#Greg water type
Note
Ypu said you wanna write for rodrick and I wanna request.
So rodrick with a good girl neighbour reader (think- gwen stacy type) and rodrick does all kinda stuff to impress her even at school so yea.
I'm a sucker for goofy! Himbo! Rodrick
Thank you for the request. I hope you enjoy this
"BOYS! OUR NEW NEIGHBOURS ARE HERE!" Susan yelled and huffed when none of the boys responded to her call. Greg was busy filming Rowley trying to fall from his chair. Rodrick was in the basement and didn't hear his mam call out to him as he was drowned in the sounds of his drums.
A few minutes later, Rodrick finally comes up to drink water, only to see the new neighbours...most importantly, their daughter.
Rodrick didn't realise he had dropped his drumsticks on the floor until his mother was tugging him towards the living room and introduced him to the neighbours, the L/ns. And there she was with a sweet, gentle smile telling him her name.
"Hey, nice to meet you. I'm Y/n," she said, offering her hand.
Rodrick held her hand, not wanting to let go, but he had to since both his and her parents were watching them. "I-uh...I am Rodrick."
He scowled when he heard Greg snickering behind him. He wanted to hide so badly just because he couldn't tell his name to a pretty girl. But she doesn't laugh at him. She squeezed his hand, letting him know it was ok.
It was, at this moment, he wondered if it was too soon to ask her to marry him? He shook his head. He was being silly. Just because a girl was nice to him doesn't mean he should fall in love with her.
Then two days later, he heard knocking on the garage door. He sighed, thinking it was one of the upright elder people wanting him to keep the voice low. When he opened the garage door, he almost let it go when he saw Y/n standing there, the harsh sunlight pouring down his lawn.
He quickly let her in and introduced her to his bandmates, who were just beaming at the sight of Rodrick being awkward and shy around her.
"Hey, I was just walking by and heard you guys play. I was wondering if you could teach me how to play drums. I already talked to your mom."
His friend patted his shoulder. "Rodrick is our drummer. He is a great teacher too, he can teach you. Right, Rodrick?"
Rodrick got out of his daze when he heard his name. "Uh...yeah...yeah...I drum...drums" It was like he never learnt English in school, and Rodrick hated how he sounded.
"Ok, tell me when you are free. I'll come."
"Actually, we are leaving, so you guys can continue. It was nice meeting you." his friend winked at him, leaving the two alone. Rodrick knew he couldn't do much but look at her knowing his mom was peeping through the basement door. But he was just happy seeing her and talking to her.
He was happy they were bonding. He would teach her to play the drums. She would spellcheck his assignments. Rodrick knew she had a place in his heart when she would gently correct his spellings.
Slowly he loved holding her hands, her smile, her nose scrunch, the way she snorted before she laughed, and her soft sweaters that always smelled nice.
He didn't realise when he fell in love, or was he always in love? When he would go shopping with his family, he would spot things that he knew Y/n might like. He even saw a jewellery shop, and his heart dropped looking at the prices of the rings. But then, he had yet to win her heart. He was determined to buy this ring.
Of course, by the time he would be rich enough to buy the ring, he would already have your heart. But Rodrick didn't know he already had Y/n's heart, and she knew it was always going to be his.
@milivanili99 @cecekcecekceckceckceck @maneskai @isaentremundos @autumn3l3ctr0swings @mikulovingtrash
A/N: If you like this REBLOG AND COMMENT
#rodrick heffley x reader#rodrick heffley x y/n#rodrick x reader#rodrick x y/n#rodrick heffley#diary of a wimpy kid imagines#diary of a wimpy kid rodrick#diary of a wimpy kid rodrick rules#diary of a wimpy kid#rodrick rules#rodrick imagines#rodrick heffley fanfic#rodrick heffley fluff#rodrick heffley x fem!reader#devon bostick x reader#devon bostick#ask turvi#turvi writes
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Turmoil: Chapter 3
Roman Roy x Reader
a/n: idk what it is guys, but I kind of hate this chapter. I feel like I didn’t hit the nail on the head this time but instead hit someone in the face. garbage writing aside, I hope you enjoy x :,)
Word Count: 2.186k
Your new apartment isn’t much of an upgrade, but it’s still nice, and you’re confident you’ll be able to turn it into your own.
After his drunken confession in the car, Roman had cried, thrown up in the toilet, and promptly passed out on the couch. You think it’s best you let him sleep. He’s exhausted himself like a toddler unaware of their body.
You sit cross legged on the armchair adjacent to the couch, leaving you able to keep an eye on Roman. Sure, he was an asshole, but he’d had way too much to drink and you didn’t want him to hurt himself.
The only part of getting a new apartment that miffed you was the fact that Logan had made sure it was a single bedroom. When you’d asked him about it, he’d given you some bullshit about how you had to keep up appearances. You know it’s about the money, but you find it pointless to say so.
You decide that since you have to stay up to make sure Roman doesn’t kill himself in his drunken stupor, you’ll start on the paperwork for Connor’s lawsuit. If he really wants to waste your time, like Roman had suggested, he’d found the perfect way to do it. You begin drafting, Roman tossing and turning.
As you begin to fill out the same forms you had many times before, your mind floats elsewhere. What Roman had said in the car had admittedly made your heart flutter. The idea that there could actually be something between you two was something, to your dismay, that you wanted to explore. But because he was so damn drunk, you can’t take anything he said seriously. You doubt he’ll even remember anything when he wakes up.
He keeps shifting in his sleep, troubled, and from your vantage point you can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
You set aside your laptop and find a clean towelette in the kitchen. You get some ice from the fridge, chill some water, and dunk the rag into it before bringing it back to the living room.
Perching on the edge of the sofa, you gently coax Roman onto his back and drape the cool rag across his forehead after gently pushing his hair out of the way. He visibly relaxes, lips parting in a sigh.
Your heart aches a little, staring down at him. In another world, this might have worked.
But you have to stay in your current reality. And the lawsuit wouldn’t draft itself.
You don’t realize you fell asleep until you wake up the next morning. Your laptop still sits on your lap, and the stiffness in your joints is searing. Roman’s not there anymore. You don’t think he’s even in the apartment. So much for you staying to take care of him.
You find your phone on the floor. No messages from Roman, and you know the apartment is empty now. You sigh, feeling a bit dumb.
There is, however, an obscene amount of text messages from Connor. You deign not to respond, for your own mental health. Apart from Connor making you want to chuck your phone into the Hudson, there’s a message you actually find a little endearing.
At the dinner you’d asked Shiv to give your number to Greg so you two could sort things out for when you had to go to Norway.
xxx-xxx-xxxx; Unknown
Y/N,
Congratulations on your engagement, you will make a beautiful bride! I know we have some things to figure out, so I’d like to take you out for a friendly dinner. Please forward my congratulations to Roman. He has me blocked on everything.
Gregory Hirsch
You type out a response, biting back a laugh. You both agree to a casual dinner in a few days time- your treat, you insisted.
You mute Connor, who’s continued to spam you, and scroll through your emails when Kendall gives you a call. You pick up, and he asks, “Is bribery a felony?”
“Yeah, but it depends.”
“So. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically…”
“A man owns a large conglomerate that earns him millions. A certain politician runs a campaign that, if they were to come into power, would destroy said company from inside out because of some, er, under the table acquisitions…”
“A monopoly?”
“That’s the word. This person can’t come into power, that’d ruin things. But how do you get someone to lose that’s statistically projected to win?”
“What connections does Logan fucking have?” you hiss.
“Not on here.” Kendall sighs. “Is Roman with you? He won’t pick up his phone.”
“He got completely blackout drunk last night and passed out on the couch. I don’t know where he is.”
“He’ll turn up. Don’t worry. Board meeting in two days, okay?” He hangs up. You don’t dislike Kendall at all, he just has his… own way with words.
You’re pretty sure you can get away with working from home today. You’ll have your assistant fax whatever crosses your desk while you rot on the couch.
She does. The pictures Connor promised come through, and you thumb through them absentmindedly. Some rings, a Rolex, a jade bracelet, more expensive bullshit you don’t think anyone needs. You’ll tally the prices, inflate for ‘emotional damage’ and your time, and serve the hotel.
Your assistant texts you something about Connor bitching about the jade bracelet and how it’s one of a kind and you need to get it back. You make a note to get her a fancy gift for putting up with this bullshit.
You’re happy to have a calm day to yourself. You lounge around on the couch, idly doing some work. You hear a key moving around in the lock before Roman shoulders the door open.
He falters when he sees you.
“Uh, I’m home.”
You look up at him blankly.
“What? What’s with that face?”
You sigh and turn back to your computer.
“Hey,” he whines. “What’d I do?”
“You got drunk, fell asleep on the couch, then got up and left in the early morning without telling anyone where you went.”
He kicks his shoes off by the door then comes over and flops down next to you. “I’m here now.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t like this side of you. You’re making me feel guilty.”
“Maybe you’re feeling guilty because you did something wrong.”
“I literally remember nothing from last night. I woke up early and went to the gym. That’s it.”
“Kendall’s been trying to contact you.”
“Yeah. Board meeting.” He props his feet up into your lap. “Can we talk?”
“About?”
“Us.”
You sigh and set your laptop on the coffee table.
“I know I’m a jerk. And I know I was a dick the day we met. And the day after that. And this morning.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. “So I thought I’d atone for my sins and get you something.” He shifts, replacing his feet with his head and instead letting his legs stretch out on the couch. With one hand, he takes yours and sets it on his chest, and uses the other one to pop the box open.
You can swear you’ve seen that ring in your dreams before. It’s gorgeous- perfect, even. And it’s the right size.
“Roman,” is all you can say.
“Give me your left hand.”
You do, and he slips the ring onto your left hand’s ring finger. He inspects it, albeit lopsidedly from his vantage point tucked up in your lap.
“Are you sure you remember nothing from yesterday?” you ask quietly, your other hand still perched on his chest.
“Not a lick. Difficult day.” He shifts his gaze to meet yours. “I think, despite everything, we can be friends.”
Friends.
“Yeah.” You pause. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know.”
“It’s the only thing I know how to do. Throw money at things.”
☾𖤓
The sting of Roman’s words stay with you for the next few mornings, then when you’re getting ready for the board meeting. You don’t really know why you’re disappointed. What were you expecting? Why were you expecting anything in the first place?
He’d left for Waystar much earlier than you did. There’s a weird sort of tension between you now, even after your conversation. You’re wearing the ring. You can’t bring yourself to take it off.
You finish getting ready and find yourself in the harsh lighting at Waystar. You close your eyes in the elevator, the fluorescent lighting pissing you off more than usual.
“Hey, everything alright?” Greg Hirsch nudges you gently as the elevator lurches.
“Oh, hey!” You try to snap yourself out of it, but you can’t seem to get rid of the strain in your eyes. “Yeah. Fine.”
“I know things get pretty stressful. Especially in the position you’re in. Things get quite difficult.” He glances down at you. “Um, that sounded like a threat. Which it wasn’t. I’m on your side, to be clear.”
You chuckle. “I appreciate it, Greg.” You talk about nothing as he walks you to the conference room, and he gives you an encouraging pat on the shoulder before you step in. Kendall looks like he’s about to shit himself, Roman’s face down on the table, and the few others that are there are concerned with themselves. Kendall gives you a stiff nod, his leg bouncing up and down.
“Forget how to breathe?” you ask him, trying to lighten the mood. He ignores you and keeps himself locked in his self-imposed hell. Roman sits up at the sound of your voice, pulling out your chair for you. As you settle in, the room begins to fill.
