#I get M’s still unaware of their feelings for the detective but there’s obviously something THERE and it was different for him this time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alexaconite · 3 years

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When Nature Calls [Elorcan]

[Elide/Lorcan] Rated M for masterbation. I cannot contain my love for these two. Rowaelin who?

He was awake - again.

Somewhere between the fourth dawn bird chirping and his fourteenth intrusive thought of the dark haired girl sleeping on the cot above him, Lorcan Salvaterre gave up any hopes of sleep, and sat up from the uncomfortable bed roll he lay claim to. He had tossed and turned into the early hours of the morning, and now he could smell dew on the grass where the sun was thawing the remnants of another bitterly cold night.

The boat he had commandeered - like a common thief, Elide liked to remind him - was anchored near a small patch of woodland, and far enough from civilisation that he hadn't second thought sleeping in the cabin last night. Usually, he rested on the deck where any potential ambush could be picked off easily.

His keen hearing detected nothing out of place, and instead registered the now familiar rise and fall of Elide's slumber. The woman at present - his very reasoning for unrest - was curled on her left side and facing him. Her dark hair was strewn across a makeshift pillow, and her slender neck met a softy curved shoulder that peaked out from beneath a thin blanket.

Her features were gentle in sleep. The tiredness and stress that had been following them for days had ebbed away with the night, and she looked care free in sleep. She looked comfortable. And there was an instinctual side of Lorcan that flared with satisfaction. He had kept the female safe, like a good Fae male should. All was well.

If only she would let him touch that neck. He had breathed in her aroma all night; lavender, from a mixture of herbs she had washed with, and sweet from the molasses she had traded for in the previous town. The coppery tang of blood had vanished some time ago with the end of her bleed, and was replaced with a scent of maidenhood - fertile and ripe. He had tossed and turned all night, enveloped by the smell of her womanhood, and beaten down the primal urge to take, take, take.

Now she slumbered unaware, like a lamb in a wolf's den, and he couldn't pull his eyes from the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder. To sink his teeth into the gentle groove, to taste and touch for just a moment…

A morning bird's song startled him, and he realised the sight he must be. Sitting on the floor with his canines on show, leering at a sleeping woman in the crack of dawn that slithered through the broken window shutter.

Furthermore, was the bigger problem he now had to deal with. The front of his trousers tented obviously with the lusting he had driven himself too. Staring down at the bulge in his pants with disgust, he threw the thin blanket off his legs, and crept like a thief in the night out of the cabin.

If she had woken and saw him, leering at her like a piece of meat, and then looked down at his straining cock…

He hurled insults at himself on the deck of their boat, double checking the rigging, and refusing to acknowledge the demand in his pants. He wouldn't allow himself…he couldn't start a habit now that their paths were to remain entwined on this journey to find that bitch-queen.

He filled their water bottles, readjusted their packs, and cursed those damned birds for their intolerable happiness. But he could hear her breathing; he knew what her chest looked like with each breath, and how her rounded breasts would rise and fall and rise and fall, and how they might feel in his hands…while his lips roamed her neck, nipping and tasting from ear to that forsaken curve he wanted to latch his canines around.

It was instinctual. He was off the boat before he could register any clear thoughts and striding into the woodland in search of some place discreet. He didn't go far, just enough she wouldn't hear him and close enough that he could still see the boat. His hand undid buttons at his front in a juvenile, clumsy manner, and he braced his palm against a tree for support, finally pulling his aching cock free. It was almost relief enough just to be without the constraint of fabric, but his traitorous hand cradled the soft skin and moved of its own accord.

Elide and her eyes that bore into his soul. They were eyes that made him feel like he had a soul left to look at, and that it wasn't mangled and torn from his crimes. He wondered if she would ever see him as he sees her - desirable, wanted, touchable.

Elide and her mouth that could cut a man with words like a dagger's edge. She was sharp and fast with untouchable wit. He wondered what those lips would feel like pressed against his own, and if her tongue would roam his mouth, brushing against his canines…

His eyes lost focus while his hand moved back and forth, pulling every filthy thought he could muster into each stroke across his swollen head. Sweat pooled above his brow, his hair falling forth around his lowered head, and he allowed a hiss of satisfaction between his lips.

Elide...curled up in bed, sighing softly each time she moved. Those little sounds had tormented him all night, and he recalled every little moan she made as if she were splayed beneath him. A groan tumbled from his throat.

Elide and her fucking neck.

His top lip recoiled and he emitted a guttural growl, spilling his seed in ropey lengths onto the tree trunk. He continued to pump his cock, sighing with relief as his orgasm washed away every knot and kink he had been holding onto, and letting a shaky breath leave his chest.

Lorcan rested his forehead against the tree, allowing his cock to soften in his hand. He wouldn't make a habit of this. But he didn't feel guilty either. He eyed the evidence of his release glistening against the trees rough trunk, and a satisfied, lopsided grin crossed his face.

"Lorcan?" he heard her hesitant call.

He hastily tucked himself away, rubbing his hands against his pants, and brushing his hair from his face. He made a show of stepping out of the trees and tying the buttons on his pants. Thank Hellas that she wasn't Fae - the stench of arousal and release must be rolling off him right now - she would have smelled his actions within seconds.

Elide stood on the deck, hands folded across her chest against the morning chill. "Oh, sorry," she muttered, assuming he had risen to pee. The slightest pink tinge crossed her cheeks. "I didn't realise you were-"

He rolled his eyes dismissively, stepping back onto the boat. "I can't think of a better place to answer nature's call than in nature itself."

Her lips twitched in response." Well if you've marked that tree I'll find another," she told him unabashedly, and he felt his chest flutter at how comfortable they had become around each other.

"I believe that is more of a dog trait-"

"Exactly my point," she cut across him, and with a proud smirk, brushed passed. Her elbow ever so slightly grazed his torso and sent his chest into another traitorous frenzy.

Get a hold of yourself, he scolded himself as he watched her cross onto the grassland, you're a grown man.

When she threw a questioning look over her shoulder and pointed to a tree as if to ask if that one was okay, he couldn't help but smile against his own stubbornness, and it was then that Lorcan Salvaterre knew he was royally fucked. Elide Lochan had stirred something inside of him that he had thought long dead.

And he didn't feel one bit guilty.

