She's a weakness, Nick, a bad habit, a lethal dose, and if you don't stop indulging, she's going to get you KILLED!!!!"

"What's this? Rough housing again? Really, what am I going to do with the both of you? Rebekah, whatever nasty thing you've clearly just spat at Niklaus, say you're sorry, and stop pestering him. Niklaus, we've only got the one sister, and being down two brothers, we'd best not end her just yet...…" Elijah swept into the lavish room, the picture of serenity, that is, until he saw the paint smearing the pristine marble floor.

"That's Italian Marble!!!! Oh Brother, what a MESS you've made!"

"He has NO idea," Rebekah smarted back, and Klaus released her with a shove, his once again blue eyes following her coldly as she left the room in a huff.

"Go on, Elijah, swoop in and be the good one, the saintly brother, go comfort our poor sister's hurt feelings like you always do."

"My God, Klaus, Don't be-"

"What? Beastly? Can't help it, Brother, it's in the genes, I'm afraid."

It was then Elijah's calm brown eyes, caught sight of Klaus' fiery rendition of Natalia.

"Oh......... You've painted another one, I see."

Klaus chuckled, shaking his head, not the least bit surprised. Typical Elijah. Predictable to the point of exasperated boredom. "Oh, not you too!!! And here I thought you liked Tal."

"I-I do," Elijah managed, feeling unsettled by the striking eyes in the painting, that seemed to follow him as he paced in the other direction, making a show of fretting over the floor.

"Whatever you're not saying, Elijah, it's deafening." Klaus snarked, snatching up one of his brushes, whisking it furiously in a cup of water.

"You're too close to this one, Niklaus, she's a dire distraction. She has consumed you, tempted your very soul."

"How kind of you, Elijah, to assume I have one," Klaus smiled resentfully, cleansing his brushes with even more fervor.

"Be careful, Niklaus, take measure. She's dangerous, to you, to herself, and to the survival of this world. She threatens us all...... Killing openly in crowds, dissolving like shadow, but the most egregious act thus committed, is how deeply she has rooted herself in your heart, taking hold, stolen her way past your usually sound defenses."

"Calm your fears, Brother, I LIVE for her danger, ache for those comely shadows, and as for the world...…. I'll happily destroy it right alongside her, should she be so inclined. Make no mistake....... I'VE rooted her there, Elijah, that her bloom may flourish, entangled our hearts so neither can be withdrawn without harm to the other. She's right where I want her," He chuckled, caressing his palm along the side of the canvas, marveling at his masterwork. Of all the pieces he'd done featuring Natalia, this one was his favourite. Devil red becomes you, My Spanish Rose.

"You don't mean that!" Elijah insisted vehemently, his unease all the more evident, as he watched his little brother gaze into the danger he loved, the danger he would die for.

"I do. I mean it, Elijah, Tal isn't going anywhere, so you best get comfortable having her around. And Rebekah should learn to play nice with my paramour, else I'll have her grounded, quite literally, in the ground, tucked away warm and safe in her coffin. Now, if you'll excuse me, there was an original Matisse with a gold plated, pearl inlay frame, that might just be far more suited to my own artistry."

Elijah watched with an austere countenance as Klaus collected his portrait, smirking sneakily, and disappeared up the winding spiral staircase. Once he was sure he had gone, Elijah turned heel, and hastened to meet his younger sister in the foyer, attempting to keep his composure to little, practically no avail.

"Oh good. You haven't killed each other yet. How marvelous," Rebekah drawled lazily leaning up against the wall, rubbing her wrist with accusing disdain.

"What ARE you thinking, Rebekah, I said TALK to him, seed doubt of her allegiance, assuage him off her, NOT knowingly bait him, rile him up, get him foaming at the mouth!!!! Have you not been listening!? If you're petulant about Natalia, you'll only drive them closer together."

"I can't help it, I don't like her, and I don't like who he is with her, and I really don't care for your scolding when I've been generous enough to help you."

"You're not helping me, I've already told you, WE'RE helping him."

Rebekah chuckled, running a hand through her long, straight blonde hair, looking amused.

"What? By taking away Niklaus' favourite toy? Really, Elijah, you'd have better luck getting her to fall back in love with Damon Salvatore. Let's say it outright, shall we? You're not helping him, you're helping you. You want him to be a good little soldier, and you know she could do it, get him to leave us, corrupt him in ways the world's not yet ready for, never mind what he'd do to her...… Imagine the power they'd have between them, if he actually got his way. They'd bring the world to its knees, and us along with it.

"It's not altogether a terrible idea...… Throwing Tal at Damon...….. She did love him once, some part of her still must," Elijah mused, his thumb and forefinger resting underneath his chin.

"Oh BRILLIANT, Elijah, My God, you've solved the thing proper this time!!!!!!" Rebekah exclaimed in false praise, her shrill voice rife with sarcasm. "We play Vampire Matchmaker, hurl Natalia into Damon's greedy, skeevy arms, watch our brother drown his sorrows in the blood of everyone living and undead, before staking us both into eternity, perfection, SO happy we worked that up!"

"Well, what method precisely, would you suggest?"

Rebekah smiled with her own glamour and mischief, giving Elijah a knowing look. "You see, that's your problem, Dear Brother, you always go for the noble play, the right way out, when there are far more devious, yet desperately effective options. You want Niklaus to give up his saucy little assassin for good? Well, it's deliciously simple. Turn him against her, convince him she's betrayed him, that she's never loved him. Nothing gets him quite worked up like opening up his miserable heart, only to realize he's being used."

Elijah stared at her aghast. "No. We can't do that to him. Rebekah, really, that's diabolical, even by your standards, to break our brother, thus, just when he's at last learnt to love!"

"You want to buy our brother's loyalty away from that scheming woman, you have to be willing to pay up, Elijah. He'll never choose us over her, unless...… we choose for him."

#niklaus mikaelson #klaus #klaus x oc #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #vampire diaries #tal

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unstiteo-blog · 5 years ago

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100 Lessons in Life.

(Summary: this is a story about a young Gabriel "John" Utterson and his life growing up with his family, along with the struggles he faces while the others try to figure out what troubles him.)

Chapter I: Lesson One

The blinding rays of sunlight washed over my eyes, begging I rise from my bed. It was clear they would not leave me alone until I did. With a quiet groan, I sat up, rub my eyes with my fists, rested my glasses on my face, and left my room for breakfast. I’m not surprised to see my sisters up and helping our father prepare the meals. They are nearly finished. I take my usual seat at the table, sit straight, and yawn. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” says my father. “You're usually up earlier than this.”

“I'm aware. I apologise for my tardiness, father.”

My father said nothing. He served me my food, ruffled my hair, and smiled at me. “No, no, son. You say, ‘thank you for waiting for me.’ It lets people know you are grateful for their patience.”

“Oh.” That actually did sound better than what I said. How did my father come to be so wise? “In that case, thank you for waiting for me.”

“You're very welcome.” He kissed my head, watched my sisters take their seats, and served their plates with that smile of his. “Why are you up so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning.”

“Was it a nightmare?” immediately asks my eldest sister, Sienna. I refer to her as Rosey, Rosey dear, or Rose, depending on the time of day. Naturally she would ask that sort of question; she has this tendency to take on the responsibilities of an adult but forgets she is a child, that we are all children who would like to spend time with her. “Were you overthinking again?”

“Again?” I ask, almost offended. “When have I overthought anything?”

“Kid's got a point,” speaks up Zara, who is halfway finished with her meal. No doubt because she wolfed it down like she always does. “If anything, he underthinks.”

“That's not even a word,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I just haven’t caught myself overthinking, that’s all.”

“Well,” quietly says Luna, who has more maturity than Zara since she was born after Sienna, “just because you haven’t noticed it doesn’t mean we haven’t. You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.”

Emotions? What emotions? I don’t feel anything! This is preposterous. Father sat at the far end of the table and gave me a worried look, which fills me with dread, but said nothing. I suppose it’s because he knows he can get me to crack with one look alone. “Thank you for the food,” I say, deflated. I suppose I have been overthinking, but not about me.

About them.

My family is very…different from me. If you saw us, you would most certainly not think we were related. I’m the only one who is much, much lighter than them to put it to you shortly. As of late, I’ve been hearing children my age speak ill of my sisters and my father. They say such terrible, abhorrent things that I shan’t repeat—I’m better than that. It concerns how I was born, for the most part, but I already know I wasn’t born under the best circumstances. It’s knowing strangers don’t like them because of me.

I feel like a burden.

But I can’t tell them that. Such matters cannot be changed, and such ignorance can only be helped with the help of miracles. Even so, why does it feel like a knife is piercing through my chest when I think of my mother? She left me; she didn’t want me. It hurts, but I find it in my heart to pity her. My father, Rosey, Lulu, and Zizi are the most kind-hearted and loyal people I've ever met. She could’ve had something nice but avoided it because of me.

I did that.

“Jack. Jack,” eventually cuts in my father. I notice Sienna has been shaking me—how long has she been doing that? “Are you there?”

“What? Huh?” Oh…perhaps not the best response I could’ve given at a time like this. My father frowns.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Oh, forgive me,” I pick at my food and start to eat. I can’t help but notice the others have lost their appetite. “I mean, thank you for assisting in my recovery. Who was speaking?”