Logan Roy is late.
When he actually does decide to grace the room with his presence, it’s twenty minutes past the meeting start time. Kendall hasn’t gotten any calmer, and Roman’s chewing on his cheek. He leans towards you and whispers, “What if he knows?”
“If he knew, he’d have all our asses on the curb.” Even you’re beginning to get restless. “Does he always do this?”
“He’s always late, but never…” He’s hushed by his father hobbling into the conference room on a cane. The brothers exchange a glance you could never begin to understand, and Kendall gets to his feet.
“Sit, I’m fine,” Logan rasps. Kendall reluctantly obeys. “Don’t mind me, folks. I had an… accident on the way.”
Roman throws you a look that says what the fuck? and drags a hand over his jaw.
Thankfully, that’s all that Kendall needs. “You’re late.”
Logan scoffs. “What’re you going to do, fire me?”
Kendall swallows. “Just extending you the same courtesy that you would me.”
Frank clears his throat, and Kendall steels himself.
“I’m calling a vote of no confidence,” he blurts.
“Are you?”
“I am.”
Father and son stare at each other from different ends of the table. “You’re not.”
“That’s, uh, not how this works,” Kendall continues. “We vote in private. Then the verdict speaks for itself.”
“I’m not leaving this room,” Logan insists. “And I know how fucking corporate politics work.” His gaze sears over everyone gathered. “Did we know about this?”
He does another sweep of the room before his eyes land on you. You give a minute shake of your head.
Suddenly, he slams his hands on the table. “Fucking go on, then. Who wants me gone?”
The room is silent. You can feel your stomach churning. Roman sits tense next to you, barely moving- barely breathing.
“Let’s, uh, put it to a vote, then.” Kendall shakily gets to his feet. “All those in favor of ejecting Logan Roy from position as CEO of Waystar?” He’s the first to raise his hand, and you raise yours not long after. Three partners follow your lead. You turn to Roman.
His hands are tucked firmly under his arms. He stares blankly at the ground, seemingly dazed. You can see the emotions warring in his eyes. But you have no sympathy.
You begin to bristle, and Kendall lets out a strangled breath.
“A tie,” Kendall says deflatedly.
“I have two votes,” Logan practically shouts. “I’m going to ruin you,” he spits at Kendall. You give Roman a nasty look then push yourself to your feet.
“It’s not a tie. Nor did you win,” you begin, raising your voice as you go. “You are the subject of this vote. You are legally not allowed in this room, Mr. Roy. Any vote you cast is regarded as null and void. As your lawyer, I advise you to take your things and leave.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. “I did not get a degree from Harvard Law for you to so blatantly disrespect it to my face. Your time here is over. Get out before I call the police and have them escort you.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmurs lowly.
“Really? Perhaps I will when we go to trial. You have quite a few hefty criminal charges hanging above your head, Mr. Roy. I’d hate to see them fall.”
#succession#roman roy slowburn#roman roy x you#roman roy x reader#roman roy#succession fic#succession x reader#wambsgansshoelaces#turmoil#succession hbo#succession slowburn
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Random PJ Masks hc's because I can.
I am a firm believer that Conner has lesbian moms, no you cannot convince me otherwise
Idk if it has been said before in canon as to what they are, but I believe that Night Ninjas minions are actually his baby siblings, meaning that even if he acts like he doesn't care about them, he will come to your house and kill you in your sleep if he finds out you've been messing with them, on the job or not.
Amaya used to eat sand as a small child. Though it was a habit she quickly grew out of.
Greg loves being in the water but cannot swim for the life of him without his power suit.
Romeo's the type of kid who would claim that they don't cry often yet looks like they are on the verge of tears 24/7
Luna girl always has a pack of gum on her. No, she doesn't seem to run out of it.
Greg and Romeo actually hang out regularly outside of fighting, as they feel like the other is the only person who is both willing to listen to them and understand their point of view.
#pj masks#romeo pj masks#pj masks romeo#Catboy PJ Masks#pj masks catboy#pj masks connor#pj masks owlette#pj masks amaya#Pj masks gecko#pj masks luna girl#pj masks night ninja#pj masks greg
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Blood, Sweat & Tears (18+)
Orange Cassidy x f/Reader
Just like all my other stories, this has not been proofread, but please enjoy.
Warnings: Some swearing. Bloody OC. P in V. Unprotected sex. Oral sex (m & f receiving)
Requested by @lghockey
Gifs and photos do not belong to me. 1st gif @theocassidy 2nd gif @jasffy 3rd source
Main Masterlist ♡ Orange Cassidy Masterlist
James - Orange Cassidy ♧ Dustin - Chuck Taylor ♧ Greg - Trent?
YN'S POV:
I could hear James as I walked towards the medical room. I knew he was frustrated with how tonight went, but he can not take it on his friends.
I opened the ajar door fully, and the door slammed against the wall. I winced as I didn't mean to push it that hard.
"What the hell is going on here?" James quieted down once he saw me, but Greg, Dustin, and Kris looked relieved.
"I'm fine." Was all the bloody man said as he looked at the wall beside him. The other three looked at one another, and Dustin finally came over to me.
"He has been refusing medical help." I could have rolled my eyes when Dustin told me that. I walked back to the door and placed my hand on the knob.
"Okay, everyone who isn't covered with blood head to toe, out." Kris gave me a tight-lipped smile as she passed me, knowing how hard this gonna be to get through to James.
Once, it was just the two of us, I closed the door, grabbed the necessary medical supplies, and got to work cleaning up the very stubborn man I call my fiancé.
Who still is looking at the wall but wrapped his bloody arms around my waist but didn't say anything.
After a few more minutes of silence, I had enough. "James, you need to speak eventually."
Silence, which just made me sigh. When he is in this type of mood, there is only one way to get him out of the funk.
I took a step back, placed the gauze and oitment on the table, and kneeled down in front of him. That had his attention.
I put my hands on the waist band of his pants, and I tried to pull them down, but they didn't budge.
"Come on, baby. Let me help you." I calmly said to him while looking into his eyes. I knew he wanted to say no, but he also knew he needed this.
He lifted his ass just enough for me to pull down his pants. My mouth started to water at the sight of his cock as it hit his stomach.
Not many know this about James, but he is long and thick. I can barely fit his cock in my mouth and I feel like I am going to die from being suffocated by what I call the monster.
I call it that because it makes me scream and cry, but not in fear. Well, maybe the first few times, but James always holds back. Afraid of hurting me, but he needs to let loose tonight.
He needs to get his frustrations out, and I feel like tonight is the perfect night.
I wrapped my hands around the base and took him slowly into my mouth, never once breaking eye contact.
James placed his still bloodied hand on the back of my head but didn't put any pressure on it, and I wasn't having any of that.
I pulled back, jerking him off fully now. A string of saliva connecting from the tip to my lip. His head was flung back, eyes closed, and his mouth opened.
"Use me." I said. That seemed to startle him. He looked down at me, and said, "what?"
"Use me, James. Don't hold back."
"No, no." He tried to stand up, but I pushed him back down.
"James, we have been together a long time, and the sex is great, but come on, baby. I know you have been holding back."
"Love," He trailed off when I stood up, but my hand was still jerking him off. I placed my lips on his neck and started to kiss and bite, not caring about the blood that is still there.
"I will let you know if you hurt me. Please baby, you need this." I need this.
"On your knees." He growled out, and I practically fell to my knees. "Open." I did as he said. He placed the head of his cock in my mouth and started to push.
"If it becomes too much, tap my leg three times." I didn't have any warning as he started thrust into my mouth, increasing his pace.
And I took it. I had tears streaming down my face. His hands were gripping the back of my head, muttering so low that I can't hear him, but he never took his eyes off of me.
But then he pushed all the way down my throat and held my head still. I wasn't starting to see spots, and I tried to hold off as long as I could, but I had to tap.
He pulled out of my mouth, and I was gasping for air and gripping my throat.
"Stand up, baby." I didn't move fast enough, and he pulled me off the ground, turned me around, and pushed me over the table.
"Don't fucking move." I didn't dare move. I did gasp when he ripped my tights into shreds, and I am now naked from the waist down.
"Should have known you wouldn't have any underwear on." He groaned as he rubbed himself against my ass.
"Just fuck me already." My growl turned into a groan when he slapped my ass. "We do this on my time."
"James." I whimpered, my head against my chest. "Look up, baby." When I did, he pushed inside of my pussy and I could see in the floor-length mirror the look on his face.
ORANGE CASSIDY'S POV
We made eye contact in the mirror just as I pushed in her tight, warm pussy. "Fuck, YN." I groaned out as she whimpered out my name.
I looked in the mirror, and I could see myself fully now. The blood was barely dry on my chest. The blood was caked onto my face and in my hair.
I wrapped my hand around her waist, and she pushed back to lean against my chest. She placed one hand over my hand and reached up behind her and gripped my hair, which had me hissing.
"Fuck me James." She whined.
"You want me to fuck you baby?" She squeezed her walls around me, whimpering out yes.
My pace started off slow. I'm just listening to the sweet noises fall from her lips, but if my girl wanted me not to hold back, then I won't.
My pace increased until I was pounding into her. I leaned down close to her, my face right next to hers.
She turned her head, and I captured her lips with mine. "You close? Yeah, you are. Can feel you squeezing me. Want me to cum? Fill you up?"
She nodded her head, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. I pulled out of her and turned her around as I got on my knees before she even knew what hit her.
I spread her legs wide and wrapped my lips around her clit and shoved two fingers inside her. Her hands went right to my hair.
"James, James, James." She was practically chanting, her legs shaking. She was close. So damn close, but I need for her to finish around me.
She had the same idea. She pushed my head away and fell back on the ground and climbed on top of me, facing the other way.
I groaned loudly when she seated on me, taking me completely inside of her. She started to bounce at a fast speed.
I sat up a bit and leaned on my elbows to look around her to watch us in the mirror. I groaned when I saw how spread she was on my cock.
Her limbs went taunt, her back arched, and her mouth fell open in a silent scream. I had to will myself not to follow her behind her.
She collapsed back against my chest as I thrusted up into her. One arm wrapped around her waist and the other one gripping her throat.
I moved us, so we were sitting up as I wanted to watch me drip out of her. Her one hand gripped my hand that was on her throat and brought it to her lips.
I watched in shock as she took two of my fingers and wrapped her lips around the bloody fingers and sucked.
I was done for. I bit my lip as I came deep inside of her. I didn't want to leave her body, but I too.
"Come on, love. Let's go take a shower."
"And find me some clothes."
"I like you not wearing anything."
"James!"
Tag List: If you would like to be added, please let me know. @lghockey @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @crowleysqueenofhell @nicoleveno14 @1rsolideranna @legit9thlunaticwarrior @blaquekittycat @wwenhlimagines @melissahausen @tahiri-veyla @faerieofthenightcourt @hooks-martin
#aew#all elite wrestling#reader imagine#female reader#reader insert#tw blo0d#orange cassidy#orange cassidy smut#orange cassidy imagine#orange cassidy fic#orange cassidy x reader#orange cassidy x female reader smut#orange cassidy x female reader#orange cassidy x you
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Sherlock fandom.
Chasing Ataraxia
Always in motion, if not physically then mentally, the latter sometimes being more exhausting than the former. His brain never rested, and it made him frantically tug at his curls in despair before seeking out Mycroft and later Victor. Both were able to distract him and his thoughts that were whirling around in circles, making him dizzy.