-END

#throne of glass #elorcan #lorcan salvaterre #elide lochan #elorcanfic #territorial fae male #territorial male nonsense #cadre #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #sjmfics

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janeofcakes · 3 years

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Soulmates: How John Met Sherlock...Again Chapter 8

Hello, my friends! In keeping my word, I am posting tonight to try and stay on schedule after the two-week wait for the last chapter. You may also be pleased to know that this one is more like the usual length.

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Sherlock has just picked up the dish of shepherd’s pie from off the oven shelf when his mobile sounds. He glances to his right pocket with a sharp look and a grumble. He can hear Olive in the loo just turning on the taps to wash up for dinner. Without ceremony, Sherlock lifts the dish quickly and all but throws it on the hot plates situated in the middle of the table. He has learned over time that shepherd’s pie should live on the table while they eat it rather than on the counter. Olive always wants seconds and sometimes thirds, so it is best to have it handy.

With the dish on the table, Sherlock turns back to the counter and tosses the oven mitts onto it while fishing for his mobile. It is a number he does not recognize so not Greg or Mycroft, thank god. That’s all he needs, another conversation with his brother. The birthday party only a few short days ago seems to have opened the floodgate and the meddling sod has phoned Sherlock every day since. An utterly pointless venture, except to annoy Sherlock as Mycroft repeats himself each time. He despises the exercise as much as Sherlock does, which is not completely lost on the detective. His brother obviously considers his words of the utmost importance. Of course, he always does, but this is different. His tone is all wrong and Sherlock cannot help wondering what Mycroft is so afraid of because it can be called nothing else. Pure, skillfully hidden fear. Anger stirs hot in Sherlock’s chest again. Does Mycroft honestly think he would do anything to endanger Olive or the life he has with her? Sherlock is happier than he has ever been and how on earth could having John Watson back in his life jeopardize that?

The mobile sounds once more, coupled with Olive’s voice shouting from the loo to see if he knows it is ringing.

“Yes. Thank you,” Sherlock calls and hastily hits accept before putting the device to his ear. The case had better not be tedious. “Sherlock Holmes.”

He hears a man clear his throat somewhat nervously on the other end and rolls his eyes. Missing spouse who is really having an affair, best friend won’t talk to him and he is worried the man has been kidnapped or… Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes pop open wide. He knows this man. It is there in the timbre of his voice. There is no mistaking it.

“Sherlock,” the voice is hesitant. “Hi.”

“John,” the detective breathes, dropping his left hand to the countertop for support. At that moment, Olive rushes into the room before he can say another word. She wooshes past him and plops down in her chair.

“Shepherd’s pie! I knew it,” she leans over the dish and takes a deep breath. “Oh, it smells so good!”

“Go ahead and start,” Sherlock tells her, covering the phone with his hand. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Ok,” Olive reaches for the serving spoon with a huge grin on her face. Sherlock’s lip curls up into a half smile as he pushes through the door into the sitting room and closes it behind.

“Are you having dinner?” John is saying. “I’m sorry. I should’ve picked a better time to call.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assures him, staring across the room to the skull on the mantle and the photograph of himself with John that sits next to it. “We were just getting started. It’s no trouble.”

“You’re sure?” John sounds uncertain, but relieved at the same time. “I could phone later.”

“John, it’s fine,” Sherlock repeats with an edge of tension in his voice he hopes John does not notice. He will only misinterpret it as irritation when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Sherlock is actually more concerned that John will talk himself out of the phone call and then never call again.

Guard your heart.

Mycroft’s words slam their way into Sherlock’s mind with all the power of a lorry. Clenching his teeth, he pushes them away in favor of listening to his friend.

“All right,” John replies, unaware of the detective’s inner struggle. “I ran into Greg and he gave me your new number. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock says easily. “I had to change it about a year ago.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” John sucks air in through his teeth with a cringe. “Nasty business.”

“It can be, yes,” Sherlock confirms, feeling a bit less edgy. “I should have given you the number myself since the girls are friends.”

“Right,” John agrees and Sherlock can tell he is wetting his lips, readying himself to say something momentous. Sherlock swallows, every synapsis in his brain firing as one thought fills his mind.

Please don’t say Olive and Gracie can be friends, but we should never see each other. I’ve just got you back. Don’t leave me again.

Sherlock slaps the thought down hurriedly, shoves it into an open door in his mind palace and locks it. What he feels right now is exactly what his ass of a brother was referring to when he cautioned him not to open his heart to John again. Sherlock lets out a mirthless huff. As if he ever closed his heart in the first place.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” John begins. Sherlock can hear him shifting uncomfortably. “If you’re both free on Saturday and the offer to host a playdate still stands, I’d be happy to bring Gracie by. Or we can have it here if you want.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open and he stares numbly at the mantle, not actually seeing any of the items resting upon it. That was certainly not what he expected John to say, but he’ll take it. Reach out and grab it with both hands, in fact.

“Sherlock?” John asks curiously and Sherlock snaps to attention, wondering how much time passed while he was in his stupor.

“Yes,” he says too quickly, too excitedly and eases back when he continues. “Yes, of course. We would love to have you over. Olive has an endless list of things she wants to show Gracie.”

“I think I’ve heard it,” John lets out a warm laugh.”More than once.”

“Would just after lunch work?” Sherlock asks, a smile slowly taking over his face. This is truly too good to be. “One o’clock?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” John answers pleasantly. “We’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Sherlock tells him, “and I know Olive will be overjoyed.”

“Oh, yeah,” John chuckles. “If you hear a far away explosion in the next few minutes, don’t worry. It’ll just be Gracie finding out.”

Sherlock laughs heartily and so easily it nearly surprises him. It feels good to laugh with John again. Astonishingly good.

“We’ll see you in a couple of days then,” John says in what can only be described as fond. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock ends the call and stays where he is, just breathing in and out. His heart is full and its warmth is running through his entire body. He is glowing with the feel of it.

Guard your heart.

It is already too late and Sherlock cannot be bothered to care. Not in the slightest. With a skip in his step, he turns for the kitchen and strides in to tell Olive the new plans for Saturday.

***

John and Gracie had set off as soon as they finished washing up after lunch. The walk from their flat to Baker Street isn’t far at all, but the clouds and rain saw them away in a taxi. The ride was pleasant enough, Gracie telling John for the umpteenth time what she and Olive had planned. The girl didn’t stop once to take a breath and John couldn’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, things all changed as soon as he paid the cabbie and turned to face the old building that was once his home.