“I was talking about how you have this tendency to dodge anything that concerns you,” says Luna. “You always put others before yourself.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all. I’m a very selfish person, Lulu.”

“There you go again, dodging my point. You are not, and you know you're not. You're a hermit at best.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You should listen to your sister, Jack,” interrupts my father, his voice soft and soothing. I don’t want to admit it, but it does help me relax a little. “She’s always been very talented at reading people, especially her younger brother.”

Drat. That she has. I would look like a fool to turn her away.

“Very well,” I sigh, picking at my food again. “Only because I am outmatched.”

“John-John,” says Sienna, whose arms are now draped over my shoulders, “never forget that the worst thing you can do to yourself in a time of need is to stay silent on the matter.”

“Closed mouths do not get fed,” advises Luna.

“Reaching out doesn’t make you weak,” says Zara. Our father reaches over to hold my hand. He squeezes it firmly.

“We love you, my boy. Do not forget that.”

My hands were ice cold. Sienna pecked my forehead, Luna clung to my arm, and Zara approaches me only to lightly punch me in my [unoccupied] arm. It made me grin.

After that, we continued eating breakfast together, talking and laughing as if none of that happened. Something is wrong with me, we’ve noticed, but I don’t let it prevent me from enjoying my days with my loved ones. Furthermore, I have much studying to do if I wish to become a lawyer someday. I can’t allow the past to consume my thoughts.

The day continued on as normal. Father went to work, our nanny looked out after us, I stayed in father's office to read his books on law. It was obvious he wanted to be a lawyer more than anything, but his job was what kept a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs, and provided us with clothing. He was afraid to quit if it meant sacrificing what kept our needs in check. If he quit now and failed to become a lawyer, what happens to us?

I suppose I'd always felt responsible to become a lawyer if we plummet into an unfortunate ending. Much to my surprise, it appears being a lawyer is rather interesting. There is much arguing involved, and you can imagine that's a hobby of mine with three sisters.

I don’t exactly know when I took a break from studying, but I do know I decided to take a break and read one of father's books for fun, but it must’ve taken up the entire day since—

Knock, knock, knock.

Speak of the devil.

There he stood in the doorway, a faint smile on his face. “The girls told me they hadn’t seen you all day. I figured you’d be in here.”

“Am I truly that predictable?”

“A bit, yes. But I’m grateful to know you’re safe.”

“Where else would I turn?”

He didn’t reply. He sat next to me, glanced at the sea of scattered books on the floorboards, then he turned to look at me. “Jack, may we talk about earlier today?”

Blasted. “What…what happened earlier today?”

Father frowned. “Jack…”

“You just got back from work. I don’t wish to bother you.”

“You could never. I love you and the moments we spend together. Knowing you are suffering bothers me more than anything.”

“It happens all the time, you know that.”

“Yes, I do. And I get more concerned the more it occurs. What have I always told you?”

I paused for a moment. “Never eat before retiring to bed?”

Father laughed. “Good guess, but no.”

“Pet all the dogs you meet on the street?”

“You’re more of a cat person, aren’t you?”

“Get enough sleep?”

“Have you been getting enough sleep? You did mention you were tossing and turning the night before.”

I shift uneasily. There’s a question I didn’t want to answer. I look at my hands, avoiding eye contact, and shake my head. “My head is too loud sometimes. The thoughts I have, whether I’m alone or with family, blind me from reality. It’s like someone plunged me underwater and they’re trying to talk to me—I can’t hear them properly.”

There’s silence for a moment. Oh God, what did I do? This was my fault. I never should’ve opened up. Now he thinks I’ve gone mad. He’s going to call me looney for feeling like this, I know it.

I feel father’s arms pull me in for a hug. Instinctively, I hide away in his chest, safe from this cruel world. What’s this? He isn’t angry with me? “Jack,” says he, “you should’ve told me sooner. I’m not scolding you for bottling such feelings up, but I know that it must be even more frightening thinking you’re enduring this alone—you feel like you’re insane.”

Aren’t I?

“But you’re not insane,” he continues. “You're simply hurting, and everybody hurts once in a while. We all hurt in different ways. Please, Jack, tell us when you need us. We will always be right there to help you.”

I think tears started to leak from my eyes, but I had them screwed too tightly to tell. Father rubbed my back and hushed me, not seeming too alarmed by my state. “That’s all right, Jack. Let everything out. It’s okay to cry if you’re feeling upset.”

At that, I cried harder. I didn’t mean to! It was comforting to know he didn’t dare let go. Eventually, my crying session came to an end, and I pulled away from father to wipe my eyes. “Hey,” says he, “how are you feeling?”

“To tell you the full truth, I'm tired. But I do feel better.”

“Let’s get you to bed then.”

He picked me up—despite my resistance—and carried me to bed. He pulled the blanket over me, pressed a goodnight kiss to my forehead, and smiled at me. “Do you need anything?”

I think for a moment. “A little glass of water, please.”

“Of course. Water is a necessity, drink plenty of water.”

As soon as he left, however, I dozed off. I was utterly exhausted.

#jekyll and hyde #dr jekyll #mr hyde #gabriel john utterson #uhhh #fanfic #i guess lmao #this is my first time writing a story about one of the jekyll and hyde characters #robert louis stevensons ghost stop haunting me challenge

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accio-spaceman · 6 years ago

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VORTEX Magazine - Issue 87

May 2016

Download for FREE on the Big Finish website

The Tenth Doctor Adventures

Matt Fitton, Jenny T Colgan, James Goss, and Russell T Davies weigh in on the new “The Tenth Doctor Adventures: Volume 1″ series.

Technophobia

[Above Matt Fitton, Jenny T Colgan, and James Goss]

Responsible for bringing the stories to life has been script editor Matt Fitton, who has written Technophobia, the first of the Big Finish Tenth Doctor stories, as well as working with the other scribes on the series. Jenny T Colgan has written Time Reaver, while Death and the Queen has come from the imagination of James Goss.

(Full Article Under Cut)

Talking of this series, Matt says: “It had a long gestation period – when the licence first came through, we started thinking about different ways of doing Tenth Doctor stories.

“When it became clear we had Donna as well, we sent a pitch to be approved by the BBC, so we could give them a concept of what we wanted to do, story-wise.

“We decided to do something similar to the way they did things with the TV series. The first one was going to be a story set in contemporary London with a strange threat, so it was similar to a series opener of the era. The second story would be set in outer space, with something weird, wonderful and alien, and then the third story would be something possibly historical or a bit more emotional and based on Earth.

“These were the briefs that want out to Jenny and James, so they were able to flesh out their stories. We had lots of exchanges of ideas, back and forth.

“James is a good, solid, clever writer who you know you can rely on. I was really pleased to get Jenny involved as we were keen to have something of a name attached to the series, and she is such a good writer who loves her Doctor Who too. It’s great to have a Sunday Times best-selling writer with us!”

In order for Matt to get the feel for the era again, he had to dig out his DVD collection.

In Technophobia, the Doctor and Donna visit London’s Technology Museum for a glimpse into the future, but things don’t go to plan. The most brilliant IT brain in the country can’t use her computer. More worrying, the exhibits are attacking the visitors, while outside, people seem to be losing control of the technology that runs their lives. Is it all down to simple human stupidity, or is something more sinister going on? Beneath the streets, the Koggnossenti are waiting. For all of London to fall prey to technophobia...

Smiling, Matt says: “It was a question of going back and watching the episodes again, which is what I do with the classic series. You watch the episodes and how the characters work – the Doctor and Donna are just such vivid characters, as they are so full of life on screen.

“I suppose there’s an added pressure knowing you’ve got David and Catherine performing your lines. Everyone knows Catherine’s a brilliant comedian and some people forget just how great an actress she is too – you want to give her something to really work with.

“You know David’s so good and will be able to do anything you give to him.”

David Richardson says: “Technophobia began life as something else altogether. I’d been holding on to the idea for a story about sleep deprivation – what would happen if the whole world lost the ability to sleep? That was going to be our first episode. And then we submitted it to Cardiff, and of course Sleep No More was planned for series nine on television, so there was a clash. Matt Fitton rather brilliantly took the core idea and twisted it into something else entirely different but really clever.”

“Everyone knows Catherine’s a brilliant comedian, and some people forget just how great an actress she is too – you want to give her something to really work with.”

– Matt Fitton

Time Reaver

[Above Jenny T Colgan wearing an “I 'heart heart' Gallifrey” t-shirt.]

The second adventure for the Doctor and Donna is Time Reaver. Although Jenny – an accomplished romantic comedy novelist as well as a prolific writer of Doctor Who fiction – has since written a play for Big Finish’s first River Song series, which was released earlier this year, she actually wrote her Tenth Doctor story first.

In Time Reaver, the TARDIS lands on Calibris, the spaceport planet where anything goes. The alien Vacintians are trying to impose some order over the smugglers and pirates that crowd the port. Soon the Doctor and Donna discover why. An illegal weapon is loose on the streets. A weapon that destroys lives... Slowly and agonisingly. The Time Reaver.

Despite having written for the Doctor several times in prose – including In The Blood, a new Tenth Doctor and Donna BBC novel being released this month to tie-in with the Big Finish audios – this was Jenny’s first script, a fact she was extremely excited about.

“I never believed that people actually jump for joy but I did actually hop around the kitchen a little bit. Then I was so terrified I’d actually tell someone I got horribly paranoid. But it was an extremely exciting moment.