Mycroft wasn’t exactly the physical type and encouraged Sherlock to use his brain by solving puzzles. Oddly enough, that calmed him because his thoughts were focused on one matter instead of creating chaos, firing all sorts of information at him in a constant loop.
Victor took him on adventures with their wooden swords and tricorn hats, playing pirates at the shore of the lake. Sherlock was happy and free in those moments, laughing heartily, his brain occupied with finding hidden treasures and chase the invisible enemy.
***
The six-year-old boys cried in each other’s arms the day before Victor’s departure to Canada.
“Why can’t you stay with me?” Sherlock wailed. “We have a big house. You can sleep in my room. There’s space for you there.”
“I want to, Lock, but I can’t. Perhaps you can come visit?” Victor said while stroking Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock looked at Victor with red-rimmed eyes and hope rose in him.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I will. Promise.”
Sherlock’s hopes were shattered by Mycroft.
“Canada is far away, Sherlock. It’s better that you realise now that it’ll be difficult to travel that far, than to keep your hopes up. I’m sorry, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured when Sherlock threw himself into his arms and cried until his throat was sore.
***
“I’m going to find a new friend,” Sherlock stated when school started again.
“Be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned him. “Not everyone is like Victor.”
As always, Mycroft was right. Sherlock was a passionate boy; it was all or nothing. When he got older Sherlock realised that his search to find another best friend and soulmate was a fool’s quest.
In his Greek lessons at Cambridge, he read about Ataraxia, which was described as a kind of freedom from disturbance in the mind.
The phrase hit him like a fist to his solar plexus. That one word described just what he wanted to accomplish. He did sometimes manage to get the feeling from the drugs, but it lasted too short, and the aftermath was taxing.
***
When Greg Lestrade decided to trust Sherlock, some of the excitement from his days with Victor came back. He got to chase visible enemies through a city he knew better than any cabbie, and his brain focused on puzzles. It was perfect except from one thing; he was alone on his adventures. Mycroft was no use anymore with his intricate government work, always too busy to pay his brother much attention.
Where can I find someone who’s willing to share this crazy life?
Sherlock knew he had built solid walls around himself. For protection against bullies, but he had a door in those walls. A door with a keyhole.
When John Watson lent him his phone at Barts one of the last days of January, Sherlock gave him the key to that door when he asked him to meet him at Baker Street the next day.
After John had tested the waters with him at Angelo’s, and later had shot that awful cabbie, Sherlock knew his search was over.
@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @safedistancefrombeingsmart @phoenix27884 @gregorovitchworld @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at @peanitbear @sabsi221b @a-victorian-girl
#flash fic friday#sherlock fandom#sherlock#john watson#sherlock fanfic#bbc sherlock#johnlock#FFF237#a fool's quest
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I typed out the live task 'fanfics'
-two Ls word-
The sun was setting. The light was magical and the water lapped
at the shore of the lake.
'Right,' said Greg. 'Get your clothes off. You're going in.'
'I don't want to,' said the scrawny, sausage-shaped man.
'I need you to retrieve the stone I just threw in,' whispered Greg, noisily. 'It's one of my favourite stones, I think.'
And so little Alex Horne…
2. -word with U-
In the morning, I like to have a pot of coffee and a slice of cake. Little Alex Horne brings them in when I ring my little bell. I let him wear his yellow cape if he is a very lucky boy.
3. -starts and ends with same letter- [interrupted]
These are the clothing rules the Taskmaster expects those around him to adhere to at all times.
One, the shirt should be tucked in, really tucked in. Right in!
Two…
4. -6-letter word -
I don't remember much about that fateful night. It was cold. The moon was full, I know that. I'm not an idiot. And I can't be held responsible for the terrible accident that happened to little Alex Horne.
#let's play another round of ''did alex write this shit''#imagine#just imagine#alex creating this#the fanfic-like narratives#he could've come up with ANYTHING#and yet#his heart always desires stories featuring him and greg#taskmaster#taskhusbands#my post
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tom loves caretaking... i think he would have wanted nothing more than to feed greg water out of a pipette after he did too much coke but then greg had to go and ruin his night and tell everyone he swallowed his own cum. but i think he feels the most fulfilled doing that type of thing. 'i'll take care of you' is how he expresses himself the most genuinely. he's shiv's rock, he met her during her 'mess' era, and he immediately latches onto greg when he turns up in his scraggly jacket and L.L bean embroidered school bag. filling up the chasm of emptiness in his heart also means belonging to someone, but it has to be a mix of being needed and the other person being vulnerable enough to stay with him, like vulnerability is the only thing that anchors anyone to him, hence his freakout at greg wanting to work in another department, and him trying to lock shiv into pregnancy because his usefulness to her will be gone if he went to jail. he has control issues of his own and they're so loud. i like you but i need you to like me before i love you. um but yeah nurse outfit tom
#im trying and failing to delete my drafts so i can actually find posts i want to save and not hundreds of half written posts but good enoug#ramble#ik the waterbottle scene was directly mirroring shiv but it also mirrors the vulnerability aspect to me#like- you dont want me to provide for you and you wont drink my pipette water IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!!#shiv is a way way bigger mess than greg can ever strive to be#i realize now this was supposed to be me asking for more caretaking fic but then i realized i could write my own (and i didnt)
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Drarry Fic Recs!
I've written very little the past week because I've been on a reading rampage. Stating up front, I'm a speed reader. Oh my! I usually read something everyday but set it aside at night when I do most of my writing. These stories, though, just took me in and I couldn't stop. They run the spectrum from a Regency A/B/O WIP to a 580K Dystopian Voldemort wins with a Draco and Harry you will never ever forget. These fics are all on AO3. So let's get started...
Let's start Light: Seeking: pet carer for Bartholomew (four-year old rescue greyhound, no special needs) by @gallifrey1sburning (14.5K, 2020). The fic is non-magical AU and features overworked, recently dumped, lawyer!Draco. He and his previous partner had adopted a rescue greyhound (Bartholomew). The poor beast needs care during the day, walking and such. Enter dog-walker extraordinaire Harry. It's lovely and it reads true to their characters. Pansy plays a very Slytherin role in putting these two together. It's not too fluffy but is definitely sweet in just the right amount.
Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 (38K, 2020). The atmosphere the author created for this fic is so gorgeous. You can picture and almost feel the breeze of a spring day. The heat of summer relieved by brooks, forests, and rivers. It starts on a Spring day with Harry taking a long walk from the Burrow because he doesn't feel like going home. He has a boring job and leads a boring life. He comes upon Luna's house, now rebuilt into a one story stone home. He finds Draco, Pansy, and Greg visiting Luna. Soon he is coming every Saturday to work in the garden, cook, and other things as they put together an outdoor camp. The whole fic takes place on these weekend adventures and mostly outside in the fresh air as the group bonds. While this is a light fic, it is not fluffy. They are children recapturing a youth most never got to experience. So come enjoy Pansy reading romance novels, Draco singing, a promise of flying kites, spending the night in tents, and taking long hikes. Oh, and finding Love.
Strawberry Fields (bitter bites) by @eddietoz (54K, WIP 15/18) And now we come to the Regency A/B/O. I mean really, do I need to say more than Omega!Draco who was caught with the gardener in Malfoy Manor being sent away to live with his aunt and cousin in Godric's Hollow, where he quickly insults the most eligible Alpha, one young Harry Potter who is joining the Navy. Captain Harry returns five years later and the fun ensues. Well not for Harry who has had his heart broken by his childhood sweetheart. Draco, still trying to redeem himself after the incident in Wiltshire and insulting Harry, meets with Captain Potter and they devise a plan for Harry to win back his love and Draco be redeemed. This may or may not backfire. You can feel the A/B/O heat in this fic, but given the era, everything is repressed and societal norms of courting must be followed. *fans myself* The author is still updating. The 14th chapter went up a little over a week ago (update...chapter 15 just went up). I haven't found many Drarry A/B/O fics of my liking (besides Embers by @shiftylinguini), but this one is like a Jane Austen/HarryPotter/ A/B/O crossover. Delish!!!!!
Where all the Veins Meet by @saxamophone (146K, 2023) How good is this fic? It's so good I read it despite it being the usual type I normally wouldn't. I'm not a fan of depressed, 'woe is me' Harry after the war. Not that he wouldn't have problems...most definitely. I just usually stay away from depressed!Harry for my own sake. However, the author won me over on this one. It takes place right after the war and through the summer of 1998. Harry's friends are trying to support him by showing up at Grimmauld Place to be with him. They love him. But, Harry, is so confused on what is him, who he is now that Voldemort is not only physically gone but also gone from his head. He becomes...shall I say...dickish. But still they love him. He meets up with Draco by accident in a museum, and this continues. They become almost friends. Draco (on parole having to take Muggle studies) is living with his Slytherin compatriots and they aren't doing so well either. Especially Pansy. Meetings continue, trust builds, friends aren't happy (some furious) when they find out. But in all this confusion, a light appears at the end of this tunnel. Beautifully told, heartbreaking, but resiliency and forgiveness is found.
And now for the beast of a fic I mentioned up top. I'm giving two links as the Completed original is in Spanish and was just completed a few weeks ago). The second is the translation that is not yet completed and I believe will take quite a while to do so. Desolación by SimpleNefelibata (2023). Desolation translated by JhonnyBotello01. (24/67 ~200K). Here is the summary: Harry Potter was dead. The war was over. The whole (UK) Wizarding World was finally under Voldemort's regime. And Draco Malfoy was part of the most inner circle to the Dark Lord. Eight years after the Battle of Hogwarts, and with the sudden apparition of Hannah Abbott at the Manor door, Draco is faced with desmanteling all the hard truths he's learned to live with. The fic comes down to one point, Nagini disappeared before being killed by Neville and one Narcissa Malfoy has been in Azkaban for 8 years for treason (lying to Voldemort about Harry being dead). And Draco has spent 8 years moving up the ranks so he could get her released.
I'll say up front, do not come near this fic if you cannot read torture. The author gives this warning: This story takes place in a dark world. It will touch themes like slavery, torture, violence, sexual abuse, and death in VERY grusome ways, as far as detailing them graphically and explicitly from the start, with the idea to not romanticize these themes. Take this seriously.
There is a Resistance, there is an Order and there is a BAMF Harry Potter who is now a seasoned warrior. He's surrounded by the most faithful including one Minerva McGonagall and, of course, Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys, Luna, Theo,and Kingsley all play starring roles, too. On Voldemort's side, Greyback, Theo, and an OC are front and center.
When we meet up with Draco Malfoy, he is a member of Voldemort's highest inner circle the Nobilium. Draco, called by the name Astaroth, is feared by all as he is the potion and spell maker of the Darkest kind. He discovers his mother has died at Azkaban and she is his world. The only person he truly loves and cares for. He breaks. He knows the master he's been serving was responsible but his father has been blamed and is in Azkaban, too. Narcissa saw something at the end of the Battle, but couldn't be broken to tell what it was. What she knew would be the turning point for both sides. Draco meets with the Order and despite almost everyone telling Harry not to do it, Harry brings him into the fold...well kind of...
The worldbuilding for this dystopian fic is amazing. The storytelling so very very original. The characterizations of Harry and Draco, masterful. And almost every chapter will have you on the edge of your seat. There is no let up.
I will say, there is one subplot towards the end, I detested and couldn't buy into it. But when you write a 580K fic, you cannot please everyone. I stand by that this fic is masterful despite this issue.