John stands agog as the cab pulls away. Everything is exactly the same. Speedy’s is as busy as ever, every window has the same curtains so far as John can tell, and the door is still dark and imposing over the short step up to it. An image of a younger Sherlock Holmes standing on it flashes before John’s eyes and he sees himself limp over to the detective to shake hands. John blinks and the memory is gone as quickly as it came.

Feeling a light tug on his hand, John looks down to Gracie as she fidgets and angles her head toward the door. John nods, squares his shoulders and marches up to the door. The name plates are just as he had left them. M. Hudson. S. Holmes. John stares at the names, frozen in time. A thousand memories come unbidden, but not the cases as one would expect. Moments in the flat when they were alone. Sherlock working on countless experiments, John finding body parts in the fridge, blogging, reading, eating breakfast together, that time Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own and John was sure he saw something in the detective’s eyes before he turned away. John sees every detail in his mind’s eye as each one drifts around him, stories from a past life coming back into focus.

“Dad,” Gracie’s voice whispers through the haze and John blinks himself back to the present, his face wet with raindrops. He turns his head away from the door to see his daughter watching him with a curious expression. “Aren’t you going to knock?”

“Erm, of course. Yes, I was just…” John trails off, thinking of all the times he had let himself in and trotted up the stairs after a shift at the surgery to find Sherlock playing his violin or bent over an experiment or good god, tolerating Mycroft and his patronizing smirks. John cocks his head in thought, a warm feeling spreading throughout his body. Sherlock really had refused his brother’s information for all these years. He could have known everything from day one, but chose to give John his privacy. No, that wasn’t the only reason. It was too painful. That’s what Sherlock had said in the park. John’s heart squeezes in his chest at the thought of causing his best friend’s pain.

“Dad,” Gracie repeats, her tone impatient and bordering on irritable. “Dad, it’s raining and I’m starting to get really wet.”

“Right. Yes,” John remarks, knocking on the door swiftly and efficiently.

They only wait a moment before the door swings open to reveal Martha Hudson in a light blue dress. Her hair has gone nearly entirely grey and a few more lines have found their way onto her face, but John would know her anywhere. Mrs. Hudson’s every feature brightens as soon as she lays eyes on John, a smile of genuine delight on her lips.

“Hello, John,” she greets warmly and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” John replies thickly, realizing only at that moment how much he had missed her.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” Mrs. Hudson tells him and then looks down at his daughter. “And this must be Gracie. Olive’s told me so much about you.”

“She has?” Gracie asks, her excitement oozing from every pore.

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Mrs. Hudson declares, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. She’s been waiting for you all morning. Why don’t you go right on up?”

Gracie’s awed eyes follow the woman’s gesture all the way up the seventeen steps and they all three hear a clatter from the top. There is a muffled voice shouting ‘They’re here! They’re here!’ and Olive’s thumping footsteps scamper across the floor above. She throws open the door to 221B and jumps out onto the landing. Both girls squeal and start on the stairs, meeting halfway in a rib-crushing hug.

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Olive gasps. “I’ve been waiting forever!”

“I know. I know!” Gracie’s voice is on the verge of a shout barely reigned in. The two girls separate and just look at each other, their bodies trembling with pure joy. Olive grabs Gracie’s hand and jumps up a step.

“Come on! You have to see our new experiment,” she darts up the stairs and Gracie follows right on her heels.

John and Mrs. Hudson watch them run and disappear into the flat above. John looks back at the older woman with an apologetic smile.

“I’d better get up after her,” he says with a quiet laugh. He turns and puts one foot on the first stair when a strong grip around his forearm stops him. He glances at her hand and then meets the kind, brown eyes of his former landlady. Mrs. Hudson’s expression is soft and wise as she silently studies the doctor. Enough time passes that John begins to wonder exactly what she sees, as well as what she’s looking for. After another long moment passes, the corners of her mouth turn up into a sweet smile and she gives his arm a squeeze.

“I’m glad you’re here, John,” she says tenderly. She glances up the stairs and nods. “He hasn’t stopped talking about this since you phoned. Cleaned the whole flat himself.”

“Himself?” John muses with raised browns. “Now that is something.”

They share a chuckle. Mrs. Hudson squeezes his arm again.

“He has changed so much, John,” she tells him in a motherly tone.

“So I’ve heard,” John replies with a touch of dismissiveness that she picks up on immediately.

“I’ll not have that tone, young man,” Mrs. Hudson chides sternly. “Not about my boy.”

“I’m hardly a young man,” John tries to reclaim the jovial mood, but gets nowhere.

“You went through so much before you left,” the older woman interrupts as if John said nothing. “No one could blame you, but he’s not the same man who did those things, who left you behind.”

“All right. Fine,” John mutters tersely, shifting his weight impatiently and glancing up the stairs before looking at her again. “What would you have me do? Just forget it all and pretend it never happened?”

“No,” Mrs. Hudson answers, her brow furrowed. “Just give him a chance. That’s all. You think you know him, but you don’t.”

John huffs a mirthless laugh and tilts his head back a fraction to look up at the ceiling, trying to hold his temper.

“You’ve seen him with Olive,” Mrs. Hudson continues on and John lowers his gaze to meet hers, already understanding. “Is that the man you knew?”

“No,” John concedes after a long pause. Sherlock hadn’t minded children and seemed to enjoy talking to them, but by his own admission it was only because they hadn’t learned enough to be as stupid as adults. What Sherlock has with Olive is genuine love and adoration, pure and simple. Even just that tells John his friend is very different these days.

John presses his lips together in a physical manifestation of tamping down his curiosity and all the questions rolling through his mind in a loop. Who is Jessie? Where did they meet? Are they married? John’s eyes widen, nerves on the rise and his heart in his throat. He fights not to look up the stairs as every muscle grows tense. He will surely meet Jessie today as soon as he enters his former flat. Suddenly those seventeen steps look like hundreds.

“Are you going to stay at all?” Mrs. Hudson’s gentle voice breaks the spell of his slight panic, bringing him back to where he stands at the bottom of the stairs.

“What? No,” John answers quickly, feeling flustered and trying not to show it. Judging by Mrs. Hudson’s empathetic smile, he has failed miserably. “I mean, I hadn’t planned on it. I have some errands.”