“I pitched a few things and they chose the one they liked. Funnily enough, Time Reaver is quite traditional sci-fi – it’s a mechanical interchange planet, like a massive interplanetary King’s Cross – whereas my friend and colleague James Goss has written one about Donna getting married, so it feels a bit like we’re on each others’ turf!”

Jenny didn’t feel the need to go back to watch some TV episodes featuring the Doctor and Donna.

She explains: “I’ve written for four different Doctors and you do have to shake their voices out of your head a little bit, just to give yourself a bit of a mental shake up because they’re all so different. Matt Smith is nothing like Peter Capaldi who is obviously nothing like David, etc. The Tenth Doctor understands human emotions, whereas the Eleventh gets a bit bamboozled by them, and the Twelfth understands in theory but he doesn’t really care very much – although he’s learning...

“But I don’t need to go back and watch series episodes, I watch them all the time. I can recite Forest of the Dead off by heart (I shan’t, but I can). Silence in the Library is a real touchstone for me. I have two Tenth Doctor/Donna projects coming out in May: one is set just before Library and one just after Midnight.

“Here is a funny thing; my kids were watching Silence in the Library last week because the six- year-old is finally old enough to deal with the skeletons, and when River says ‘Have we done picnic at Asgard yet?’ (which I wrote this year for the Eleventh Doctor and River), they all turned to me and went ‘But how did you know?’ And then when he says ‘Why would I give you my screwdriver?’, they all went, ‘Because mummy wrote that you had a sonic trowel and the Doctor thought it was rubbish!’.

“It was just so, so very lovely to be able to play with all of that when you’re writing for Doctors past, and so very special to me.”

Death and the Queen

[Above James Goss holding a cat.]

The concluding play in this first run of Tenth Doctor adventures is Death and the Queen, by James Goss. As we’ve seen in The Runaway Bride, and learned subsequently, Donna Noble has never been lucky in love. So when, one day, her Prince does come, she is thrilled to have the wedding of all weddings to look forward to. The Doctor isn’t holding his breath for an invitation, and her future mother-in-law is certainly not amused. But on the big day itself, Donna finds her castle under siege from the darkest of forces, marching at the head of a skeleton army. When it looks like even the Doctor can’t save the day, what will Queen Donna do to save her people from Death itself?

James explains how the conversation went when he was asked to write the play: “David Richardson: ‘This is obviously top secret and you can’t tell anyone’.

“Me: ‘I think I’ve just told a whole train carriage’.”

James is no stranger to writing for the Tenth Doctor – his BBC Audio play Dead Air, read by David Tennant, was voted 2010 Audiobook of the Year. The award was selected by voters visiting the Audiobook store. It beat other books nominated including Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years, Othello, Animal Farm, Shakespeare in Love and War Horse.

James wasn’t given much of a brief for this tale, as he says he was given: “Not much really. Just keep the Doctor and Donna together as much as possible and have them having a great amount of fun. Which I hope they do. “I had another idea which is also amazing!”

With the script having been finished months before it was actually recorded, has it been a nervous wait for James?

“Not really. So often these things are a tearing hurry, but this was a nice sense of it sitting on a shelf, gently maturing. I re-read it the night before the recording and sweated fear.”

And is he excited to hear the finished play?

“VERY. How else does anyone answer this? Donna Noble is getting married again. The Tenth Doctor’s trying to help. What could possibly go wrong?”

“So often these things are a tearing hurry, but this was a nice sense of it sitting on a shelf, gently maturing. I re-read it the night before the recording and sweated fear.”

– James Goss

Russell T Davies

[Above Russell T Davies in the doorway of the TARDIS.]

Another person who’s particularly looking forward to hearing the plays is former Doctor Who executive producer Russell T Davies. He created both the Tenth Doctor and Donna, and in his role on TV, he oversaw every single word which came out of their mouths.

In an exclusive interview with this magazine, Vortex asked him how odd does it feel, that a part of his time on Doctor Who is now being brought to life on audio by Big Finish?

He says: “Actually, yes, good question, because odd is the right word. Along with wonderful and exciting and brilliant. But I pored over every single word the Doctor and Donna ever said to each other – apart from Steven Moffat’s two-parter, I probably wrote most of their dialogue – so to not know what they’re going to say next is a little bit strange. Just a little bit! In a good way. But really, I can’t wait to hear those two actors riff off each other again. David and Catherine are such good friends in real life, there’s a genuine spark between the Doctor and Donna.”

Russell wasn’t involved with the storylines?

“Not at all!”, he says. “Well, they ran them past me in simple synopses, but it’s Big Finish, they know what they’re doing. And besides, you can’t make these things with someone sitting far away, trying to meddle. It’s a Big Finish licence, so it’s a Big Finish show, it’s their version of the Doctor and Donna. And that’s Big Finish’s speciality – recreating eras faithfully but always finding something new to say.”

And how excited is he to hear some new stories, being brought to life by David and Catherine?

“Very! Those two, back in action, after all these years, it’s an absolute joy. Just the other day, I was in Superdrug, and the woman at the till asked if I wanted a bag, and I said no, I’ll put it in my pocket, and she sighed wistfully and said, ‘Women don’t have pockets.’ And it made me think of Donna! I laughed to myself for about 10 minutes afterwards, remembering Donna’s line about getting her wedding dress from Chez Alison. It made me think how much I miss her. And bang on cue, here she is, back again! And I don’t think a single day passes without someone telling me how much they loved David as the Doctor. It’s an honour to get him and Catherine back together. Yes, I’m excited!”

“Those two, back in action, after all these years, it’s an absolute joy.”

– Russell T Davies

– VORTEX Magazine, Issue 87, Pages 6-15

The Tenth Doctor Adventures: Volume 01

Technophobia

London’s Technology Museum faces a revolution. Is it all down to simple human stupidity, or is something more sinister going on?

Time Reaver

An illegal weapon is loose on the streets of spaceport planet Calibris - and the Vacintians are closing in…

Death and the Queen

The Wedding of all Weddings comes under attack by a skeleton army. Can Queen Donna save her people from Death itself?

Written By: Matt Fitton, Jenny T Colgan, James Goss

Directed By: Nicholas Briggs

Cast: David Tennant (The Doctor), Catherine Tate (Donna Noble), Niky Wardley (Bex), Rachael Stirling (Jill Meadows), Chook Sibtain (Brian), Rory Keenan (Kevin), Jot Davies (Lukas), Alex Lowe (Soren), Sabrina Bartlett (Cora), Terry Molloy (Rone), John Banks (Gully), Dan Starkey (Dorn), Blake Ritson (Rudolph), Alice Krige (Queen Mum), Beth Chalmers (Hortense), Alan Cox (Death)

Available as deluxe five-disc box set, limited edition of 5,000, and as individual vanilla releases.

For full details visit www.bigfinish.com .

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howterrifying · 8 years ago

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+sherlolly: the admirer (final chapter)

I honestly never thought this day would come, but here it is! I hope this was all worth your while, my dears! I hope you'll enjoy the bonus epilogue at the end. ;) Ahhh, this is it! To those who have made it thus far, I wish I had a huge medal to give you, or like a big cheque for your time but unfortunately, all I have to give is my love and gratitude. Thank you so much for sticking with this drama queen. xx

All previous chapters of The Admirer can be found here or on FF.net.