Now, how did I, who doesn't read or write Spanish finish this fic? I read the translation version, which is terrific and then switched over to the original story and read it on my Iphone. You're given a choice there to read it in English. Okay, its a google translation which massacres each and every pronoun and translates Draco calling Lucius PaPa into Potato. LMAO. But I was so hooked, I had to know what happened. If you have patience, I advise subscribing to the translated version. If you can read Spanish, I'm highly jealous of you!
Hope you find something you enjoy reading here. And remember to comment with love on what you read.
I seriously have to get back to my writing now.
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Tomgreg prison era?
4-11
Dear Thomas Wambsgans –
Tom blinks at the flowy script and formal address, then reaches out and grabs the envelope… Yeah, it says it’s from Greg. He unfolds out the rest of the paper and it says Sincerely, Gregory Hirsch too.
He furrows his brow, wondering if this is something weird spear phishing scam by letter. It’s really bizarre, if so, but clearly it is working.
Dear Thomas Wambsgans,
The food here is dreadful. I finally understand your concerns, and have now had them realized, from our visit to the diner in Washington DC. It is worse than –
Okay, so it’s probably Greg, but is he… roleplaying? Did he dictate this aloud for some crook secretary to apply pen to paper, too?
– when we went, I fear, as it seems to be entirely processed and I had forgotten the odd rubber texture to powder egg. It is even worse than the MREs that I once found on my grandfather’s ranch and sustained myself with for a week. Is the food for you also of subpar quality? I have been curious to know if mine is worse due to being in the state of Florida, where it is very hot and damp.
The other occupants here are surprisingly cordial, though there have been some friendly joshes toward my height, but it is no worse than any of the family. I do think I may have to learn Spanish. I have found a single fellow inmate who speaks French, but it is in an incomprehensible dialect called Cajun, which I previously believed only to be a type of food. I have struck up something of an acquaintanceship with this man, if only to irk those around us.
Sincerely,
Gregory Hirsch
“Oh, buddy,” Tom mutters, covering a smile with a tight palm and exhaling a broken laugh into it. He drops the letter to cover his eyes with that hand, mortified at the burn behind them. It’s a nothing letter – it’s just… Greg sounding sort of like Greg, complaining about eggs, and third languages, and… and very deliberately reaching out to him.
Fuck. He’s so fucking happy thatit’s really just disgusting.
Tom reaches out and grabs the envelope, again, scanning his eyes across the address. He has no idea what he’s going to write back, except maybe to tell Greg that his French is fake, too.
~
Greg,
We’re not in a period drama. You’re okay to write to me like a real person.
The food here sucks, too. I would’ve taken you out to more dives, but let’s be real your affection for crappy chain food prepared you better than I ever could for it. If you repeat this, I’ll kill you, but I actually don’t mind powder eggs. They remind me of camping with the scouts.
My only real stumble here so far is this guy in for corporate fraud talking to me like he knows Connor. It’s bonkers. He doesn’t actually know him, right, because he thinks knowing him makes him more respectable in here. It does not. You would think him seeing me in here would make it plain as day that being in the Roy circle is meaningless, and yet.
How you doing, otherwise? I know you need a precise measure of water and shade like a delicate, fussy flower.
–Tom
~~
It takes about a week and a half to get a reply to a letter, which is maybe quick for moving a physical object a thousand or so miles, but is just horrific on Tom’s anxiety. He feels like a wartime widow, attending the mail drop and regularly disappointed, wondering if the last letter was the last. It’s just about the time he starts thinking he’s said something wrong, too, Greg has finally realized he shouldn’t be writing Tom, a new one shows up, easing his worries in a way almost like its own clockwork.
6-05
Dear Thomas,
I do not believe I was ever meant to take residence in Florida. It is very hot and humid, which is very manageable for visits, but I recall believing New York was too much, and this is far, far worse. I am beginning to feel like a slug. It is not allowed to simply stay in bed, but I fear that I will one day wake stuck to it.
I’ve been trying to do exercise since I arrived, but I dislike it, especially now that my body seems to be attempting to melt, so I’ve moved on to other pursuits. A good number of other inmates do not hold any regard for the less physical activities available to us –
Tom nearly covers his face, but settles for pinching the bridge of his nose; good lord, Greg is really playing at being such a dandy. Is it a psychological thing? He’s claimed it isn’t, but Tom really has no way to know, a whole country away.
– at all. I enjoy them, though. It is much better to be assigned an indoor detail, as well, than to be stuck outside toiling with a bunch of rude oafs who think height equals shares of physical labor.
Tom gives up and breaks into a laugh, dropping the letter to cover his mouth with both hands in attempt to muffle it.
A clear of a throat, which Tom had been avoiding, comes from behind him. “You good, Tom?”
“I think…” Tom sighs, dragging his hands down his face with a forceful swallow. “My only friend in the world has been driven insane by coke withdrawal.”
“…That can happen?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Tom says, as he picks the letter back up with a careful straightening of the paper. “But he’s weirder than ever.”
I have been unable to get any concrete answers about disease prevention to answer your question about the mosquitos. I was, however, informed that only twenty percent of people show outward symptoms of West Nile, so I may, in fact, have already had it?
How are your call out duties and activities among other inmates? I know that was something you were exceedingly worried about, and my experience so far in that is the warning was some measure exaggerated. It is not an amazing experience, nor one I would ever welcome, but now approaching my third month I have suffered the most of boredom. Your letters have bolstered me greatly, in that respect, as I keep them to reread when the impulse strikes me, which is often.
I also hope you’re doing well.
Sincerely,
Gregory Hirsch
Tom furrows his brow, as a flush streaks across his nose. He presses his thumb against the word reread, covering and uncovering it, and tries not to think too much about the small, if growing stack of letters now well memorized on his own time.
~
Greg,
I hate to say it buddy but I’m not surprised you’re an indoors activity guy. I can actually see you running around with a little moleskine and a pen, though if it’s for secrets or pictures, who’s really to know?
I’ve been running and working out a lot, actually, so maybe it’s better we were separated by a spiteful, nasty old man of your blood relation. I’d have made you tag along to my free time whenever I get too cooped up and antsy, which is all the time, Greg. It is literally every day. I wish the unit staff here would assign me go out and do something awful and back-breaking outside, but I think they think I’m too soft and old, which is obviously its own insult.
I’m saving your letters for my tell-all book, so I hope you don’t expect anything to be forgotten. The world is going to know about the oatmeal thing and how you don’t know the capital of any US states, as well as the fact that you write to me like a lunatic in immaculate cursive. You’re going to get nothing but fountain pens and calligraphy sets, as gifts, from now on.
They better have bug spray in that commissary. I do not want you getting a brain disease and croaking out there on me. I would hate to have the entire state of Florida ruined for me by a mosquito.
– Tom
~~
“You got two from your lovely lady friend.”
Tom eyes Carter shuffling the letters like cards. “I know it says Greg.”
Carter demonstratively sniffing at the edges, pretending to look inside, generally just fondling Greg’s fucking letter, which is a bold move for a forger built like Roger Rabbit. “Don’t smell any perfume on it…”
“I know it also says FPC Pensacola,” Tom says, injecting every ounce of deliberate pleasantness that he can spare.
Carter pulls back and looks at the front of the envelope. He grunts and throws both at Tom. “Shit, so it does. I didn’t think that was allowed?”
Tom narrows his eyes, then glances down to the letters, as Carter fucks off to the next person in line. He turns them over in his hands by the corners, waiting until the unit is let loose, and decides forcefully not to ask. He doesn’t want to know if he’s got strings pulled without him knowing, until it matters; ignorance, at this point, is bliss.
Tom pulls out the first postmarked with a tense tug. He’s not sure why Greg would send two so close – he usually waits for a reply.
Tom! I saw an alligator!! It was like both bigger and smaller than assumed!
Tom raises an eyebrow, then flips over the page to a blank back.
Alright.
He reaches out for the next envelope, more careful at the twice over sealed seam.
8-16
Dear Thomas,
Okay, that’s more familiar. Evidently, the alligator was just exciting enough Greg forgot he’s pretending to be a Victorian.
It’s been a day and I have seen to send a formal letter.
I have weathered a small actual hurricane, but I just believed it a bad storm at the time. The water level rose high, but, thankfully, it did not outright flood. It was less intimidating an experience than I had assumed it would be after watching films on the subject. The hurricanes, evidently, do not get quite so bad in general and are most often a lot of rain and wind.
The alligator was roughly two meters in length and hissed quite loudly when it was woken, but did not make any other move. My fellow inmate Lou told me that the creature was simply sunning itself after the storm. He also informed me that they are cocodrie in his French and they can get much larger, but that they’re lazy. In return, I told him about orignal and that I would not have approached one so closely to the fence.
Are you still well? I do not know what August is like in Minnesota.
I have recently been considering the end of my stay here. I know you are sentenced for nearly twice as long, but do you think that I might see you before then? Our lawyer has said that it may be easiest to find out by trying to put my name on the list after my release in November.
Yours,
Gregory Hirsch
Tom reads the last paragraph twice before he believes his eyes, sure he’s misreading something in Greg’s flowy, perfect cursive script. He curls against his dinky desk, into his elbow, and folds the letter up while swallowing thickly against emotion balling up at the base of his throat. He sets both letters with the others, then closes the drawer, ignoring impulse to take it back out to read a third time.
He wants to see Greg so much that it sits behind his sternum with all the comfort of the head of a morning star, but… it’s hard to believe that the sentiment might be returned, let alone enough to ask about it. He might just be being polite – it’s far more likely that their lawyer floated the idea out of bias.
~
Greg,
I can’t believe you saw a dinosaur when I haven’t even seen a deer. I’m relieved you were okay during the hurricane, though, and every other storm. It sounds like a lot of water to be dealing with and I don’t envy it. Stay safe. You can probably survive any flooding by standing up, but I don’t think we want to test it.
The worst August weather up here is just a little rain. I haven’t even had to deal with it much. The winter is in a couple months and that’s going to really suck the energy out of everything. I can’t wait to feel like I’m in fifth grade and forced to go outside for recess again. I bet you’re familiar with the feeling, though I’ve never thought to ask where you went to school? The one I went to was private and still made us do it, but maybe Canada doesn’t allow that shit.
It’s no problem to try to get you on the list, but check in before you actually make any detour on your welcome home tour. I’d really love to see you, but you’ll have spent enough time in a prison, Greg, to ever walk willingly into another one.
What the flying fuck is an orignal?
– Tom
~~
10-23
My Dearest Thomas,
Tom flips the upper third of the letter down and sets a flat look out the window. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times that he tells Greg to write like he was born in 1988, not 1788, he just won’t because he thinks it’s fun, the nut, and now it is just getting ridiculous.
All Hallows’ Eve approaches! I am most excited. I don’t believe that the camp will do anything monumental for the holiday, but I have sketched some decorations for the letter. The seasons are most odd in Florida, as well; I have been put on a garden detail and, because they do not have winter, they are still growing food. I enjoy it! It is a much better experience doing this under the direction of the faculty here than my grandfather, who had much patience for plants and little to spare elsewhere.
Tom didn’t actually need any confirmation that Ewan was basically a warden, but good to know he’s worse. He wonders, as well, if Greg is predisposed to entire conversations with plants; he seems the type. The little thinking pumpkins in the letter margins just sort of support the idea.
I have also sketched out one of the blossoms on the back from a zucchini. I find they are quite pretty. I was informed by a CO that they can be stuffed with ricotta and fried to be eaten, and I told him that sounded like something you might enjoy more than me. He said then that I must make them, but I believe that would be better left to you, as well.