John had, in fact, thought he might stay for a bit and suggest tea if Sherlock did not. It seemed like the best way to assess the possibility of renewing their friendship. Now the idea of Jessie being there has John striking it from the schedule. He and Sherlock have so much history and not all of it is good. Surely Sherlock must have told Jessie enough that she will want to keep him as far from the detective as possible. Lestrade had said Sherlock was a shell of his former self until Jessie came into his life. Why would she let John hurt him again when she could protect him?

“Of course, dear. I understand,” Mrs. Hudson finally releases John’s arm, “but maybe just for tea? He’s honestly just as excited as Olive, though he’d never admit it.”

“Yeah,” John’s voice is light and he exhales a breath he had not realized he was holding. He can’t believe the words are passing through his lips even as he says, “Sure. It’ll be good to talk for a bit. I...have missed him.”

John surprises himself with the admission. He might have known Mrs. Hudson would get the truth out of him one way or another. The clever woman smiles, pats his arm and heads for her own flat.

“Stop by when you and Gracie are on your way out,” she disappears into the doorway and then peeks around the frame with only one hand and her head in John’s line of vision. “I have biscuits for you.”

John laughs quietly at her teasing voice and saucy grin.

“I could never refuse you anything, Mrs. Hudson. You know that,” he remarks with an answering grin.

“Oh, I know, dear,” comes Mrs. Hudson’s sly tone as she disappears again.

Left alone, John turns his attention to the stairs, his eyes following them all the way up to the landing. He exhales deeply, steeling himself for what lies beyond.

“Come on then, Watson,” he mumbles to himself, taking the first stair. “Once more into the breach.”

When John reaches the landing and walks through the open door to 221B, his normal pace slows abruptly.The flat is bright and cheerful in a way it certainly never was when he lived here. The skull is still on the mantle and Sherlock’s desk in the corner of the sitting room. There is a different telly, but it’s in the same place. All of the furniture and area rugs are new, except for Sherlock’s favorite leather chair and…

John stops. Everything stops. He doesn’t even hear Gracie and Olive’s giggles. Something in John’s chest that he had locked up tightly breaks open, spreading warmth and a comforting sort of tingle through his body. His lips part and he mutters quietly to himself in wonder.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock’s voice startles him out of his reverie and he turns to see the detective entering from the kitchen with the girls fast on his heels. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming up.”

The detective’s appearance and gait betray nothing, but his eyes sparkle like the night sky. It is dazzling. John closes his mouth and blinks. Wetting his lips, he shoots for casual.

“No, sorry. I was having a word with Mrs. Hudson,” John says, knowing he isn’t quite pulling it off.

“Or she had a word with you,” Sherlock counters with a playful smirk and something in John’s chest pops. Ten years is a long time to wait for that face. John didn’t even know he had been waiting and hoping until the exact moment he saw it. His mind is awash with memories once again, of stolen glances and brushing fingers never spoken of, but always noticed.

“Dad! Dad, I just got the full tour!” Gracie hoots at her stunned father. “This place is great and there’s even a cool experiment in the kitchen.”

“I still need to show you my room,” Olive declares, her whole face the very pinnacle of happiness.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Gracie chants, jumping up and down. “I want to see it all!”

“Gracie,” John scolds, even as they run for the stairs to the second level, “be courteous, please.”

“Ok, Dad,” his daughter calls back in the voice she uses when she isn’t paying attention. John sighs and turns to see Sherlock’s amused smile.

“She’s fine,” the detective waves a hand dismissively and then sobers as a thought occurs. “I assure you that the flat is quite safe. The experiment we’re conducting contains no harmful materials.”

“I know,” John replies with a shrug. “You’d never allow anything that might be dangerous.”

Sherlock’s lips curve up, but he makes no other acknowledgement. John finds himself at a loss for words. He has so many questions that he should let Sherlock answer himself, but he can’t just start blurting them out with the girls up in his old room where they could burst in at any moment. Sherlock looks as though he is about to speak, but John beats him to it, suddenly compelled to break the silence.

“She’s beautiful, Sherlock, really. She looks just like you,” John almost whispers, not caring at all that he essentially just said the same about Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, somewhat taken aback. He regroups swiftly and gestures toward the kitchen. John’s eyes follow, his mind convinced Jessie will be standing in the doorway awaiting an introduction, but he sees no one. “Do you have a moment to spare for tea?”

“Uh, I have some errands, but yeah,” John says as disappointment flashes through his mind only to be chased away just as quickly as it came. Sherlock offered him tea. John didn’t even have to hint around it as he had planned in the cab. Mrs. Hudson was right. The detective is willing to open the door again. “I’d like that.”

“Good. That’s good,” Sherlock perks up. “Have a seat and I’ll bring it out.”

“No need to be so formal,” John replies, walking in the direction of the detective and the kitchen door behind him. “Let’s just do it in the kitchen. I don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s lip curls and he steps aside, stretching his arm toward the door.

“Be my guest,” he says knowingly and follows as John walks by.

Ten minutes later and the two men are sitting at the small kitchen table, mugs of steaming tea in hand. John opted for mugs and Sherlock had even remembered that John takes it with a splash of milk. John lets a quick breath out through his nose in place of a short laugh as he considers the man in front of him. Of course he remembers. He could probably tell from the way John tied his shoes or something.

“You’ve redone the kitchen,” John begins once they are settled. His smile grows when muffled giggles drift down from the floor above. John’s eyes look fondly upward and then back to Sherlock, who nods as he takes the mug from his lips and swallows.

“Four years ago, yes,” Sherlock fills in the blanks. “Minor explosion. Olive was not home.”

He says the last four words sternly, his face deadly serious and expecting a lecture, but John just rests his chin in his own hand and watches Sherlock with a contented gaze.

“I like it,” the doctor says simply.

“Thank you,” Sherlock clears his throat, thrown off by the unexpected response and John smiles behind his hand. “I’ll be sure to tell Olive. She was instrumental in its design.”

“You two work well together,” John says, racking his brain for some way to include Jessie without sounding like he’s being nosy.

“So do you and Gracie,” Sherlock offers sincerely and suddenly John wants to change the subject. He can tell Sherlock is going to apologize again for not knowing about Rosie and John really doesn’t want to have that conversation. He shifts in his seat and raises his own mug to his lips.

“So Greg and Mycroft?” John inquires before taking a drink. “I wouldn’t have predicted that one.”