The Admirer: The final chapter

It was just two days before the 18th of May, the day of John and Mary’s wedding and by some miracle, Mary had managed to get Molly’s dress done in time. At first, Molly had been hesitant to be part of Mary’s bridal party but Mary had insisted, saying Sherlock’s expression would be worth all of this. The thought of what Sherlock would think or say sent both excitement and terror through Molly. Buying a ticket home and wrapping everything up in Japan (with plenty of Ayumi and Mycroft’s help of course) had been the single most impulsive thing she had done. Still, she could not deny the current of anticipation that ran through her every time she thought of seeing Sherlock again. She imagined his face and wondered if it would be filled with the same anticipation and delight. Molly was positive he would be delighted to be reunited with Scott, but she was never sure what his response to her would be. Perhaps she had read it all wrong and he had indeed adjusted back to his Baker Street life as a solitary unit bound only to his work. Yet, her instincts told her something else, which was what ultimately pushed her to take the risk and come back home to London. “Oh, Molly, I know you were afraid lilac wasn’t really your colour but just look how lovely it works on you…” said Mary, delighted. “I suppose it does work,” Molly remarked, smiling as she studied her reflection. “Thank you for rushing to get this done. I told Mycroft going incognito as a guest was more than enough…” “You? A simple guest?” Mary said with a chuckle, “Nonsense. You’re more important than you realise, Molly Hooper. And, like I said, Sherlock’s face when he sees you walking down that aisle is going to be worth everything.” When the ladies were done with the fitting, Mary pulled Molly in for a hug and whispered, “You know, he will be so happy to see you, Molly…” “Will he?” Molly asked, “Sometimes I’m not sure what I’ve just done…” “Well, has it made you happy?” “Yes. So far it has.” “Then that’s all there is to it.” Mary gave Molly a quick peck on the cheek and another reassuring squeeze before letting her go. The two of them parted ways, both with smiles on their faces. A very important day was coming up, not just for the Watsons, but for Molly Hooper too. — “I know you don’t think I’m very busy, Mycroft…I mean, I don’t run errands for the Queen or protect the whole of England but I can’t just be summoned out from my own clinic at your beck and call, you know…” remarked a rather exasperated John who was being ushered into Mycroft’s office again. “I would never leave your practice in the lurch, John. My stand-in doctors are running your clinic as though you’d never left it.” “Well, that’s reassuring,” John replied, sinking with resignation into an armchair. “We need to discuss the wedding,” said Mycroft, cutting straight to the point.” John sighed. On one hand, he was overjoyed that the woman who was clearly important to his best friend was finally back home and was possibly going to make their wedding even more special than they could have ever imagined. On the other hand, however, it meant even more incessant interruption from Mycroft and more meddling from the British government than John could have ever anticipated. “Are you going to bomb-sweep the venue again or something?” asked John, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Oh, no, no,” Mycroft said with a dismissive laugh, “Bomb-sweeps are things of the past. We have new methods now that I cannot tell you about.” “Pity. I was all ears…” “I need to know that you’ve managed to keep Molly Hooper’s arrival secret from Sherlock. I imagine he’s spending lots of time with you and Mary as the wedding draws near. He’s rather involved in all its operations, is he not?” “A little too involved, in fact,” John said, “Which worries me sometimes but Mary finds it amusing.” “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. It keeps him occupied, which is always a good thing.” “Well, with such reassurance from you and Mary, I guess I shan’t.” “But he doesn’t know about Molly, does he?” “Nope. Not even a genius like him has deduced a whiff of it.” “Good.” “Mary’s been the one calling the shots anyway. She’s awfully good at this. Makes me wonder if she was a spy in a past life or something…” said John with a chuckle. “Perhaps…” Mycroft answered wryly, “Who knows these days…” Suddenly, a knock came on the office door as one of Mycroft’s assistants appeared in the open doorway. “Sir, it’s done and ready for your inspection,” said the assistant quietly. “Already?” he asked the assistant, “I had been regretfully told to expect it until after the wedding…” “They were afraid to…upset your schedule, sir,” came the assistant’s reply. “This is splendid news,” said Mycroft, genuinely breaking into a smile. “What is?” asked John, marvelling at the sight of Mycroft’s actual teeth. Mycroft signalled to his assistant to ready his car as he picked up a few dossiers off his desk to read whilst on the way. “Come on, John,” said Mycroft, “I hadn’t expected such serendipitous timing but since you’re here I think you should join me.” “Where are we going and what am I joining you for?” “We’re off to Baker Street,” Mycroft replied, smiling, before turning to walk out of his office. When the two gentlemen arrived at Baker Street, John was surprised to see people moving in and out of the building, with Mrs Hudson standing by the door, beaming away in excitement. “Judging by that look on your face, Mrs Hudson, I trust it’s gone all to plan,” he said, greeting the landlady. “I couldn’t resist and had to take a peek,” she whispered excitedly. “Oh! Wasn’t expecting to see you here, John!” The landlady moved to give John a hug and a kiss on the cheek. When she saw John’s furrowed brows and the obvious confusion he was feeling, she could not help but laugh. “He doesn’t know, does he?” asked Mrs Hudson, turning to Mycroft. “Not in the least,” Mycroft replied. “Well, shall we?” With Mrs Hudson leading the way, the two gentlemen made their way up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. When they emerged in Sherlock’s sitting room, they saw a few men dusting and vacuuming the area and obviously doing a massive clean-up. A few others were seen moving what looked like folded cardboard boxes and huge rubbish bags out from John’s room. “What on earth is going on here?” John exclaimed. “Why don’t you step into your old room and find out?” said Mycroft, very generously offering John the first view of what had been Mycroft’s secret project. “All right then,” said John with a nod. With a tentative step forward, John placed his hand on a familiar doorknob and twisted it open. When the door opened, the first thing that struck him was the smell of freshly sanded wood. In fact, there was the scent of overwhelming newness in the air. True enough, when John opened the door fully and stepped inside, the entire room was nothing like he had remembered. “Was this your idea, Mycroft?” John asked, smirking, turning to face Mycroft. “Well…” Mycroft seemed hesitant to answer. “Yes, it was,” Mrs Hudson answered on his behalf. “It was entirely his.” What John saw was an incredible transformation. The room had been newly wallpapered with a fresh, springtime-inspired design. Shades of lemon yellows and mint greens and blues peppered the design of the room, from the cushions on the new arm chairs, to the bedding of what was clearly the central feature of the room: a large, sturdy wooden cot. “This…is all for Scott,” John exclaimed in amusement, picking up a baby’s pillow and blanket that had Scott’s initials embroidered on them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs Hudson said, almost bursting with excitement. Indeed, what had been John’s old room was now converted into a most wonderful nursery. There was the sturdy, hand-finished wooden cot that Mycroft had designed by the best in the country, the luxurious armchair and side table, and the desk tucked in the corner, equipped with everything Molly needed in case she needed to work there. The nursery was beautifully lit with custom designed lighting and had everything from the drapes to the carpet finished to perfection. “That changing table looks like it costs more than my whole house, Mycroft…” John joked, walking over to a most impressive looking changing table with all sorts of customised features and secret drawers and compartments everywhere. “This is beautiful. I didn’t think it was possible, Mycroft, but you’ve really outdone yourself.” “Wait till you find out about all the security features in this room,” Mrs Hudson whispered to John.” The pair of them laughed as Mycroft stood, scanning the room, oblivious to their chatter. He was quietly examining that everything had been done according to his very meticulous demands. A small smile finally appeared when Mycroft had ascertained that everything was indeed in order. “I have a question, Mycroft,” John asked, snapping Mycroft out from his inspection. “Hmm?” “How did Sherlock not notice any of this?” “Simple, really…” Mycroft answered, walking over to check a hidden compartment in the window sill. “Surely he would have been irritated by all the people coming in and out…” continued John. “Locking this room wouldn’t have kept him out either…” There came a small laugh from Mycroft as he tapped a small section in the window sill only for a small little device to pop out from it. He bent to take a closer look at it and smiled in satisfaction that it had been properly installed before popping it back in. “All I had to do was to turn this into a blindspot,” Mycroft began, “and our mother is Sherlock’s greatest one.” “Oh god… Yes, I remember now…” John said, “I even asked if she was moving in.” “You did? Well I’m glad you did. Any additional mention of mother always helps. All it took for me was to mention our mother had something to do with the room and it sent him running. I could commit whole murders in here and he wouldn’t have had the slightest clue simply because he would have blocked everything out.” Mrs Hudson and John stood where they were, amazed at how Mycroft had allowed the largest clue to Molly’s arrival in London go unnoticed by Sherlock when it stood here, right in the heart of his own flat. “Right, I think we’d better go,” said Mycroft, turning to exit the nursery. “My brother is returning soon and we wouldn’t want to spoil everything, would we? Not after we’ve come this far.” — It was only the morning of the wedding day and John was already exhausted. He had spent the whole morning finding ways to stop Sherlock from going to inspect the bridal party in his compulsive bid to check that everything was in order. “It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said, “Mary’s got everything under control, her maid-of-honour’s there…the wedding planner’s there…” “Janine’s duties are confined to watching over Mary. As for that wedding planner you hired, well, let’s just say I could give him a run for his money…” “Look, Sherlock, we all know you’ve got this wedding planned to a T, so let’s just relax. How about you focus on getting us lads ready and to the church on time eh?” “I suppose I can’t be in two places at the same time…” “Sorry to remind you, Sherlock, but you’re not omnipresent.” “Well, we all have our shortcomings…” “Enough. Let’s just sort my tie out and get to the church…” The two men eventually stepped out of John’s suite and began walking to the church. Sherlock was still trying to hop over to the bridal suite because he was not confident the ladies knew what to do with their corsages or if they were going to hold their bouquets correctly. Eventually, with great patience and great persuasion, John managed to keep Sherlock quite literally out of the ladies’ hair and to the church to prepare for the ceremony. Before they knew it, the hustle and bustle of the morning began to settle as the wedding ceremony soon approached. John and Sherlock were stood by the altar at the end of the aisle, watching the church hall fill steadily with guests. “You nervous?” John asked Sherlock. “No. Are you?” “Of course, I am. I’m getting married.” “So why are you asking about me?” asked Sherlock. “You don’t like crowds, nor social events, nor anything sentimental or romantic. This is an unfortunate amalgamation of those things. I thought I’d just check.” “I’m fine,” said Sherlock, inhaling sharply. “This is your day. I won’t ruin it. I had promised.” “Well, just…take it easy, all right?” John said, amused, “The girls know what they’re doing. You have to let it go.” “But those bouquets have to be held precisely at the angle at which…” “Sherlock…” “Sorry. I’ll just…stand right here.” Sherlock had lied, of course. There was an impossible knot in the pit of his stomach. Him wanting to fuss over bouquets and corsages was his own way of distracting himself from the terrible anxiety he was feeling. As best man, his place beside John meant all those eyes that were looking at John also looked right at him. It did not help that much later on, he would have to give a best man’s speech in front of those very same