I only have a month left, as of today! I cannot wait for the opportunity to see you. The letters are sustaining, but hardly satisfying enough compared to actual company.
Our lawyer has urged me that I should prepare for the cold and I was forced to remind her that I am from Canada; however, she then informed me that Toronto is, in all fact, south of both Twin Cities and Duluth. I never thought to look. I doubt still that it is all that bad.
Ever Yours,
Gregory Hirsch
Tom stares at the closing for a beat, a reluctant grin twisting his mouth while he huffs through his nose. He flips the page over and studies the drawn flower, wilted and certainly somewhat lifelike, featuring faint lines and shading, and realizes Greg must be practicing a lot. He probably won’t be sending many more letters, tripping back into real life, but Tom hopes that Greg continues the artsy hobby. He’s not half bad at it. He’s like a little amateur naturist; a burgeoning, trapped Monet.
~
Greg,
Your cartoon pumpkins are very dark, thinking about being carved into pieces. I’m surprised the administration let the letter through at all, hah. Duluth isn’t doing Halloween, either, but there is a CO who started wearing cat eye contact lenses and it just comes off as a painfully dorky rebellion. It reminds me of Tyler the assistant with the Felix clock on his cubicle.
It’s now getting a bit colder and the leaves are turning, too. I expect meals are only going to get worse, from here, so I’m happy someone is going to be getting vitamin c even if it isn’t me. I hear a lot of rumor about hydroponics around here, but I don’t believe anyone is relating it to food. If you like the gardening, though, you should keep it up, so you’ll be prepared for when the world ends and we’re reduced to agrarian pursuits. I’ll do the hunting part.
I’ve noticed you’re collecting hobbies. A quick learner with a curse. What I’m saying is the flower is really well drawn, buddy, as in actually lifelike. I didn’t know you were such an artist.
I have heard of frying them, some Italian thing, but never tried it. It’s probably really crispy and greasy, so I wouldn’t dismiss to so quick for yourself. In a similar weird Italian thing, they do their own songbird, but from what I’ve seen, it is a bit too much even for me.
I miss you, too. I admit I asked about you and our lawyer said to my face she only uses you as an excuse to visit Florida. She doesn’t even It’s just rude.
– Tom
++++
“Wambsgans, visitor,” the CO says, jerking his head toward the visitor building with a flat expression. “Greg Hirsch.”
“What – Really?” Tom says, shocked that – well, Greg is even in the state so soon, since he was scheduled to be released only something like three days ago, but also that he got through the visitor screening process. It seems whoever is signing off on those is either a moron, letting in his accomplice, or the opposite of one, and knows Greg and he can’t exactly duplicate or plan any other version of their crime. …Or, more likely, his lawyer pulled strings. “Oh, I – ” he looks down at his rumpled uniform, suddenly feeling almost naked in it. “Okay.”
He enters the visitors room at the behest of another, more familiar, CO called Maria, and promptly forgets her and the rest of the bland room at the sight of Greg hovering near one of the bolted, tacky tables. His hair is longer, maybe having gone entirely uncut since the day they got stuck in their respective camps, and he’s hunched as ever, big round eyes staring back at Tom.
It’s tempting to do the crazy thing and piledrive Greg into the ground and never let him go, but Tom takes the sensible and sane choice to simply speedwalk to the table. He gets close enough and Greg jumps him, anyway, squeezing the life from him while Tom clumsily, hurriedly grabs back.
“Tom,” Greg murmurs in his ear.
“Hey, buddy,” Tom answers, softly, bracing his hands on Greg’s back with a hard swallow. He closes his eyes for a brief pair of moments, holding his breath and pretending they’re anywhere else. “Long time no see.”
Greg hums a vague response, a petulant grumble escaping his lips when Tom gently pulls away before a CO can come peel him off. It’s a whiny, spoiled little noise that Tom missed so much.
“You were really that eager to get back into another prison, huh?” Tom asks, settling across the table from Greg and ignoring another plain stupid idea to reach out for Greg’s hands to make themselves a summoning circle of two. It’s not like a hug; he’s never held Greg’s hand.
Greg sweeps some overlong hair behind his ear, leaning into the table with a shrug.
Tom is just struck dumb by the fact Greg is sitting in front of him. He’s solid and real and here, and Tom needs to do more than just stare at him. “Florida for eight months and not even a tan?”
Greg grins and stretches out his arms to look at the pale backs of them. “I guess not?”
“You doing okay?” Tom asks, glancing over Greg from his bulky sweater to his obviously new jeans, ankles exposed to the air with a shock of white socks underneath. “No yawning distress, or whatever? I assume you got the benefits coming in.”
“Yeah, your, uh – your mom is really nice? Like still. She said she would help me find a place.”
“A place? Oh.” Tom swallows hard in shock, because it almost sounds like Greg plans to… to stay in Minnesota? “Huh… You might want to watch that. Her taste leans toward art deco – Oh no, wait… that’s you.”
Greg breaks into a laugh, shaking his head and suddenly ducking it into his chest. His long-fingered hands flex against each other on the table, making it more tempting than ever to reach out and take them.
“There’s this… Frank Lloyd Wright service station, not far from here,” Tom says, unsure where he’s really pointing when he flicks his fingers toward the wall across from them, but it could be close to Cloquet. “It’s based on that sort of thing. You should go gawk.”
“Or, maybe, we do that when you get out?” Greg says, quietly, looking up under his brows with a small shrug. “It’ll like… you know, be better. You could tell me about it.”
“Yeah?” Tom swallows hard against a swell in his throat, heat blazing across the back of his neck. “I haven’t actually been there.”
“I bet it’s pretty cool,” Greg says, smiling back, flicking his fingers in a similar direction. “For like a – a gas station.”
“A service station, Greg, which goes the extra mile,” Tom says, raising his brows while leaning across the table with a hum. “Full service.”
“No, yeah,” Greg laughs, again, smiling wide, as he nods his head. “Sure.”
Tom takes another few seconds to stare, rudely indulging himself and prepared to blame his circumstances. It’s the prison that’s doing it – he’s just lost all his social graces. “So is… Mommy’s just dragging you around the Twin Cities?”
“Kind of?” Greg says, narrowing his eyes a bit with a wincing sort of smile. “She had me help do some shredding at her office yesterday, after we flew up? I think as, like, a joke?”
“Oh my god,” Tom mutters, rolling his eyes toward the windows and more than a bit exasperated, but not that all that surprised. “Don’t tell me that.”
“She said she’d pay me, actually,” Greg says, outright overeager, as he relays this baffling bit of news. “If I wanted a job? But I couldn’t tell if she was serious. She reminds me sort of, uh, of you, when she’s not like being my lawyer.”
“Embarrassing, right,” Tom says, scoffing through his nose with a weak laugh. “I’m glad you’re getting along.”
Greg sweeps his hair out of his face, again, smiling somewhat under his fingers. “Yeah, like… I’m glad, too.”
The conversation drifts, almost awkwardly, but not uncomfortably, like neither of them know what to say, but don’t want to leave. It goes on like that, anyway, until a CO breaks in with an announcement and Greg does straighten with a glance at the clock. It suddenly feels like it hasn’t been any time at all.
“So, I was looking – um, at the rules?” Greg says, lifting his head with a nod at the station behind Tom, though there isn’t any sign to that effect behind him. “And you get like unlimited time but only like eight total, right? Per month. So like I could split it with your family, or whatever, but that could be, like… two visits a week?”
“That is math, buddy,” Tom says, forcing himself to look up into Greg’s eyes while he raises his brows high up his forehead with forced levity. “You want to stick it out here that long?”
“Yeah, I – I mean if that’s okay?”
“Of course, Greg, I would love it, if you stayed, it’s just – ” Tom lowers his voice, making sure to put a taunting pull at his lips. “This is Minnesota. It’s dead boring.”
“I like lived in New Brunswick as a kid in the summers, you know?” Greg says, though Tom had certainly not known, but that’ll be an explanation asked for later. “It’s like way more boring.”
“But…” Tom rises out of his chair slower than Greg; no matter what Greg thinks he’s going to do, there’s a chance this is the last time Tom sees him. “…No hard feelings if you run back to New York, alright?”
“You totally would have a lot of them, Tom,” Greg disagrees, as a grin pulls somewhat mocking at his lips. “But I’m, like – I’m not going to. That’s why I’m here.”
“Sure,” Tom says, offering a shrug that he’s sure would look less stiff on a Buckingham Palace guard. “If you say so.”
“Like, it’s like… like how you wrote you’d have to go down to Florida?” Greg says, while his hands swing to briefly tap at either edge of his now-vacant chair. “If I ended up doing something that got me stuck down there longer. Remember? When I stole oatmeal. It was something like… you’d go down to Pensacola to give me a reason to keep on-target?”
Tom feels his eyes go wide, startled at the baldfaced mention of a, until now, gone unmentioned lack of subtlety on Tom’s part that should’ve been left that way out of politeness. “So what, Greg? You know that’s not just…” He reaches up and scratches at the heat bursting across his jaw, heart thumping heavily in his chest. “It’s not the same. That coming from me.”
“Or, uh…” Greg shrugs smally into a shoulder with another nod. “Maybe it is.”
Tom only barely manages a punched out breath: “Oh.”
“Uh… uh… anyway, I’ll be back Saturday,” Greg says, taking a hasty backward step and nodding, then looking down with a hitch when he nearly flattens someone’s kid. “With y-your mom, maybe?”
“Okay, buddy,” Tom says, lifting a hand to wave by rote. He drops it slowly back to his side, as Greg slips out the door behind some group of other visitors. He sighs hard through his nose, biting at the inside of his lip and muttering against it. “Fuck.”
“Hey, man,” Neal says, stage whispering from two tables over. He’s an insider trader with a rumored few hundred mil stashed away somewhere that everyone knows about, because he won’t shut up about it. “Was that rumor true about you two bumping uglies the whole damned time?”
“No,” Tom says, annoyed to hear his voice lift, as he keeps staring at the door and shoving down hard on the impulse to do something really stupid, like try to follow. “I was married.”
“Huh. You think I don’t hear that ‘was’?” Neal says, with a hum that leads into a quiet click of his tongue. “I will say this, man? He did not look that tall on the TV.”
“No?” Tom says, looking over with a sneer building across his lips.
“You two make each other look normal size,” Neal says, offering an unkind gesture with a back and forth sweep of his hand at two evident levels. “You have my endorsement. You got to be with someone who makes you look less like a freak.”
“Golly gee, thank you,” Tom says, flatly, rolling his eyes back to the door. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
A sharp clear of the throat comes from behind Tom. “Are we conspiring, gentleman?”
“With this guy? Our resumes don’t line up,” Neal scoffs, which is… insulting but sort of true, since he actually made money off trade schemes, while Tom fell on a sword and jammed another person on top of himself and it for good measure. “But did you see his boy? He could play for the Knicks.”
“I did see that,” Maria says, tilting her head in the same direction. “He didn’t look that tall on PGN.”
Neal raises his brows. “That’s what I’m saying.”
+
Tom folds the Funyuns bag, half and half over again, empty now after Greg offered it as the standard fare. “So you really like the work – are you looking into becoming the worlds largest paralegal?”
“The whole job is, you know, interesting, seeing it from the other side, but –” Greg leans forward, as his eyes go wide with a marked sparkle of excitement. “The – like, the best part is reading all the horrible things people did.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Oh god, your insatiable snoop monster is finally being sated.”