“The last ten years have brought a good many surprises,” Sherlock responds with a chuckle. “Even my brother hadn’t anticipated that.”

“How did they even meet?” John asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.”Mycroft usually avoided everyone, especially police.”

“Olive’s first birthday party,” Sherlock says rather smugly. “I knew neither would refuse.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John declares with an incredulous grin that makes the detective smile inquisitively, “you set them up. You’re a matchmaker.”

Without hesitation, they both burst out laughing and don’t stop for a good minute. It feels so good to laugh with his best friend again. His best friend. John hasn’t thought of Sherlock that way for years and yet, somehow he never stopped. It’s true to this day. Even with the other friends he has made, no matter how close, Sherlock has always been the best and closest one. Now that John and Gracie are back in London, maybe Sherlock could be again.

“Not so much,” Sherlock comments, his laughter devolving into giggles. John is so taken aback by the way Sherlock seems to be responding to his thoughts that the smile he wears freezes on his face and his eyes begin to widen in panic as John tries to remember what they were talking about.

“I mostly wanted them to meet because I was tired of Greg asking me about my ‘invisible brother’,” Sherlock sets John’s mind at ease as he continues speaking, “and don’t get me started on Mycroft’s thinly veiled insinuations.”

“So you just wanted them to stop bothering you,” John sums up, “and they ended up together instead?”

“They took their time about it too,” Sherlock tells him with disgust. “Three years I had to endure incessant conversation. ‘Should I ask him out, Sherlock? Is he even interested in that? What does he think of me? We had a really good time at dinner.’ And that was just Greg.”

“Mycroft,” John begins slowly, his voice flat. “Asked you. About Greg?”

“Oh god, it was detestable,” Sherlock all but moans and John has a hard time hiding a smile. The detective catches sight of it anyway and grumbles a low sound from deep in his chest. “I don’t do feelings.”

“Don’t you?” John counters instantly, not believing the man’s snarl for a minute. Sherlock meets John’s steady gaze and his expression softens as unspoken understanding passes between them. Sherlock presses his lips together and suddenly looks younger, a touch vulnerable. John sees the man who looked at him the same way all those years ago on their first case when John said he didn’t have to use his imagination to know what he would say when about to die.

“I have limits,” Sherlock snarks, pulling John from the past. The detective schools his face to match the topic again and reaches for a biscuit. “My brother’s emotional awakening extends far beyond them, I assure you.”

“I believe it,” John smirks as he takes a drink.

“I fail to see the humor in this, John,” Sherlock glowers, but there is no heat in it and his lips turn up the longer he looks at John. Unable to stop himself from imagining Sherlock rolling his eyes and covering his ears as Mycroft waxes poetic about Greg, John descends into giggles. Sherlock gives him a withering look, but the corners of his mouth begin turning up of their own accord again and his own giggles soon join John’s. A minute later both men are laughing outright. John wipes at his eyes as the snorts begin to fade.

“I didn’t even realize Greg was gay,” he says absently.

Sherlock’s chuckles stop abruptly and John looks at him apprehensively, knowing his mistake immediately and kicking himself.

“He isn’t,” the detective tells him sharply. “He’s bisexual.”

“Right,” John swallows thickly, cursing himself for being such an idiot.

A moment of awkward silence passes while Sherlock sips from his mug and John looks down at his own, contemplating what to say. Coming up with nothing, he reaches for the biscuits with a silent inquiry on his face and Sherlock waves a hand in answer. John plucks one up and pops it in his mouth.

“Mm,” John hums with enthusiasm. “Mrs. Hudson is still an expert.”

“Actually, Olive and I made them,” Sherlock corrects and then says without thinking: “It’s Jessie’s recipe.”

He stops abruptly, mouth still open and fixes a penetrating but uneasy gaze on John. The doctor stares back. This is exactly the topic he is most curious about and the focus of nearly all his questions, but he suddenly doesn’t want to talk about it. He looks into those grey-blue eyes, deep and full of emotion, and he can’t. He can’t ask, can’t know. Not right now.

“John…” Sherlock starts in. John knows what he is going to say and he can’t bear it.

“Oh, god,” John interrupts, looking at his watch. “It’s been an hour. I really have to do those errands.”

He all but leaps out of his seat and bolts for the kitchen door, pausing only a moment to look back at his speechless friend. Sherlock has risen as well, but stands in place.

“Do you need any help?” John gestures to the table. “I can wash up.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock’s voice is uncertain as though he has done something wrong and John’s chest squeezes painfully.

“All right. Ok,” John’s own voice is full of tension. He doesn’t even sound like himself. He fists his hands at his sides for lack of anything else to do with them. “I’ll be back at...four? Four thirty?”

“Four thirty is fine,” Sherlock replies, sounding more resigned now. “I’ll make sure they have a healthy snack in a bit.”

Feeling like a complete idiot, John mutters his thanks and rushes from the flat without another word.

***

When John returns, it is nearly five o’clock. Tesco had been a madhouse and at least one person in every aisle was intolerable. He had texted Sherlock around four fifteen to say he would be a little late and received a response of ‘no problem’ almost immediately. Marching up the stairs to the flat, he still feels a bit guilty. Mrs. Hudson let him in the building and then rushed back to her flat to check on a cake in the oven. Small mercies, not making the walk of shame back up to 221B under her watchful eyes.

John turns to the door to Sherlock’s flat when he reaches the landing and knocks with the hand carrying only one light-weight bag. He will give it to Gracie for the trip home so he has only the two heavier ones to contend with. He hears footsteps nearing the door soon enough and Sherlock looks at him a bit oddly after opening it. His grey-blue eyes clearly ask why John didn’t just walk in, but then shift in recognition as if reminding himself that John is a guest rather than a resident.

The detective steps aside and directs John to place his bags on a bench near the door. John smiles to himself when he sees the line of eight year old shoes next to three pairs of Sherlock’s posh shoes. He still wears it when he turns around to follow Sherlock into the sitting room. John stops next to the couch while Sherlock goes to the bottom of the stairs.

“Olive, Gracie,” Sherlock calls. “John is here.”

“Ok,” his daughter replies.

Sherlock turns back to John and begins approaching the couch.

“They’ll just be a minute. I asked them to clean up a bit once you got here,” Sherlock explains and then gestures to the furniture. “Please, have a seat.”