people. Swallowing hard, Sherlock tried forgetting his anxiety by checking the flower arrangements on the pews and was just about to run down to adjust a slightly drooping leaf when John nudged Sherlock in the ribs to signal that things were about to begin. The pianist had taken her position as the vicar invited the congregation to stand. Sherlock felt a moment’s relief as all those gazes averted from where he was standing and moved to stare at the church entrance. When the doors swung upon, the day’s sunlight poured in and Sherlock could see the figure of the page boy walking in. As he relaxed, he found himself being able to smile a little. Sherlock took a quick glance at his best friend and saw that his eyes were already glistening with emotion. Nothing could have distracted John’s gaze from those open church doors as he stood in anticipation of his bride’s entrance. A few piano chords in, Sherlock could see Janine, the maid-of-honour, following behind the page boy. The first thing he did was to inspect the way she was holding the bouquet and was pleased she had remembered his instructions from the wedding rehearsals. Two more bouquets, he thought to himself as Janine continued walking down the aisle. There was the second bridesmaid, and then a few piano chords later, the third one, both holding their bouquets correctly, as per his rehearsal instructions. In a few more chords, Mary, in all her resplendent beauty would step through those doors and begin her walk down the aisle. No matter how nervous he was feeling, Sherlock could not help but be filled with excitement as he waited to see Mary, someone he now considered near and dear to him, come down the aisle. So when an unidentified fourth bridesmaid appeared in the church’s doorway and began her walk down the aisle, Sherlock felt his excitement turn into slight panic at this unexpected change of plan. However, as his eyes slowly focused on this fourth bridesmaid and as her identity slowly became apparent, it was no longer panic that he felt, but sheer disbelief. The wedding march music seemed to drown out as his ears filled with the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. When Mary eventually walked in, John caught her eye through her veil and they both smiled. Gesturing with a quick tilt of her head, Mary signalled to John to take a quick peek at his best friend. John turned around and had a swift glance at his friend who seemed transfixed by the fourth bridesmaid whom he knew by now was Molly Hooper. Trying his best not to laugh out loud, John turned back to focus his attention on Mary, whom, in a few moments, he would finally marry. The piano music reached its climax just as Mary reached to take the arm of John Watson. The maid-of-honour, the two bridesmaids and Molly all took their positions in a neat row beside the bride. Sherlock had not once stopped staring at Molly. The last time he had doubted what his eyes had seen was when he had been drugged by a powerful hallucinogen. Sherlock was sure nothing of that sort was in his bloodstream and yet, could not believe what he was seeing. As the guests took their seats and the church hall quietened down, Molly finally looked up from her bouquet to glance over to the groom’s side. There, her eyes met with Sherlock’s that had been locked in on her the entire duration. A gentle smile appeared on her lips and Sherlock, too shocked to respond, merely blinked in rapid succession, with his mouth slightly agape. Trying hard not to laugh, Molly bit down on the insides of her cheeks and returned her eyes to couple at the altar. This was their special day and she intended to give all of her attention to it. She would deal with the short-circuiting detective at a more appropriate time. The wedding had gone perfectly according to plan and when the church bells rang, John and Mary raced down the aisle, hand in hand and laughing as the newlyweds, Mr and Mrs Watson. Molly and the other three bridesmaids ran after them, laughing and cheering as the guests clapped and threw flowers outside the church. Nothing but happiness filled the air and John and Mary’s faces shone brighter than the late morning sunshine. As the photographer snapped away and people continued cheering and clapping, the bridesmaids stood around the couple, smiling along with them and posing with their bouquets. “Just the couple now, please, if you don’t mind!” said the photographer, asking everyone in the bridal party to step out of frame. Everybody obliged and stepped aside whilst the photographer continued to take pictures, occasionally calling out instructions to the couple. Molly stood at the side, beaming away as she watched the happy couple clearly having one of the best moments of their lives. Being able to witness their happiness made Molly especially glad that she had come back, back home to her friends, to her family. “Do you have a moment?” came a quiet but not unfamiliar voice just behind her. Molly turned around and saw the very face she had come back for smiling gently at her. She nodded, smiling in return. Sherlock extended his arm and she took it. Together, they slipped back into the church, away from the revellers. With her arm looped comfortably in his, the pair of them walked quietly into the church, unaware of the amusing fact that they were in fact strolling slowly down the aisle. Sherlock led them to the very first row of pews and sat down. Molly joined him and the two of them took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet of the empty hall and the way the light streamed in, taking with it bits of colour from the stained glass windows. For a long time, neither of them said anything but neither were they uncomfortable with the silence between them. It took a while but eventually, for the first time since the morning, since all the wedding madness and the shock of seeing Molly, Sherlock could feel his chest start to ease a little as he relaxed. “Are you okay?” Molly asked gently, after she saw him take an actual, normal breath in. “Yes,” he said, exhaling slowly after. “Yes, I am.” He turned to Molly and studied her carefully, trying to ascertain that his eyes truly had not deceived him. “Are you back?” he asked, unknowingly furrowing his brows. Molly chuckled at his question and reached to take his hand. Her heart quite nearly melted when she felt his fingers weave themselves just as eagerly between her own. “This feels lovely,” she remarked quietly, looking down at their hands. Perhaps it was the strain from the morning’s anxiety, or the overwhelming emotions that flooded the detective’s now-functioning heart, but Sherlock simply had no capacity to contain himself anymore. In one swift movement, his free arm reached for Molly, pulling her towards him whilst his other hand remained firmly held in hers. As a dam of relief burst inside Molly, she let him hold her and rested her forehead against his chest. The sound of his heart was deafening, but with hers pounding equally hard, Molly could not be sure whose heart it was she was hearing. “Are you back?” Sherlock asked again, his voice even softer now. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Molly replied, smiling against the fabric of his jacket. “For how long?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Well, I’ve been given a position at Bart’s…I don’t have a ticket back to Tokyo…” she began. Sherlock blinked at her words and pulled himself away so as to face her. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the corners of her lips lift to smile almost playfully at him. Molly’s eyes shone like he had never seen before and for a brief moment, they stole away the impact of her words. “You’re back…for good?” he remarked warily as her words slowly sunk in. “For good.” she said, nodding at him. “But why?” he asked, staring at her curiously. “Why?” Molly asked back with a laugh. “Everything was going well for you there…you and Scott were fine, your work was making excellent progress, Ayumi was there…” “But it’s better here,” Molly interrupted gently, reaching to take both his hands in hers. “It’s just…better here, Sherlock.” He stared at her as though she had spoken in some unknown language. There was no reason for her to remove herself from all that she had so wonderfully established in Tokyo. It did not make sense that anything could be better, and certainly not here. “Was it my brother?” he said, eyeing her again. “Did he actually succeed this time?” “No, it wasn’t Mycroft,” chuckled Molly, “He’d be pleased you thought so highly of him though.” “Did something happen? Did you get hurt?” he asked, his eyes widening a little in fear. “No, Sherlock…” Molly replied, trying to calm him down. “Then what is it?” he asked, trying to focus on enjoying the feeling of his hands in hers instead of panicking. Molly dropped her head to look down at their intertwined hands, a sight she had thought she would never see again. She smiled, then returned to look up at Sherlock, biting down the amusement from seeing the perplexed look on his face. “I love you, Sherlock, we’ve established that, haven’t we?” she said, matter-of-factly. “We have.” It was Sherlock’s turn to bite down a smile. “And that’s why it’s better here,” said Molly, looking right at him. “Is it?” he remarked quietly. “Yes, Sherlock, yes it is,” Molly replied. “But it is better without me. That was established for us, was it not?” he said, fighting his rising emotion with the trustworthiness of logic. “No, I’ve decided it isn’t,” Molly said firmly. “Sherlock…” “Yes?” “It is better here, because you’re here,” she said, reaching to touch his cheekbone, “We’ve established that too, I believe.” They took a moment to stare at each other; Sherlock, processing all that she had said, and Molly, waiting for him to respond. Suddenly, he leaned towards her, took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. Molly smiled against his lips, grateful for this familiar sensation that she had missed which now washed over her. “You sure about this?” he whispered, his forehead touching hers. “I did leave you my earring,” Molly joked, “One simply cannot go around with merely one ruby earring…” Sherlock laughed. A proper, relaxed laugh. He felt all remaining tension in his ribcage finally ebb away as all the fog in his head began to clear. Molly was here, and it seemed, no matter how illogical it appeared to him, she was here to be with him. “If it’s the earring you’re looking for,” he said, giving her one more kiss, “You’ll have to come to Baker Street.” “Mind if we stayed for a few days?” Molly asked, shifting to lean against Sherlock as he draped an arm around her. “I thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock replied, turning to kiss her once more. Suddenly, Sherlock stood up with a start, startling Molly who also rose from her seat and looked around them. “What’s the matter?” Molly remarked, scanning their surroundings. “Where’s Scott?” Sherlock asked, worried. There came a chuckle as Molly moved to hug the bewildered detective. Sherlock could not help but smile as his arms naturally wrapped themselves around her, feeling instantly calm from her embrace. “You don’t have to worry,” said Molly, “Scott’s in the safest place I know.” — The room was peaceful and quiet, save for the faint sounds of stealthy footsteps that circled the room they were in. Mycroft sat at his makeshift desk and looked out of the window. From there, he could make out the church in the near distance, and just below, he could see the adjacent building, the large reception hall where the Watson’s wedding luncheon was to be held. “I hope it’s going well, don’t you?” said Mycroft. There came no response, other than a sweet smile and the slight clatter of a toddler’s building blocks. Scott Hooper, having grown accustomed to the soothing voice of Mycroft Holmes, looked up at the man who sat beside his play mat and offered him a red block that looked like it was meant to be part of the construction of a fire engine. “Well, thank you very much, Scott Hooper,” Mycroft remarked, gently taking the object from the bright-eyed one-year old who was currently in his charge. The baby giggled softly, happy to hear Mycroft’s voice. Unable to resist, Mycroft reached down to pick the little one up and went to stand by the tall window that he had been spying from. “Your mother’s somewhere in there,” explained Mycroft to the baby in his arms. “And hopefully, if all goes well,” he paused to smile at Scott whose attention was caught by some birds settling by the window, “you, Scott Hooper, are going to become my nephew.” — The day had taken a dizzying turn. His best friend was no longer a bachelor, now married to a remarkable woman, and Sherlock had successfully managed to deliver his speech without insult or causing lasting damage to anything or anyone. There had been tears in the eyes of his audience halfway through, causing Sherlock’s alarm bells to go off slightly before he realised those tears were in fact, normal and acceptable. John’s hug in the middle of his speech had been awkward, but oddly comforting as well. The day was turning out all right. The Watsons had managed to change the seating plan at the last minute without Sherlock finding out and had given Molly a place beside Sherlock at the wedding couple’s table. When his speech was done and he had given the final toast, it was Molly’s reassuring smile and firm squeeze of his hand that convinced him that yes, the day was indeed turning out to be all right. “That was wonderfully done, Sherlock,” she whispered to him. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he said with a long exhale, “And doubly glad you’re here.” “As am I,” Molly replied, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. The Watsons caught Molly’s kiss to Sherlock and both raised their glasses to her, igniting a laugh from Molly and a blush on Sherlock’s face. People being happy for him was something he definitely needed to get used to. Ignoring the continued and embarrassing stares from John and Mary, Sherlock turned to face Molly. His face was so suddenly serious that it shocked her. “Molly…” be began. “Yes, Sherlock?” “We have a few hours to rest before the banquet tonight…” he said. “Yes, we do. Thank God for that, I’m quite exhausted actually,” said Molly with a chuckle. “Could you take me to see Scott? Please?” he asked. Sherlock’s eyes were so earnest that Molly could not help but lean in to kiss him gently on the lips. “You don’t have to ask to see your own little boy, Sherlock,” said Molly, taking his hand in hers. Those earnest eyes from before now lit up in delight at her words. With their hands held, the pair stood up and quietly snuck away to where Molly knew was currently the safest place in the world. — There was the faint hum of dance music coming from the banquet hall where the ‘night do’ continued to rage on. Earlier in the evening, Sherlock had finished his violin performance dedicated to the couple and made one final best man’s speech. Scott, who was now together with his mother at the banquet hall, watched Sherlock’s performance after which he had inadvertently robbed his mother of her first dance with Sherlock, much to her amusement. Once the music had come on, Sherlock leapt off stage and swept Scott up in his arms, spinning around the room with the chuckling baby held close to his chest. Scott had stared, mesmerised at the swirling dance lights on the ceiling whilst Sherlock stared, mesmerised at the beautiful boy he was holding. At the second song, Molly had joined in and their reunited family unit of three managed to successfully dance to the full duration of a rather upbeat disco song. By the time they were finished, Molly and Sherlock were breathless but beaming as Scott continued to chuckle and coo, amazed at all the coloured lights spinning around them. When the beats of the third song began, they said their early farewells and goodnights to the couple and retired to Molly’s suite. Now, that same faint hum of music barely had any effect on the two sleeping figures of Sherlock Holmes and Scott Hooper. The boys had turned out far more exhausted than Molly was. It was close to midnight and Molly, having finally managed to have her bath, was now comfortably in her pyjamas, trying to towel her hair dry so she too could get to bed. Once her hair was decently dry enough for her to get some sleep, Molly took one more peek in her son’s cot to check that he was all right before finally heading to her side of the bed. Sherlock barely stirred for he had fallen into a well-deserved deep slumber. He had had a long day, and Molly was glad he could rest. Suddenly, there came a buzz from her bedside table as her phone vibrated with an incoming message. Sorry for contacting you so late. I just wanted to know how things went, And if everyone’s all right. — MH Molly smiled as she began typing her reply to the man who not only knew all of England’s secrets, but who also knew both Sherlock and her better than they knew themselves. We’re headed to Baker Street first thing tomorrow. — M Splendid. I hope you like the nursery. — MH Nursery? — M Yes. I had one built in the very likely event you and Scott were moving in. — MH Ayumi was right about you! — M I cannot attest to that, but I do know that I was right about you. And about my brother. — MH Indeed you were, Mycroft. — M No more of this separating business, I hope? You’ve both realised by now how terribly essential you are to each other. — MH No more, Mycroft. I told you, and I’ve told Sherlock… It’s better here. — M I’m glad of that. I hope the nursery is to your taste. — MH I’m sure it’s perfect. Thank you, Mycroft. For everything. — M — It was a late Saturday morning and Mycroft was sat in the back of his car on a quiet drive to Baker Street. He seemed calm as he always was, although he had a few worries running through his mind. There had been some updates previously that had worried him and, in his bid to contain things, he had asked for extra security among all of London’s prisons and sanatoriums. Even in his special high-security holding areas, Mycroft had warned his people to keep extra vigilant. The premonitions he had had then about trouble brewing had seemed to come back to haunt him of late. The most recent updates sent by his team had done nothing to allay his fears either. Still, Mycroft was taking advantage of this peaceful morning to forget about these troubles for a little while. It was not often he put work aside. There was nothing worth putting work aside for. This visit, however, was an exception. As Baker Street soon came into view, Mycroft could not help but smile a little to himself. He had been looking forward to today for a very long time. He looked over to his right and glanced at a wrapped present that sat on the passenger seat beside him. Closing his dossiers, Mycroft put them down and picked the present up, ready for his visit. As he made his way up the stairs, it pleased him to hear the sound of light, scampering footsteps. He recognised those footsteps and unknowingly hastened his own. The door to his brother’s flat was open, as usual, so he walked right in. “Mycroft,” came Molly’s voice. She was seated on the sofa with a mug of tea in her hand, watching Scott potter about their sitting room playing with his toys. “Molly,” he said, greeting her with a nod. Suddenly, a small ball of force hurled itself towards Mycroft and he could feel tiny but strong arms wrap themselves around his knees as his precious nephew, three year old Scott Holmes, rushed over to hug him. “Hello Scott,” said Mycroft gently, kneeling down so the boy could hug him properly. The little arms found their way around Mycroft’s neck as they hugged the most powerful man in England. Mycroft lay his present and umbrella down and returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around the little boy. Molly smiled at the sight and secretly stole a photo of them using her mobile phone. However, it did not escape Mycroft, who promptly looked up sternly at her only to break into a half smile. He was so different when it came to Scott. It was as though all the old rules did not apply anymore and Molly could get away with anything. “I’ve brought you a present, Scott,” Mycroft whispered to his nephew who still clung on to him. It was as though a magic word had been uttered and the boy finally released his grip on his treasured uncle, but not without keeping one hand on his shoulder. While still kneeling on the ground, Mycroft retrieved the present he had put down and handed it to the boy. “What must you say, Scott?” Molly remarked from the sofa, making sure her son remembered his manners. “Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” the little boy said, staring at the colourfully wrapped gift in his hand. “Why don’t you open it?” Mycroft said, smiling at his nephew. “But is it Christmas, Uncle Mycroft?” “Christmas?” Mycroft asked, perplexed. “This is a present for Christmas, right?” asked the boy. “No, it’s not a Christmas present,” Mycroft said with a gentle laugh, “It’s because you’re a big brother now, and you need a present to celebrate that.” Scott smiled, as did Molly on the sofa from where she watched them. Trust Mycroft, an older brother himself, to know how Scott would feel now that a new Holmes baby had entered their universe. With his uncle’s permission, Scott hurried off to his little play area and opened his present. Mycroft picked his umbrella up and got up to walk over to where Molly was seated. Just then, Sherlock emerged from the corridor, having just come from the nursery. “Oh. You’re here.” Sherlock said to his brother. “Yes. Molly said I could come.” “Yes, she told me. Very good timing, in fact.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “So, are you ready?” “I’ll give it a go,” answered Mycroft, setting his umbrella aside. In Sherlock’s arms was the newest addition to their family, only a few months old and freshly bathed and dressed. Striding carefully over to his brother, Sherlock gently lowered the infant down as Mycroft positioned his arms to receive her. She had not gone to sleep yet and very calmly looked up at into her uncle’s eyes, frowning only slightly as she tried to register this new face. “Hello,” Mycroft said to the baby. “Very pleased to meet you.” Molly smiled as she sipped her tea, observing her brother-in-law and baby daughter meet for the first time. This time, it was Sherlock who took his mobile phone out to take a photo, except it was probably more for blackmailing purposes than Molly’s more sentimental reasons for doing so. Again, Mycroft looked up at the offending mobile camera phone pointed at him and rolled his eyes at his smirking younger brother. Still, he did not waste time squabbling and instead, returned his attention to the small life in his hands. “You still haven’t told me her name,” said Mycroft, turning to Molly, “I was hoping to get a similar pillow for her with her initials embroidered on them…” “We wanted to keep it a surprise,” Molly answered, smiling at him. “Why would it be?” asked Mycroft. “Well, we named her after you, sort of…” said Molly, reaching to gently touch her baby’s forehead. “But she’s…” “She wouldn’t be here without you,” Molly interrupted, looking earnestly up at him. “Just as Scott might not have made it safely into this world without Sherlock, I don’t think Michaela would have ever existed if not for everything you’d done for us, Mycroft.” Michaela. Mycroft said the word in his head and slowly pieced the information together in the database that was his mind. The feminine derivative of Michael…Mikey, mother always calls me Mikey. Michael, Michaela. “Michaela Holmes,” said Mycroft, unable to resist a smile as he looked back down at the baby. Her eyelids were slowly getting heavy and she let out a small yawn as she slowly fell asleep in her uncle’s arms. “Now that’s a picture worth taking,” Molly said with a chuckle, looking on in amusement as Mycroft gazed fondly at the sleeping infant in his arms. “I want a picture with Uncle Mycroft too,” said Scott suddenly, running over from his corner to nestle close to his uncle on the sofa. “Of course you can have one,” said Mycroft, once again throwing all personal rules out the window for this little nephew. Scott leaned against his uncle who held his baby sister, and grinned widely for the camera. Sherlock took his mobile phone out and snapped away, amazed at how genuinely calm and pleased his brother looked. Frankly, Sherlock could not remember the last time he had seen Mycroft in a photograph other than for official purposes. The gentle smile on Mycroft’s face was a rare sight indeed and Sherlock was glad to have captured it. Whatever purpose he may have intended to use it for in future, he was glad to see his brother smile like that. “You should try having some of your own,” Sherlock remarked in jest, walking over to take over from his brother. “None of my children are screaming or running away, perhaps you’d be rather good at this.” “You’re talking nonsense and you know it,” remarked Mycroft, getting up from his sofa. “Maybe you should make a trip to Tokyo. Like I did.” Sherlock continued, smirking at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft said dismissively, “Besides, raising you was enough. I’ve had enough fatherhood experience to traumatise me for a lifetime…” Molly laughed quietly to herself as the two brothers began their usual light bickering. However, so much of the tension beneath it seemed to have slowly disappeared. She recalled the first time she had been in this same sitting room with them both and how the air quite nearly choked her from how tense it had become. She was glad to see that after everything they had been through, it was not just Sherlock and herself that had a changed relationship. The brothers too had changed and seemed to have reached a new level of understanding and respect. “Well, I should go. I do have a country to run,” said Mycroft, getting ready to leave. “It was lovely of you to come,” said Molly, getting up as well. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Mycroft said, smiling earnestly at Molly. “Come back soon for another visit. Scott would be so happy to see you again.” “I most certainly will.” Mycroft replied. After one more hug from his nephew, Mycroft walked out of the Holmes’ family door and down the stairs back to his waiting car. The weights on his mind were scrambling to return to burden him, but Mycroft made them to wait a little longer before letting them in. For the first time in a long time, Mycroft allowed himself to relish the bliss of having the family he had; a brother he could not help but want to love and protect, a remarkable sister-in-law, a precious nephew and now, a niece named after him. Mycroft also recalled his brother’s silly remark about Tokyo and was glad he could now smile at the thought in the privacy of his car. “First, England. Then, we’ll see,” Mycroft said to himself, picking his dossiers up again as he allowed all those pending work matters that had been waiting to re-enter his thoughts. — What are you doing now? — SH Why are you asking me such a question? — MH Clearly you’re not busy. — SH Does it matter? — MH Yes. If you’re not busy, it means you have time. If you have time, I think you should get on with it. — SH Get on with what? — MH God. Were we just as frustrating? Go do something about her. — SH Why have you suddenly become an authority as to what I should do? — MH Because you’ll regret it if you don’t get a move on. Take this reminder as me returning the favour. — SH What favour? — MH You gave me my last chance with Molly. I don’t want you to miss yours with someone important. — SH I will tell you if someone or something is important to me. — MH You already have. So go. Don’t be an idiot. — SH Don’t be like you, you mean? — MH If that’s what will make you do something, then yes. Don’t be like me. — SH About two weeks had gone by since Sherlock’s exchange with his stubborn older brother. This stubbornness felt like retribution for all the frustration Sherlock had put him through. Having heard nothing from his brother, Sherlock was surprised to come home one evening to see Molly frantically setting up their dining table and putting out wine glasses despite having received a text from her saying that they were all headed to the Watson’s for dinner. “Hello, what’s happening here?” he asked, taking the utensils she was holding and began to help her arrange them on the table. “We’re headed out, so I need to get this ready before we go!” said Molly, rather frantically. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, now taking from her a small vase of fresh flowers and placing it in the centre of the dining table as she had intended. “If we’re eating at the Watson’s, why…” His question was interrupted by the sound of their doorbell ringing. Nobody ever rang the doorbell, not anyone they knew anyway. Sherlock was puzzled and turned to look at a rather rushed and frazzled Molly. “Are you not going to get the door?” she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Why are we expecting guests if we’re going out?” he asked in return. “No time to explain…” Molly said, already halfway down the stairs. Sherlock followed quickly after and, from the top of the stairs, saw Molly open the door to receive a most unexpected guest. “Ayumi? What are you doing here?” the detective asked, his eyes still wide from shock as the ladies made their way up to the flat. “I’m here to, well…” she began “Have dinner with me,” came the voice of his brother, whom no one had noticed coming up the stairs shortly after Ayumi had arrived. There was an awkward pause as Sherlock scanned the room only to realise now that his entire sitting room had been rearranged for this specific occasion. Molly had pulled out all the stops and shifted all their furniture such that all that stood in the middle of the flat was their beautifully decorated dining table with what was clearly only two sets of cutlery. Several bottles of wine had been left on a side table, also decorated with fresh flowers. “Well, looks like the two of you can take it from here,” Molly said, giving Ayumi a quick hug. “Come on, Sherlock… the kids are already with Mary. We’d better head over quickly.” “Right, uh…” Sherlock was still trying to process the thought that his brother was actually going to sit down and eat a proper meal, and with another human being. “Sherlock, let’s go…” said Molly, yanking her husband by his coat sleeve. When the doors were slammed shut, Ayumi and Mycroft were left standing in the middle of the newly rearranged Baker Street flat. It looked more like a small restaurant than a flat and it amused Ayumi. “Was this your idea or Molly’s?” she asked Mycroft, walking over to take a seat. “The dinner? Mine. The elaborate set-up? Hers. But the whisky?” said Mycroft as he took his seat opposite and placed a familiar looking case on the table, “Ours.” As Mycroft opened the case of their favourite whisky, the one they drank only with each other, Ayumi could not help but smile. How strange that he was doing this. After all their years working together, being together in their unique way, she never expected to be dining with him so ordinarily like this. “We don’t…do this, Mycroft,” she said, leaning across the table, watching him carefully pour them a glass each. “No, we don’t,” he answered simply, handing Ayumi her glass. They each raised their glass, bringing them to the middle as they tapped their glasses with a soft clink. “This really is the best, you know,” Ayumi said, savouring her first sip whisky. “We have good taste,” Mycroft replied, taking a sip from his own. “We do,” Ayumi agreed, with a nod. The pair of them chatted for a little bit, updating each other casually on the places they had travelled to recently and the cases they had closed or had pending. By the end of their first glasses of whisky, Mycroft automatically reached for the bottle to pour them both another when Ayumi stopped him, resting a hand on his. “Mycroft,” she began. “Yes?” he answered. “What’s really going on?” she asked. Mycroft cleared his throat and gently removed his hand from the bottle, which in turn caused Ayumi to release hers. He slightly regretted that but it was too late. “Please don’t tell me you’re dying,” she said, looking hard at him with genuine worry. “No, no, nothing of that sort,” he replied with a furtive smile. “Then what?” “Sherlock,” said Mycroft, unable to put his sentences together properly. “What about Sherlock?” Ayumi continued to ask. “My brother informs me that I might have some..inclinations towards you.” Mycroft paused to take a sharp breath in, “And that it was time I actually did something about them.” Ayumi looked back at Mycroft, startled at a revelation she never saw coming. Was it really Mycroft speaking or a doppelgänger set up as some massive joke? Her mind went blank because she had never prepared for a moment like this. How could she? This was them. They did not do these things. “Oh.” This was all Ayumi could respond with. The two of them stared back at each other, a little lost at this unusual juncture in their interactions. Ayumi was the first to relax a little. Getting up, she shifted her seat to a spot beside him instead of across the table from him. “He calls me your admirer,” Mycroft said, turning to look at Ayumi, “It’s a little inside joke we have.” “Really?” Ayumi said with a wry smile, “You’re not doing secret trades in biological weapons though, are you? Because that’s not very good.” Mycroft looked at her, surprised that she knew the reference, only to then shake his head, laughing quietly. Why would she not know the reference? She was Ayumi. Like him, she too knew everything. “Well, you know me, Ayumi,” said Mycroft, smiling at her, “I’m capable of far worse.” The both of them laughed, fully aware that the power Mycroft wielded in the British government alone meant he truly could have been capable of a lot worse. “Thankfully, you’re a rather good man,” said Ayumi, returning her hand to rest on top of his. “And thankfully, you happen to think so,” he replied. “I know so, Mycroft,” Ayumi remarked, “I’ve always known.” “Well, then I’m very lucky,” he said. “You don’t believe in luck.” Ayumi laughed. “You are an exception.” “That’s rather moving,” teased Ayumi. This time, Ayumi was the one who reached for their bottle of whisky. She unscrewed its cap and poured a second glass for them both. “So, tell me,” she said. “Hmm?” “Is your brother right, calling you that?” Mycroft let out a quiet laugh and set his glass down. Turning to face her, his eyes zoomed in on the necklace he knew she always wore but kept concealed as he began untucking it from where it lay partially hidden by her blouse, revealing the pendant at the end of its chain. The pendant happened to be a ring, a ring that bore the exact same design as the one he always wore on his right hand. “You should know by now, Ayumi,” Mycroft said, holding her ring gently between his thumb and forefinger, “My brother is quite the genius. And he is never wrong.” — The Holmes family had returned late from their dinner at the Watson’s, with both Molly and Sherlock carrying one sleeping child each and, to their surprise, found their flat restored to its original layout. “They really are meant for each other,” Molly whispered, careful not to wake Michaela. “I bet Ayumi did all the furniture shifting,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “But I bet Mycroft wouldn’t have let her. He probably summoned his team or something…” Molly remarked, “I wonder where they’d gone to after dinner.” Sherlock took a quick look round the room, scanning for little clues and signs as to how their dinner possibly went. When he had gathered enough evidence, he looked at Molly with an amused half grin on his face. “I don’t think we should wonder about that,” said Sherlock, inciting a soft chuckle from Molly. Shaking her head at her husband’s remark, Molly headed towards the nursery to put Michaela to bed. Sherlock, with his son sleeping soundly as his head rested against his father’s shoulders, walked over to sit on the sofa instead. With the sitting room all to themselves, Sherlock smiled and tilted his head to quietly observe the little boy sleeping in his arms. He studied the full head of Scott’s chocolate brown hair, the slope of his nose that was distinctly his mother’s and measured the even breaths the boy took while he slept. Unable to resist, he planted a gentle kiss on his son’s hair and rested his cheek against the soft wisps, shutting his eyes as he savoured what he had never imagined he would ever experience. Twenty minutes later, Molly walked out of the nursery to a sight she knew she would never tire of seeing. There, seated on the sofa, was Sherlock, having fallen asleep whilst still tightly clutching onto their son. It confounded her sometimes, how she could never imagine a single moment in Scott’s life without Sherlock being a part of it. From the moment he had been born, Sherlock had been there. In Molly’s heart, there was nobody else who could have been Scott’s father. Sherlock must have felt her eyes on him for his eyelids fluttered opened suddenly and eventually met her gaze. He smiled warmly at her, before carefully manoeuvring himself as he stood up, taking care not to wake the little boy. Together, he and Molly walked to the nursery and put Scott to bed. Sherlock pulled the covers up to his son’s shoulder’s and kissed him softly on his cheek. He then walked over to Michaela’s crib and bent to kiss her too, amazed that this small little life was also his to call his own. “Who would have thought, hey?” said Molly quietly, wrapping one arm around her husband’s waist as the pair of them stood in the middle of their children’s nursery. “I hate to admit it, but if there was anyone, it would have been Mycroft,” Sherlock replied as he too, wrapped his arm around her waist. The couple laughed quietly, not wanting to disturb their sleeping children. Sherlock turned to kiss Molly’s hair as she shut her eyes and leaned in even closer. “Do you remember that one occasion that you had been poisoned?” asked Sherlock, his voice even quieter and suddenly solemn. “I try not to,” answered Molly, “But yes, I do.” “I don’t know what I’d do if that ever happened again,” he whispered, “If I ever had to face losing you, or the children.” “We’ll do our best not to let it happen,” said Molly, looking up at into his anxious eyes. “I wish I could rule it out completely.” “You know that’s not possible, Sherlock.” “I know.” Molly could sense Sherlock’s heart sink in his chest as one of the greatest side effects of sentiment and love began to grip him. “Sherlock,” Molly began, turning to face him. “Hmm?” he said, still lost in his quiet distress. “Focus on what you have,” she said, “And not on what you might lose.” “ But I’d almost lost you,” he said, “Twice.” Shaking her head in amusement, Molly smiled as she recalled the death that almost claimed her and the man that almost did so too. She smiled because in all those times that Sherlock thought she had been lost to him, he could not have been more wrong. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, smiling as she moved to kiss him, “You’ve always had me. Always.”