“I guess?” Greg says, sweeping his ever-growing hair behind both his ears with his hands. “The worst so far is this guy who admitted to your mom he totally burned up a company car, but she had to convince everyone it got stolen.”
“Wow,” Tom says, lowering his voice with a glance toward the observing CO utterly ignoring them. “Burned it?”
“I guess he was super unhappy at his job?” Greg says, with a small shrug of a single shoulder up against his ear. “I never would’ve done that – I like having stuff too much.”
Tom snorts hard, as he leans back away, grudgingly putting some space between them for his next question. “I know you do. Speaking of… How was your New Years thing? Aside for your scheduling issues.”
It probably didn’t go great, because no Roy function ever does, but there has to be some reason Greg came back to Minnesota, afterward, rather than sending Tom some Dear John about sticking it with them a second time. In fact, Tom had thought that was exactly what he was going to get until he got called up today, since Greg missed Saturday, so he’s just… more curious than ever.
“Oh, uh…” Greg sighs hard through his nose, slumping back in his seat. “It was… bad. I’ve never really seen my mom with them all, as like an adult? It – like, it was really uncomfortable. But Grandpa Ewan at one point, uh – He actually yelled at Uncle Logan for calling her a pill head, so that was, like. It was nice of him? But my mom still kind of cried.”
Tom presses his mouth together in a grimace; that sounds par for the course. “That sucks, bud.”
“I got some champagne, though, and brought it home,” Greg says, eyes flicking back to make contact with Tom, then a laugh breaks through his lips. “Your dad is funny – he thought like I’d get in trouble? But it wasn’t even like the most expensive stuff.”
Tom stares back for a beat, then slowly cocks his brows. “…You got my parents champagne?”
“I-I can get you some later,” Greg says, eager, wiggling forward on his seat and leaning into his elbows on the table with a wide look. “It’s like not until September. Or like, you can pick it out – I just took this off the table.”
“You’re such a delinquent, Greg,” Tom says, then swallows hard, as he realizes for the nth time, in a way that still feels just absolutely impossible, Greg seems to really be in Minnesota just for him. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Like, the same as usual? Hey, like,” Greg says, scratching up against the side of his nose with a thumb. “Do you think the champagne is like a heavier offense than the papers?”
Tom drops his head in a deep nod. “I think it would be to your family,” he says, affectedly flat and joyless.
“My mom like brought this extra big purse with a bunch of plastic baggies,” Greg says, waving down at his side with a gesture like he’s brought his own bag. “And she took like a bunch of food. She said it was for her book club.”
Tom tilts his head to a wide angle, then scoffs hard through his nose while lifting it back up. “I’ve never met your mother, but I like her, Greg.”
“The book club is more like a wine club,” Greg adds, looking up when the CO starts to make the announcement for the end of visiting hours. He rises from his chair with a stretch, back cracking like a broken zipper. “I used to have to pick her up? But now she uses like Uber and sometimes her friend, Brian.”
“That’s so funny,” Tom says, wrapping a hand around Greg’s nape, as he leans down for his now-customary hug. “You have a good week, okay?”
“I’m sorry I missed Saturday,” Greg says, his pout unambiguous against Tom’s neck while he speaks into it. “The stupid plane –”
Tom hums loud to interrupt, squeezing one last time before reluctantly letting go. “Hey, you were here today.”
+
Tom isn’t sure if he’s more anxious or less with Greg around, as his release date approaches with the quick passing of summer. He feels weight against his back, excited but crawling with uncertainty, as easily hundreds of good, bad, or ugly ways it could go build in the back of his head and he… He wants to know where he stands with Greg, but also he doesn’t want to know; the thing that makes him nearly lean up at every perfectly appropriate hug, sitting as it’s been so long under his ribs, almost scarier than any of the rest of it.
He never expected Greg to do more than uncomfortably put up with it, let alone start to… regularly imply some similar sentiment. The ambiguity of zero privacy spares him any real denial or confession. He can pretend forever that Greg really forgives him, or at least the actions, and will stand with him at the gate at the end of all this, if he never, ever asks.
“Yeah, but it’s like… we made it?” Greg says, sweeping his hand through his hair, then he offers the other to make a jazzy gesture. “Or, I did. You’ve got two months? It was – it sucked, a lot, and everything, but the, like… I think the working yourself up before it the first time was actually the worst part? To me. When you thought you’d end up in, like… Alcatraz.”
“Alcatraz is closed, first off, Gregory, and second, I’ve read it was mostly the island part that sucked. Whatever, yes, it’s done. …But I wish you’d had something to run off with, anyway,” Tom says, rolling his voice around the word with a low grumble. He gestures toward the decidedly denominational symbol hanging around the curtain rod at the window, smuggled in by some past visitor. “I’m not a Catholic, but there’s still some part of me that feels like I should have taken all this guilt upon myself like I promised to.”
“If it helps, I – I maybe did?” Greg says, wetting his lips, then dropping his shoulders with a shrug. “Have… something. But I decided not to use it.”
Tom stares for a few beats, mouth twisting downward, and when Greg doesn’t crack and admit to some terrible joke, he feels his hands curl into fists across the top of the table. “…You what?”
“Yeah, uh,” Greg shrugs, again, blinking rapidly and looking down, plainly not having expected to get this sort of response for his confession of heinous idiocy. “Um. You remember when we – We were at your like house – penthouse…? I… I recorded it on my phone.”
“Greg,” Tom says, hearing his voice bark, then forcing it back down into something lower like a hiss. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you use that?”
“Your mom said it probably wouldn’t matter? She might’ve – probably was lying, but –” Greg suddenly reaches across the table and sets his hand on top of Tom’s wound fist. “Now it – I think… I don’t know. I’d rather just be happy that I’m here like this an-and with you now, than… wonder if I had used it? If I wouldn’t be.”
Tom stares for a few beats, suffering a brief, horrible wash of anger at his mother. “Greg –”
Greg shakes his head, fingertips scrambling at the edge of Tom’s turned-down hand. “I dunno, Tom, shit sorta happens?” He continues, his voice lowering, almost breaking, “Like… like how none of this would’ve happened, at all, if I hadn’t told Gerri ab-about your press conference plan an-and then lied to you about it.”
Tom stares and feels his eyes narrow, then widen, as his whole expression threatens to collapse; he’s angry, so angry, but it wanes almost all at once when he sees Greg is… trying so hard to blame himself for some reason. He shakes his head and looks down, pulling his hand from underneath Greg’s by widely spreading his fingers.
Greg makes a tight, pained noise, almost soundless.
Tom finishes the action to wind their fingers together, palm to palm, to put himself in a more active grip. He’s… upset, yeah, but he’s suspected this for a while; he suspected Greg telling a lot of people about a lot of things that were just too convenient, but he was just as bad. “Okay, Greg, don’t… get so worked up. You’re not that big of a snake. That’s why I’m so mad you didn’t slither out of this – you’re usually smarter.”
Greg takes a wet breath. “But I –”
Tom tightens both his hands around Greg’s one, squeezing around the knuckles. “Don’t start. You’d been working in the corporate environment not even a month, baby, and I can’t remember giving you a single reason to trust me.”
Greg takes a sharp breath, lifting his eyes and mouth dropping open, but he still doesn’t speak until seconds later: “Ne-neither did Gerri.”
“She was the closest thing you knew to a lawyer,” Tom says, tilting his head with a flat, sarcastic smile. “Too bad she’s probably even more biased and self-serving than the rest of us.”
“Maybe… yeah. Like, with Roman, she – ” Greg looks up with a start, as a shadow falls somehow indifferently over their table.
“I want to preface this by saying none of the comments by Officer Carlos were homophobic,” Maria says, pointing over her shoulder at the markedly ducking CO that’s been shadowing her for a few weeks. “He had me concerned because you look like you’re fighting, but now I’m here and it’s more a crying situation. Are we having a problem, gentlemen?”
“No, ma’am,” Greg says, ducking his head with evident mortification. “No-not at all. I can’t really cry with witnesses, actually.”
Tom flattens his lips with a shake of his head at Greg, then up at Maria, who’s now giving Greg the hairy eyeball. He squeezes Greg’s hand one last time before letting it go. “We’re just praying for our sins.”
“Inmate Wambsgans,” Maria says, turning her condescending look toward toward him with a bizarrely uncanny rock of her head. “Do you even know where chapel is?”
Tom stares Maria down for a solid beat, then lifts his hand with a point and a crooked smirk. “It’s the same place where I meet my counselor.”
Maria raises an unamused brow. “You got me there.” She nods down at the table. “The time ends in twenty minutes. You better apologize quick, eh?”
“Ten-four,” Tom says, sunnily, dropping his arm to smack at the table with an exaggerated gesture and very light tap.
Later, once the announcement officially goes out to part ways that afternoon, Tom presses his lips lightly across Greg’s jaw, hiding it inside the hug; it earns him a tight squeeze almost to the point of asphyxia.
====
Greg cranes his head up at the station, leaning against the hood of the car behind him. He looks like he’s actually judging it, which is pretty funny, since his amateur interest began with a Parducci documentary he watched on a flight to Scotland. He’d gotten Minneapolis and Detroit confused, then been irked when Tom didn’t know about all the buildings in this city that he’d visited once on a hockey trip.
“You don’t have to write an essay on it,” Tom says, flatly, keeping one eye on Greg and the other on the mechanic in the open bay. It would be just his luck to get a trespassing call an hour after his release. “You’re not going to be graded on if you like a tacky gas station in a town that’s only other claim to fame is Jessica Lange.”
“It’s got a – ” Greg takes a breath, gesturing back and forth with flailing, turning palms. “A lot of angles.” He looks over at Tom, raising his brows with a short lean inward. “Did you know they built this – uh, fake one sort of the same in Buffalo, recently?”
Tom stares for a beat, taking in Greg’s eager, bright face, then leans up and kisses him across the mouth. He figures if Greg shoves him, he can just blame the surprise that way, in his own head, rather than the much slimmer, but very present, chance of disgust. He ends up being the one surprised, when Greg hums deeply, all of a sudden weighing heavy on Tom’s shoulder with an arm wrapping around his neck. It even makes him forget the mechanic, who’s hopefully not a total dick.
“I, um – ” Greg stutters, moments later, a smile cutting across his face while he goes on to shake his head. “It’s maybe not that great, Tom? The one in – uh, in the museum is all copper.”
Tom yanks at Greg gently by the coat lapels, listening to a resulting sputtered laugh, and tightens his voice up somewhat more cartoonish, maybe like how he’d scold a baby. “You just prove over and over you can’t appreciate these nice things I give you.”
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I was tagged by: @matbaynton - thank you! <3
Tag someone you want to know AND/OR some of your besties.
This turned into a monster of a thing so I'm sticking it under a cut!
Favourite colour: I am rubbish at this question. I love various colours in various contexts, but at the moment I am really gravitating towards greens. Green is a colour I haven't paid much attention to before, but for some reason over the last few months I have taken an interest in it. I even bought a solid green jumper!
Last song: When Things Explode by Unkle. It's a song I first heard on an episode of Person of Interest and it's now on one of my YouTube music playlists. Takes me right back!
Last movie: I had to check my Letterboxd for this - that's how often I'm watching films at the moment! It was the 1995 version of Persuasion that I rewatched at the end of August. A film I only discovered recently but has become one of those instant comforting favourites.