“Ta,” John says automatically and sits on the couch, leaving room for Sherlock. John’s stomach flips when the detective sits next to him. His palms are sweaty and his pulse steps up its pace, but John tries not to show it. He’s being ridiculous.

“I hope she behaved herself,” John comments with a quiet laugh, resisting the temptation to wipe his hands on his jeans.

“She was wonderful,” Sherlock answers with an expression that says John had nothing to worry. “They kept themselves busy all afternoon. I only saw them at snack time and then they were right back at it. They get along so well.”

“Good. That’s good,” John says a little stiffly. What is wrong with him? He is tense and apprehensive and has no reason to be. Just because he ran from his friend as fast as he could when he left a few hours earlier doesn’t mean he should be uncomfortable now. Sherlock probably thought nothing of it. John sighs internally, wanting to roll his eyes. That is the single stupidest thought to pass through his mind all day.

“John,” Sherlock’s silky voice draws John’s attention, as always.

“Hm?” he hums, looking at his friend and trying not to give away every thought in his head with just one glance.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Sherlock tells him softly. John’s brows arch toward his hairline and his lips part in mild surprise. He is not entirely sure what Sherlock is referring to, but it can’t be what John thinks he means, what John increasingly wants it to mean.

“The girls have grown quite close in only a short time,” the detective continues. “They’re already planning a sleepover.”

“Oh,” John releases the breath he had been holding. He had not anticipated that, but should have. He nods in understanding, feeling both relieved and disappointed in equal measure. “I should’ve known they’d make that leap right out the gate.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock wets his lips, drawing John’s eyes and damn it if he can’t drag the traitorous little bastards away from that cupid’s bow. John is sure Sherlock notices, but he spares John the embarrassment of saying anything. “John, are you free for dinner next Saturday evening?”

“What?” John stumbles over the word like an idiot. He can’t have heard that right. Dinner? With Sherlock? With him? Then it dawns on him. Sherlock wants to introduce him to Jessie over dinner where there won’t be interruptions significant enough to pull them away. “Yeah. I don’t have plans. It’ll be easy enough to have Candace watch Gracie for the night.”

“Good,” Sherlock’s lips quirk up. “I’m glad. I...I have a lot to tell you.”

Before John can reply or even put much thought into the implications of that sentence, Gracie and Olive clatter down the stairs and bound into the room. The young blonde is at John’s side in seconds, hugging him and bubbling over about all she has to tell him.

Surrounded by constant chatter, John and Sherlock rise and all four walk to the door where Gracie pulls on her coat and shoes. Both she and John thank Sherlock and Olive for everything and then make their way down to Mrs. Hudson. She meets them in the foyer with a tin of biscuits, which they put in Gracie’s grocery bag. Thanking her as they head out the door, Mrs. Hudson waves goodbye with promises to see them again as though there was never any doubt of their return.

Once the door to the building is closed and John and Gracie are on the pavement, a cab appears seemingly from nowhere. John eyes the driver suspiciously for a moment, wondering if he is really one of Mycroft’s lackeys before dismissing the notion. He opens the door with the hand holding the lighter of his two bags and piles in with his daughter. John gives their address to the man and sits back in his seat just in time to hear his mobile ping with a text.

7 o’clock?

John can’t help the smile that blooms on his face as he types an affirmative response.

“What does that mean?” Gracie asks, reading over his shoulder. John looks down at her curious face as he pockets the mobile.

“Olive’s dad and I are going to meet for dinner next Saturday,” John tells her. “So that means Candace will stay over and put you to bed.”

“Yay!” Gracie exclaims. “She promised to play Cluedo the next time she stays over.”

“Well, I hope the two of you discover it was the doctor in the lounge with the lead pipe before it’s too late,” John jokes, wrapping his arm around his little girl and pulling her close.

“Dad,” Gracie laughs with an eye roll and hugs him.

The cab ride home is not long at all and the Watsons joke with one another all the way to their doorstep.

---

A new chapter coming with promises of dinner, Jane, and you make us wait? Gah! I may not be torturing you with the angst of my other works, but I hope to still have to on the edge of your seats. Thank you, thank you one and all for your support and love. Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #John loves Sherlock #Mystrade

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lilyoffandoms · 3 years

Note

Ohh if you're still taking them, from the hand prompt 'running their thumb over the back of the other’s hand' with Jason and Mason pls? ❤

Soft M? Yes please! And thank you so much for the request!

Warnings & A/N: none I can come up with.

The room was hot, almost stiflingly so as he leaned against the doorframe and watched him read. His feet propped up on the ottoman. Shoes off, of course. No wonder Nat and him were such close friends, he scoffed with a small smile on his lips.

This was the most peaceful he had seen him in quite some time and the sight stir things inside him. Those same stirrings he was experiencing more and more lately around the detective. The same stirrings he was beginning to think were feelings he didn’t want.

It was fun, what they had, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that enough? Why bring messy emotions into? He wasn’t Nat. He didn’t enjoy that.

He watched as Jason scribbled something in the margins of the page before flipping it. Obviously his own book or Nat would be in here already to scold him for defacing one of her precious books, he chuckled quietly.

“I’m not that oblivious. I know you’re there. Why don’t you come closer and get a better vantage point to admire the view?” Jason broke through Mason’s musings with an all too pleased smile on his lips but his eyes still firmly fixed on the words in front of him.

“How can I turn down such an enticing invitation?” Mason purred and was slightly disappointed that Jason had yet to look up and watch him.

He slid slowly down on the couch beside him, his hand sliding up Jason’s thigh and coming to rest at what Ava and Nat were sure to consider a respectable distance from where he wanted to rest it. Or as respectable as he was capable of when it came to the detective.

Leaning his head back against the couch he took Jason up on his offer and admired the view. Taking in all the breath taking details.

The way his eyes crinkled in amusement at the attention he was receiving. The small, faintest of freckles smattered across his cheeks from a bit too much time in the sun. He only noticed them in summer, his least favorite season. But he was beginning to think that if it meant more of this view he could learn to yearn for summer all year round. And the various shades of emerald, darker and deeper than Ava’s icy ones mix. These held a warmth of a freshly sprung spring forest.

And, he grunted and shook himself from those thoughts. That was something more belonging in one of Jason’s ridiculous books of poetry than on his mind with this stunning man sitting beside him.