Epilogue

It was a luxurious country home she lived in, but she knew that every inch of its grandiosity was a prison. Specifically, her prison. Every step she took was monitored, everywhere she turned she knew the eye of a camera followed. No visitors were allowed, but that was never a problem. No visitors ever came, save for her pathetic old man or worse, the insufferable Mycroft Holmes. Evelyn Lancaster sat in one of the many ornate sitting rooms and flipped through a book of poetry aimlessly. She hated reading but one of the few activities she was allowed was that. Eventually, she made it a point to pick a new book as often as she could and challenged herself to see how many pages she could read before wanting to throw the book against the wall. Everything was suffocating and just so boring. “You have a visitor,” said one of the guards to her this morning. “Oh god,” she moaned, dropping the book to the carpeted floor, “Two whole months of bliss and now they return to taunt me. Could you kill him for me?” The guard did not respond for none of the security personnel was allowed to interact with her beyond what their duties stated. She had been informed of her guest and that was all he had been allowed to say. Having no choice but to receive her unwanted guest, Evelyn straightened her blouse and moved to sit on an armchair to await either the blithering idiot she called her father, or the emotionless and utterly unentertaining Mycroft Holmes. To her surprise, however, a smartly dressed young man appeared and her eyes widened in both disbelief and curiosity. “Hello, Ms Lancaster,” said the gentleman, walking boldly into the room. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, rising from her seat as he took her hand and kissed it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” “Well, I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms Lancaster.” “And I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Moriarty.” The gentleman laughed heartily and unbuttoned his jacket before taking a seat. “Please, call me Jim.” he said, smiling charmingly at her. “And you can call me Evelyn,” she said, her eyes sparkling. Somehow, Evelyn had taken an instant liking to James Moriarty. It would not have surprised anyone, really, but it was clear from the very beginning that they were going to hit it off. Besides, it impressed her greatly that a wanted man like him, no, a former wanted man, for he was now deceased, found his way into her palatial prison without a single hitch. “How did you manage to find me? Much less get in here?” she asked, genuinely curious. “It’s only Mycroft Holmes,” James replied nonchalantly, “I know where his loopholes are.” “Incredible,” Evelyn remarked, delighted that something entertaining had waltzed into her premises at last. “But the last I heard, James…” “Jim, please,” he reminded her with another handsome grin. “I’m sorry, Jim…” she apologised with a chuckle, “The last I heard, Jim, was that you were dead.” “You mustn’t trust everything you hear, my dear,” he remarked. “I suppose not,” said Evelyn with a smirk, “Tell me then, what brings you back from the grave?” A slow grin appeared across James’ face as he reached into his jacket for a small white envelope. He placed it neatly on the rather elaborate marble coffee table between them. “I have a proposition to make, Evelyn,” James began. “Oh?” “You’re a businesswoman, I am a businessman…well, of sorts,” he said chuckling darkly. “I can’t help you much in here, you know, Jim…” Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow. “Simple, I’ll just get you out,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned back, relaxing into his seat. Evelyn eyed him quizzically, amazed at how simply he viewed what seemed an impossible task to her. There was power behind his words, a power she saw only in one other man; Mycroft Holmes, and it fascinated her. Perhaps there was a way out of this prison after all. “What is your proposition then?” she asked, sitting up in interest. Without a word, James simply slid the envelope over to Evelyn, gesturing for her to open it and take a look at its contents. Evelyn obliged, picking it up and lifting its flap to reveal a few photographs inside it. Carefully, she slid the four coloured photographs out and her eyes lit up in great intrigue. “My, my, James Moriarty,” she exclaimed, looking up at him, “What have you got planned?” Evelyn lay the four coloured photographs down, meticulously positioning them like an open fan and took another good look at them. She smirked at the happy faces she saw in them and tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on one particular smiling face. “I want them destroyed,” he stated simply, grinning at her. “Not the photographs, of course. Them. Well, mainly him, but you know, the others are part of the package now.” “Yes, I can see that,” Evelyn murmured, picking one of the photographs up to study closely. The photograph had been taken at Bart’s Hospital. Molly had just given birth to Michaela and Scott and Sherlock were with her by her hospital bed, looking down and smiling at the new baby. Evelyn ran her thumb across Sherlock’s face, remembering what those cheekbones felt like under her fingertips. “Why me, Jim?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the photograph, “Why would you go through all the trouble of getting me out just for this?” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, my dear,” James replied casually. Sitting up in his seat, he startled Evelyn by snatching the photo out of her hand, causing her to look up sharply at him. He took a pen out of from another pocket and began scribbling hard on the photograph, eventually poking a hole in the face of Sherlock Holmes. “I’ve been watching you for some time,” he remarked, continuing to slowly work his way through the faces of Molly and the children, “And believe me when I say…” He paused to toss the now defaced photo of Sherlock Holmes and his family at Evelyn and smiled fiendishly at her. “I am a great fan of your work.”

END

#the admirer by terrified

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