Currently watching: Oh heck - I'm struggling to keep track, there are so many! I'm watching The English at the moment. Also Outsiders series 2, Taskmaster series 16, New Girl (on season 2), This Farming Life series 6 with my dad on a Sunday morning, All Creatures Great and Small series 4, Fletchers' Family Farm series 2, Schitt's Creek with @phantomviola (on season 5), The Musketeers (series 2) and Black Books (series 3) with @userdjarin and who could forget Our Flag Means Death season 2 which has taken over my brain! Along with all that I squeezed in a Primeval series 2 rewatch which I finished the other night. [slaps roof of my brain] this bad boy can fit so many narratives in it.
Other stuff I watched this year: HAH! I have an IMDb list of TV shows I've watched this year! It's long as heck! Silk, The IT Crowd, Black Sails, The Last of Us, Lost in Space, Endeavour, The Terror, Arrested Development, Community, Vicious, Prehistoric Planet, Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, Ted Lasso, Miranda, The North Water, His Dark Materials, And Then There Were None, Jonathan Strange & Mister Norrell, The Great British Sewing Bee, The Bear, Blackadder, 30 Rock, Chernobyl and The Expanse. And those are just the ones worth mentioning! And some of these I watched four times! Okay, one thing. Okay, it was The Terror.
As for films, it's a poor show this year - I haven't watched as many (see above for reason why). I have seen the latest Spiderverse film and I've love to see Barbie!
Shows I dropped this year/didn’t finish: The Mandalorian (sob!), Vikings (I think I was maybe an episode or two shy of finishing the first season but... man... I just wasn't having fun), My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (to be fair this might have been last year, I can't remember, but I know I stopped a few episodes into season 2), Fleabag (I watched one or two episodes... wasn't quite for me).
Currently reading: Darwin by Adrian J. Desmond and James R. Moore (about 100 pages in but I'm taking this one slow because I'm not hyperfixating on him) and Dead Famous by Greg Jenner which I am taking even slower. I've read quite a few books related to the Franklin Expedition this year (thanks, The Terror) and for a while I was reading pretty solidly but I guess that's what hyperfixation does to you!
Currently listening to: I'm not really listening to music much these days thanks to YouTube's annoying ad blocker pop-up so I'm typing this in silence, haha! But podcast-wise I'm doing great. Three Bean Salad is probably my favourite podcast at the moment. The humour is just too good, and I look forward to hearing the lads every week. I'm also binging The Rest is History which is a bit more serious but still has its fun moments. I'm also listening to Off Menu, No Such Thing as a Fish, The Bones Booth, Taskmaster: The Podcast, The Mariner's Mirror Podcast, and odd episodes of RHLSTP if I know the guest. I save podcasts for when I'm doing something like washing the dishes, walking or driving.
Currently working on: Now that the puppy I found at the end of August is vaccinated, she can go out and about, and that has led to me abandon the polymer clay for a while to return to a hobby that I haven't spent much time on since early 2020 at the latest. I wanted to make her some nice collars and leads so she looks smart for our walks which I will inevitably be photographing. I know it's kind of hard to see but I made this collar and lead for her.
I was a bit worried that I'd forgotten how to sew the leather but thankfully not. I have a few more straps of leather lying around that I'd like to make into collars and leads as well. And several rope leads that need whipping (you wrap thinner twine around the thicker rope to finish it and protect the end from fraying) but I'm having to take my time with those because the twine is murder on my soft, delicate, feminine hands. I can whip maybe four leads before my fingers are red. It's worth the pain!
Current obsession: Our Flag Means Death has taken over my life once again. Whatever happens in the finale next week, I know I will be a mess. Heck, I'm already a mess.
I'm tagging: some recent mutuals so we can get to know each other, but no pressure! @tigerballoons, @woofety, @jackharkness, @jddryder, @ajcrowleys and @skatingthinandice! <3
#matbaynton#tagged#i have a lot of stuff going on now that i see it written down haha#anyway that was fun! i'll try to get a few more things done that i've been tagged in
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The Kids have been teleported into the world of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon! What kind of Pokemon would they be?
I'll be honest, I've been holding off on this one a lot. I don't tend to play Pokemon, even then it was Brick Bronze (anyone remember that game that got shut down?), Magikarp Jump, and Pokemon Go.
So, how about I set up the types, and if you guys say it looks good, I'll look into those Pokemon? I just want to make sure I get this right.
Now that the excuse is out of the way, answers!
~~~
Dipper: Grass and Psychic? I'm thinking this because of the fact that his spot on the wheel is "pine tree" and the fact that he deals with the strange. Though, would it be fun if he was Psychic because Bill possessed him? Like, if he was just Grass before? That would be fun. :)
Mabel: I'm definitely thinking Fairy for her.
Coraline: Water and Ghost. I was debating Fighting but I think Ghost would work better. Water because of the whole water witch thing and Ghost because of the Beldam and ghost children.
Wybie: I'm definitely thinking Metal and maybe Ghost? Maybe Bug instead of Ghost. Bug because of slugs, Ghost because he does seem to possibly have a connection with some of the Beldam stuff through his grandmother, the Cat, and that hand via Coraline.
Norman: Ghost and Electric for sure! This is flat out through his ancestors!
Neil: Normal and Fairy maybe? I'm not sure. He's a support type.
Raz: Psychic and Water. Legitimately because he's a psychic and he's Maligula's grandchild.
Lili: Psychic and Fire. Again, due to her being a psychic, and her specialty being fire.
Wirt: I tend to associate him with Grass and Ghost. Or just straight up Deerling.
Greg: Grass and Water? Frog Pokemon. (Or Phantump for a darker thing...)
Luz: I will need a bit of help here but I'm thinking Normal and Dark because she's a human learning demon magic.
Anne: Bug and Fighting? Bug and Water? I think this works? I'm thinking frogs and her using her sword. Maybe Bug and Fairy?
Marcy: Water and Psychic? Psychic sounds smart. Water was very prominent in Newtopia too.
Sasha: Fighting and Bug? Fighting for sure. Maybe Fighting and Normal.
Also realizing that for the Calamity trio, Grass can also fit... Crud.
#mystery kids#ask the mystery kids#mk#ask the mk#ask#gravity falls#coraline#dipper pines#coraline jones#psychonauts 2#Mabel Pines#Wybie Lovat#Psychonauts#Razputin Aquato#Lili Zanatto#Paranorman#Norman Babcock#Neil Downe#Over the Garden Wall#Wirt#Greg#Amphibia#Anne Boonchuy#Marcy Wu#Sasha Waybright#Owl House#Luz Noceda#Pokemon
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SAVING GRACE | BBC SHERLOCK
A STUDY IN PINK - bbc sherlock x oc
summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.
Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.
WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
word count: 12.6k
There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.
Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.
Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.
There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.
‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.
‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.
‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’
‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’
‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.
‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’
‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’
‘And you didn’t call me in?’
‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’
‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’
Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.
‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.
‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’
‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’
‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’
‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.
‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’
‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.
‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’
‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.
Wrong!
‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.
‘Just says, “Wrong.”’
‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’
‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’
God, these people just don’t get the hint.
Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.
‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’
Wrong!
Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.
‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.
‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’
‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.
‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’
‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.
‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.
‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.
Wrong!
However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.
You know where to find me.
SH
‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.
‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’
‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’
Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.
Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.
Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.
She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.
Greg Lestrade
‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.
‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’
‘Be there shortly.’
A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.
It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.
‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.
Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.
Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.
‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.
‘Your deodorant told me that.’
‘My deodorant?’
‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.
‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’
‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.
‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.
‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.
Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.
Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—
‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.
‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.
‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.
‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.
Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—
‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.
‘What is?’ Greg questions.
‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’
‘I didn’t say anything?’
‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’
John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.
‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.
‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.
‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’
‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.
‘So, she’s German?’
‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.
‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.
‘Coat.’
‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’
‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.
‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.
‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’
‘Of the message?’
‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.
‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.
‘I don’t like them.’
‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.
‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’
‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.
‘Yes, I do. God help me.’
‘Doctor Watson.’
‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.
‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’
John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.
‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’
‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’
‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’
Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.
‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’
‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’
‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’
‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.
‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’
‘Suitcase?’
‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’
‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.
‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’
‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.
How interesting.
‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’
‘Cardiff?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.
‘It’s not obvious to me.’
‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’
‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.
‘Be… my… guest.’
Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.
‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’
‘That’s… fantastic.’
‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.
‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’
‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’
John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’
Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’
‘She was writing Rachel?’
‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.
‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?
‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’
‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’
‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.
‘There wasn’t a case.’
Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’
‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’
‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’
Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’
‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’
‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’
‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’
‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’
‘Why are you both saying that?’
‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.
‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’
‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.
‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’
‘Sherlock?’
Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’
‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’
‘We can’t just wait!’
‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’
‘Of course, yeah – but what mistake!?’
‘Pink!’
Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.
‘You’re following?’
‘You’re looking for the case.’
Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.
‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’
‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’
Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’
‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’
‘Curiosity?’
‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’
‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’
‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’
‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’
She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’
‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.
‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’
‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’
‘Well, can you deduce me?’
‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’
‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’
Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’
‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’
‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’
‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’
‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.
‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’
‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’
‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’
‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’
‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.
‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.
‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’
Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’
‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’
‘Where do you live?’
‘221B Baker Street.’
‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.
‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’
‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’
Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’
‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’
The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.
‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’
‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’
‘That is?’
‘You get bored.’
‘Everyone gets bored.’
‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’
‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.
‘I did.’
‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.
He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.
No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.
The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.
‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.
Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.
What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.
‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.
‘Trying not to be.’
‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’
‘Three patch problem.’
Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’
‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’
‘Hm?’
‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’
‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’
Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’
Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.
Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.
‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’
‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.
‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’
‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’
‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’
Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.
‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’
‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’
‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’
‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’
‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’
‘You found the case?’
Oops.
Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.
‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.
‘Where is it?’
‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’
‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’
‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’
‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’
Ding
‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.
Got a lead.
SH
Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.
‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.
‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.
There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.
‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.
‘Evening.’
‘Wh—’
‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.
‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’
‘George knows of the suitcase?’
‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’
John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’
‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.
‘So, who did I meet?’
Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’
‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’
‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’
‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’
‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’
‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.
‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’
‘No.’
Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.
‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’
‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’
‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.
‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’
‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.
‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’
‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.
‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’
‘That’s him?’
‘Don’t stare.’
‘You’re staring.’
‘We can’t all stare.’
All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.
‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’
���Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.
They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.
‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.
‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’
‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’
‘Yeah. Everything all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.
‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’
‘Basically.’
‘Not the murderer?’
‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.
‘Wrong country, good alibi.’
‘As they go.’
‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’
‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’
Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’
‘We’re ready when you are.’
‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.
‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.
‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’
‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’
‘So, what were we doing there?’
‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.
‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.
‘What point?’
‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says the man at the door.’
A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.
‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’
‘Because,’ he grins.
‘Because?’
‘Because you’re bored.’
‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’
‘It’s infuriating.’
‘I try my best.’
‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.
‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.
‘Upstairs.’
The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.
‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.
‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’
‘You can’t just break into my flat.’
‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’
‘Well, what do you call this.’
‘It’s a drugs bust.’
Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.
‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’
‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.
‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’
‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’
‘Yeah, but come on… No?’
‘What?’
‘You?’
‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’
‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’
‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’
Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’
‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’
‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.
‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’
‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.
‘Put those back!’
‘They were in the microwave!’
‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.
‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’
‘This is childish.’
‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’
‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’
‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.
‘I am clean!’
‘Is your flat? All of it?’
‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.
‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’
‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.
‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’
Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’
‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’
‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’
‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’
‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’
‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.
‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’
‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’
‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.
‘Bit not good, yeah.’
‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’
‘“Please, God, let me live.”’