He slumped lower into his seat and glared at the flames. Trying to keep his mind blank and just enjoy the quiet of the library.

He smiled as Jason’s hand squeezed his own before leaving his cold and wanting to flipping another page. The touch all too brief. He hated the loss of that touch and wanted to reach up and return that hand to his. And he almost did. His hand stopping inches above Jason’s thigh before he settled it back down.

Jason shifted the book to his other hand and laced his fingers into Mason’s. Smiling but not daring to look at the vampire. The same smug smile on his face as Mason glanced between their hands and Jason’s face.

He turned back to the flames and his troubling thought, unaware of his thumb rubbing tender circles across Jason’s skin.

Only then with Mason so lost in thought did Jason register the touch and break from his reading to glance between their hands and Mason’s calm face.

An entirely different smile - a softer, awe-filled one - tugging at his lips as he returned to the prose before him.

——————————

TWC Tag: @amlovelies @vienocalledmebuddy @gloynporslen @roses-and-roux @mistyeyedbi

——————————

Distract me please!

#mason x jason #my oc: jason lin #my drabble #i like to live dangerously and so do not edit forgive my mistakes #from prompt #ask #sosolenoo ask #day two of ten 😭#but seriously thank you for the request! these have been so much fun!#and lovely delightful distractions from my boring days

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donaldresslerfanfic · 4 years

Text

Agent Gale.

Rating: M

Warnings: Strong Language, Sexual Content.

Word Count: 3348

Donald Ressler X OC Maggie Waters.

Chapter: Fifty-Eight

Chapter Index

Story on Wattpad

Ressler.

The days after I first met Julian to work with him, Mags and I had the first ultrasound to meet our baby, when we first found out about her state, she was barely 7 weeks along, and we had to wait the remaining time for the 12th and the ultrasound. I'd noticed Mags had a little bump below her belly button, I was used of her stomach laying straight down all the time, and the smallest change I noticed in a second. She was still blissfully unaware of the shit show that was going to fall upon us.

Julian was an extreme researcher, he really got into the mind of the perpetrator, in this case Reddington. He knew every detail in the reports of the victims, he didn't miss a date, a connection, he reviewed everything a thousand times. Working with him brought me back on some level of attention to detail I'd long lost.

The following days, with Reddington dealing with his own stuff and chasing the cleaner, I got word from a detective in Philly who said he could have a break on my case. I went home to pack a bag and let Mags know I was heading there to talk to her.

That was the single worst decision I'd made. The witness was a set up.

I found myself now in a containment cell back in DC with a terrible headache, a pit in my stomach of thinking what they would do to me, and another even darker pit of knowing that I'd been pumped full of drugs, that's what I was worried about the most. I didn't wanted my past addiction to be a thing again.

I'd been stripped from my badge, taken out of the taskforce, treated like a criminal, I'd been manipulated, used, wronged, and I couldn't reach the only person who would make me feel better.

"You've got five minutes" I heard one of the guards say, I lifted my head up towards the door of the cell with a frown, then watched as Mags figure appeared from the side.

I stood up and walked to her, my arms slipped between the bars to hold her by the waist.

"Maggie, Mags I-"

"Hey hey" she stopped me, placing her hands on my neck and looking into my eyes "Samar told me what happened, alright? I'm just here to see how you're holding up and to tell you that everything is fine"

I shook my head and pressed my forehead to one of the bars.

"This is not fine, none of this is fine"

Mag's hand lifted up to the side of my head.

"That's an awful bruise, what was that?"

"I'm sorry" she moved her hand down on my cheek, stroking it slowly.

"None of this is your fault Don. Out of all the people Kate could've gone after you weren't supposed to be one of them. But they're working on getting you out alright?"

I couldn't look at her, I was so ashamed, ashamed for being manipulated the way I was, for being weak.

"Hey, stop it" she said pulling my head up to look at her again, as if she knew what was going on in my head "none of this is your fault. You'll be cleared tomorrow, and hopefully we can laugh about this whole situation in the future"

When I heard the footsteps walking down the hall again, probably to retrieve Maggie, I held her hands and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" I nodded, kissing her hand one more time before she was led outside.

I felt terrible with myself, specially after Cooper told me I was under investigation and out of active duty. I was free to work with Julian, but I didn't wanted to have anything to do with anything. The whole situation left me nauseous, I hated everything and everyone. Reddington, Hitchin, Kaplan, Krilov, Gale, everyone. I felt like everyone was out to get us.

The next day, when I was released under investigation, I headed to Mag's work, she had to be at the construction site almost everyday, and I knew that's where I'd find her.

She'd been reached on the radio and made aware of my presence, after a few minutes I exited the car when I saw her make her way to me. I held her tight, feeling her body mold to mine.

"Told you everything was going to be fine" she assured, I sighed and pulled back, holding her by the neck and pulling her for a kiss.

"I'm sorry"

"Stop" she shook her head "stop being sorry, you have nothing to feel sorry for."

"I'm going to find a way to make everything alright"

"I know you will" she leaned in to kiss my lips again, and I moved my hand from her waist to her stomach. I'd never done that, but I'd seen her absentmindedly rub it when she was sitting in the sofa, or on the computer. "We're fine, and I need you to be fine as well. So do what you have to do"

I nodded, kissing her lips again and hugging her tight. I was going to do anything in my power to stop the indictment, Gale, whoever was fighting Reddington, everyone. For Mags, for the three of us.

I resumed my work with Julian, he was always in the morgue, always looking at the bodies, always trying to communicate with them.

I don't know how he'd gotten my address, but he had, and one night he showed up with three boxes of files for us to look up.

I was a little confused when I opened the door and found him standing on the other side, and immediately got worried because Mags was supposed to be back in an hour, and I couldn't afford her saying something she wasn't supposed to.

"Are you gonna stand there all day?" He asked, I opened the door further and grabbed one of the boxes he was holding, releasing some of the weight from him.

"Who gave you my address?" I asked, he walked in and I shut the door with my foot.

"The bureau, why? Are you hiding something?"

I motioned at him to keep walking, then set the boxes on the kitchen table.

"No, but I don't want people to be looking at these" I opened one of them I looked around, most of the files that were here were redacted by me. Most of them were from people we'd tried to get them to give up information about Reddington, we promised protection, and here's where they'd ended up, in a box, a file number, a casualty.