‘Oh, use your imagination!’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’
Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’
‘I didn’t order a taxi. Go away.’
Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.
‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’
‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’
‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’
‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’
‘What? My face is?!’
‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’
‘Your back, now, please!’
‘Come on, think. Quick!’
‘What about your taxi?’
‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’
‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.
‘But how?’
‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’
John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’
‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’
‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’
Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’
‘Rachel.’
‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’
‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’
‘Unless he got rid of it.’
‘We know he didn’t.’
‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’
‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’
‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’
‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’
‘It’s a start!’
‘Sherlock…’
‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’
‘Sherlock…’
‘What is it? Quickly, where?’
‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.
The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’
‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.
‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.
‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’
‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.
‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’
‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.
‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’
‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.
COME WITH ME.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.
‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’
‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.
‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’
‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’
‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.
‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’
‘Is this a confession.’
‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’
‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.
‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’
‘Am I not?’
‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’
‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’
‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’
‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’
Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’
‘Let me take you for a ride.’
‘So, you can kill me too?’
‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’
‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’
‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’
‘I don’t think I want to.’
‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.
Don’t let him know you’re onto him.
Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.
‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.
‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’
‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.
‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’
Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’
‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’
‘I’m really not.’
The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’
‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.
The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.
‘How gentlemanly.’
‘Where are we?’
‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’
‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’
‘Why here?’ Grace asks.
‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’
‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’
‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’
‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’
‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’
Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.
Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.
‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.
‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’
The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.
‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’
‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’
‘Love what?’
‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’
‘My fan?’
‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’
‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.
‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’
‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.
‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’
‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’
‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’
‘Both bottles are of course identical.’
‘In every way.’
‘And you know which is which.’
‘Course I know.’
‘But we don’t.’
‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.
Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’
‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’
‘So basically, two of us die.’
‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’
‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’
‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’
The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?
Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’
‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.
‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’
‘It’s not a game. It’s chance.’
‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’
A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’
‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’
‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’
‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’
‘Still just chance.’
‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’
‘Luck.’
‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’
‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’
‘Time to play.’
‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’
Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.
‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’
Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.
‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘That you’re a dead man walking.’
‘So are you.’
‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’
‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’
Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’
‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’
‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.
‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’
‘But how?’
‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’
‘Or serial killing.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Surprise me.’
The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’
‘You have a what?’
‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’
‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’
‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’
‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.
‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’
‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.
‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.
‘I’ll have the gun, please.’
‘I’ll take the gun too.’
‘You’re both sure?’
‘Definitely. The gun.’
‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’
‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.
‘I know a real gun when I see one.’
‘None of the others did.’
Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’
‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.
‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’
‘Of course. Child’s play.’
‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’
‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’
Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.
‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’
Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’
‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’
Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?
You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.
Shut up.
‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’
Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.
Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.
‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.
Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’
‘No.’
‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.
‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’
‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.
Moriarty?
‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.
‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’
‘I’m not injured!’
She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.
She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.
I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?
Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.
‘For the shock.’
‘I’m not in shock.’
Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’
‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.
‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’
‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’
‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.
Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.
Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.
‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’
‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’
‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.
‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’
‘Well, you have just killed a man.’
‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’
‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’
‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’
‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.
‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’
‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’
‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’
‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’
‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re an idiot.’
Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’
‘Starving.’
‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’
‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.
‘I know exactly who that is.’
Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’
‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’
Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’
‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’
‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’
‘Oddly enough… no!’
‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’
‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’
‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.
‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’
‘Losing it, in fact.’
‘He’s your brother?!’
‘Of course he’s my brother.’
‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’
‘Close enough.’
‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’
‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’
‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.
‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.
‘So, it runs in the family then?’
‘What?’
Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.
‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.
‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.
‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’
‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’
‘Shoulder! I thought so.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Left one.’
‘Lucky guess.’
‘I never guess.’
Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’
‘Moriarty.’
‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’
‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’
‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’
-
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Ohhh I’m interested to hear your thoughts on their signs 👀
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA okay so i think that tom is a libra sun which might surprise some ppl idk??? and greg is a taurus sun. as for moon and rising i would put water into both of them; cancer for tom moon? maybe a bit of leo in the rising. greg pisces definitely maaaaybe even for both moon and rising because he can be extremely sympathetic and the large, soft dreamy eyes are textbook. though, he can be extremely versatile and changeling in nature as well as be able to talk his way into friendships and out of situations so gemini could fit in there for the moon or rising.
i'll go into more detail wrt their sun signs separately and together bc it makes me rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
so for greg. taurus to me is a given; a stubborn sign with a deep love for creature comforts and luxury. can be fiercely protective and loyal to close loved ones. tenacious and reliable. he's also very chill, go with the flow, water off a ducks back kinda guy. the kind of person people want to hang out with because he's laid back and loves self indulgence. he can work hard but would prefer to find the easiest way to go about it and enjoys lounging and fine things. he fucking loves being spoiled and taken out and spent on, as shown by tom taking him out and how he has such a good time.
for tom. libra works for me because they are charming and try to keep things balanced and fair whilst also keeping things in their favour. they are extroverted and large personality whilst also being a cosy homebody. they like their luxuries and pleasures and can be just as self indulgent as they are generous. the absolute best at compromise and finding the peace [if there's any to be had] and keeping things as stable as possible. they can also be Super codependant and rely on others for self esteem and happiness which can lead to unhealthy relationships. imo he suits libra extremely well.
as for compatibility, whew!!! i would type it out but i'll just show what google says and. well. there is A Lot
just like. yeah. yeah
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Happy Gary Gygax Day -- Gary’s birthday, July 27, 1938.
Looking at the original 1974 “OD&D” rules this year, using only Volume I, Men & Magic, I’m rolling up 3d6 in fixed order to get:
Str: 16
Int: 9
Wis: 9
Con: 11
Dex: 5
Cha: 12
Gold Pieces: 100 starting, now 4
Thorvin the Level 1 (”Veteran”) Dwarf Fighting-Man, Lawful alignment, 7 hit points, plate mail and shield (AC2), morning star for melee and hand axe to throw, moves 9″ in armor.
There are 3 classes in the original rules -- Fighting-Man, Magic-User, and Cleric), and 4 races -- Human (any class), Dwarf (always a Fighting-Man), Elf (can be FM or MU alternately in different adventures), and Halfling (FM).
Strength is the prime requisite for Fighting-Man and a score of 15 or higher grants +10% to earned experience, so fighter is the logical choice. Just for flavor I made him a dwarf, though that will cap his advancement at level 6 (”Myrmidon”). He’ll save vs magic at four levels higher than a human, and can “note slanting passages, traps, shifting walls and new construction in underground settings.”
Hit points for a level 1 Fighting-Man are 1 die +1, with no bonus for his average Constitution. Dice in OD&D are always assumed to be a D6 unless otherwise stated. Different hit dice types by class wasn’t introduced until Supplement I: Greyhawk in 1976. I get lucky and roll a 6, for a total of 7 hp.
Dex under 9 means “Fire any missile at -1″ so he’ll focus on melee fighting (but -1 on a roll isn’t that bad when using the alternate D20 combat rules instead of the Chainmail rules that use D6s).
With his starting gold pieces of 100 (from 3D6 x 10) he buys plate mail (50gp) and a shield (10gp) for AC2 and a much higher chance to survive combat, a morning star (6gp), hand axe (3gp), leather backpack (5gp), one small sack (1gp), one large sack (2gp), 6 torches (1gp), one week of iron rations (15gp), 2 skins (x1gp each), one for water and one for a quart of wine (1gp). He’ll try to earn his share by standing in the front line to protect weaker party members. If he can find a bit of treasure his next purchase will be a crossbow and quarrels.
As a dwarf he speaks the languages of Dwarves, Gnomes, Kobolds, and Goblins. Only characters with Intelligence above 10 can learn additional languages. Non-humans do get a 20% chance to speak Common but I roll an “82″ which means he doesn’t, which will make party communication interesting.
He may rely on hirelings as translators. His average Charisma will allow him to hire up to 4 “unusual” hirelings (non-player characters with a class and level of 1 or higher) and they will have no penalty or bonus to loyalty.
(Dwarf illustration presumably by Greg Bell, from Dungeons & Dragons, Volume I, Men & Magic by Gygax and Arneson, Tactical Studies Rules, 1974)
#D&D#Dungeons & Dragons#Gary Gygax#Gary Gygax Day#OD&D#character creation#dwarf#dice#Greg Bell#dnd#dungeons and dragons#Tactical Studies Rules#TSR
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Theory time. 🧐🧵
Kelly is sneaky as hell and unhinged. Karen was the loudmouth, but Kelly is absolutely more sinister. She was the quieter one so easily overlooked in comparison to Karen. Overlooking Kelly is a dangerous mistake.
Karen had a life. Kelly comes off as “just there.” She probably had a lot of time to herself whenever Karen was out with her friends and boyfriend. During that time, I think she did some digging into their family history.
I think the twins’ mom is Angela’s sister. Making Angela their aunt. We know Angela’s mom had some type of mental issues. That can be hereditary.
I mention hereditary, because it’s been clear from jump that Mrs. Beasley is a bit off. So, Kelly’s “research” into her family history led her to Angela and that led her to A. She probably found A in some type of Radley Sanitarium.
Angela was obsessed with reading the Scarlet Letter. I think she had a child. I think Davie and the others judged her over it. Well, Davie judged. They followed her lead. They were all friends at some point.
That’s why Davie screamed when she saw Angela was going to jump. She screamed the loudest. It’s also why Davie was so determined to be there for her daughter now that she’s a pregnant teen.
So, I think A is Angela’s child. I think she was forced to give him up at some point and it fucked with her mentally. It’s probably why Sidney said there were things they couldn’t help her with.
Are you guys keeping up? Angela is Mrs. Beasley’s sister. Angela is the twins’ aunt. A is Angela’s child. A is the twins’ cousin. Kelly found A in a nut house…my money is on Radley Sanitarium.
Kelly built a bond with her crazy cousin, A. Kelly feels like she can relate to her cousin. They’ve both been discarded. They’ve both been robbed of the life they think they deserved.
Kelly comes off as extremely protective of her sister, but she’s really extremely JEALOUS of Karen. Kelly knew Imogen didn’t kiss Greg. She planted that seed in Karen’s head on purpose.
Karen was genuinely shocked at the girls accusing her of setting them up, because she really didn’t do any of it. Kelly did…with the help of her cousin.
In detention, Noa says Karen probably got her sister to swap her pee. That’s a huge hint at how everyone views the dynamic of Karen and Kelly. EVERYONE thinks Karen is the mastermind to everything and Kelly is the puppet.
Well, everyone has it twisted. Kelly has always been the mentally stronger twin. She’s been showing us throughout each of the first three episodes. She’s a manipulative, evil little cunt. She gets a kick out of seeing Karen hurt.
Kelly lied to Karen about Imogen. Kelly was in the office when she saw Noa do her drug test and she heard them talk about her drug test schedule. Kelly heard Karen bitching about ballet.
Kelly was there when she heard Imogen say she would be running against Karen. Kelly orchestrated every single thing that happened to Karen and made it look like it was the girls coming after her. 6 birds, 1 stone.
I’m also pretty sure Kelly had Karen give that flyer to Davie. Bottom line, Kelly and her cousin are A. At some point we’ll learn Mrs. Beasley’s maiden name is Waters and she’s the older sister of Angela.
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greg the quagsire?
As my fursona?
Hmm. 'm not really a fan of water types or anything.
doesn't seem very- me either, sorry
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