"Wow, wow" I lifted my eyes to Julian, who was holding a framed photo of Mags and I on our wedding "is this the missus?" He shot me a glance.

"Yes, that's her"

"Where did you get her from?" He placed the frame back down in the table and opened another one of the boxes.

"She's from Maryland, she moved here 5 years ago, that's when I met her" I explained a little.

"Does she know what you do?"

"She knows the necessary. And I would prefer it if she didn't came back from work and saw the kitchen table full of bodies"

He just chuckled and got to work. Most of the people in the ice rink I had accounted for, and we were able to set up a timeline. Julian had a few other bodies who were identified but he hadn't been able to get the files, all of them were names on the blacklist, I knew not being able to get the files would spark some suspicion in him.

We'd set up the victims in a timeline, and some of them dated years back, the John Does that he had the bodies but not the files dated from 2013, which is roughly the time when the Reddington taskforce was disband, and a new Reddington taskforce was created.

The front door opened and in came Maggie, phone in hand.

"Can you do me a favor and look up in the file the name of the person in charge of the project?" She left her things on the kitchen island and walked around it towards the fridge, she hadn't noticed us. "Oh my God that's my name! And because it is my name you are going to do exactly as I say, and if I say the walls need to be 5 inches thicker, then you will make them five inches thicker, and I don't care if you have to tear them down and redo them, you wouldn't have to if you'd followed my instructions in the first place."

Boy was she mad. I walked to her, she gave me an annoyed roll of her eyes when she saw me.

"And tell Gabriel this is the last time I'm working with him- no no no" she said quickly "I've had you scheduled for a month in advance, first he fucks up and delays the start, now he fucks up the measurements that I personally reminded him of five times. I'm one mental breakdown away from pulling your people out of the site and hiring someone new."

She handed me her water bottle, which I took and opened, she started angrily at it, then took it whilst listening to the other person talk.

"You're gonna stay after hours to fix up this fuck up, and next time you or Gabriel cross me... You don't want to see me mad" she threatened.

She hung up and gave me a chuckle.

"Was that too much? You think he bought it?" She gave the water a big gulp.

"I bought it" I leaned in to kiss her lips, then motioned at Julian, who had witnessed the whole charade. "Baby, this a friend from work, Julian Gale"

She turned wide eyes to him, placing a hand on her chest.

"Oh my God" she gave me a little look "Donald what the hell, I'm going full mafia on people with the police in the house?" She walked to Julian and extended her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that" she said with a smile. Julian shook her hand "I'm Maggie"

"It's a pleasure, Donnie here is very hush hush about you, I'm pleasantly surprised"

She chuckled and moved her eyes to the table, quickly turning away.

"On my God baby, is that like, dead people? Ugh" she exaggeratedly shivered. "I'm sorry I'm too queasy, especially now" she moved her hand to touch her stomach.

"Oh, wow, you're multiplying already?"

She gave him a smile and looked at me.

"Yeah, Agent Ressler here can't keep his hands to himself" she kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulder. "okay, I'm gonna go upstairs to yell at more people who think they know more than I do at my own job, and leave you guys to keep working" she motioned at Julian "it's been a pleasure."

She gave me one last look before taking her things and going upstairs.

We spent another two hours working on the files, but there was not much else we could do besides waiting for the remaining files Gale had requested. Those obviously will never reach him, the classification levels on them were too far from his reach. He politely declined Mag's offer to stay for dinner, and left shortly after that.

She'd moved her laptop back down to the table and was looking into the fridge for something to cook.

"Your acting is very impressive" I said to her, she gave me a little smile and closed the fridge, taking some ground beef with her.

"Do you think he bought the unaware wife role? The last thing we need is for him to know that I used to work for Reddington as well" I agreed.

I stopped to look at her cook, and tried to make a mental check of when was the last time I'd actually stopped to look at my wife.

She'd gotten a haircut, she thought I didn't noticed but I did, it was extremely subtle. She'd also gotten the finger tattoo she told me about ages ago, two little letters were now printed on her skin forever, D.R. She was using her reading glasses more often, since she was constantly on her phone or computer, and when she wasn't she was reading papers, prints. The most notorious change was her stomach, she barely had anything noticable for anyone who didn't spent that much time with her, but I'd grown to know every curve of her body, and the little one forming on her stomach, the one that signaled she was growing someone else inside of her, that was my close second favorite, the first one will always be her smile.

She'd busied herself with dinner, but when she had to stand still next to the stove, I led my hand to her stomach again. She looked down at my hand and then up at me with the biggest of smiles.

"You're showing a bit"

"Yeah?" She asked taking her shirt and pulling up "I don't know, I think it's too early."

"I would know, this wasn't here before" I placed my lips on her shoulder, watching her cook from over her shoulder.

"Your friend sound like trouble" she commented.

Yes, he was trouble. He was even more trouble when he ID'd Tanida. That gave him a direct jab at me, and I had to tell him everything, because in his head I was the only one involved in this Reddington thing, but the truth was that I was dragged into this.

I became a mess of a person when Mags called me that very day in lunch time, to tell me that Julian had intercepted her at lunch.

I'd run a program to encrypt the call, just in case Julian had tapped my line.

"Talk to me" I said as soon as the program finished.

"I'm having lunch at the cafe and he just sat down and began rambling like 'do you know what your husband is up to? He's into some serious shit, he might go to jail. If you tell me everything you know, if you testify I can protect you' bla bla bla."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I didn't know what you were up to, and if you were in trouble that you knew what you were doing and if you knew the risks, so did I. He also insinuated something about Raymond like he mentioned his name and were like 'do you know this guy' whatever, I told him to leave me alone or I would call the police and he left"

I was in my desk, sitting and listening to her, I gave her a tired sigh and rubbed my eyes.

"Is this happening like right now? The jail thing?"

"Yes, why do you think I'm so disturbed?"

"I thought this could take months, like most trials do" she excused herself. She sighed out loud "I'm like getting lightheaded, I don't need this right now"

"Hey hey hey" I tried to calm her down "take deep breaths okay, we're working on an angle for Reddington to help us with the indictment. Don't worry"

"Okay" she said quietly "when's the trial?"

"Aram was called tomorrow afternoon to testify to a grand jury, he's not going to give us up, I'll fix this"

"Okay" she repeated "I believe you" I sighed again, rubbing my forehead "we need a vacation after this" she said with a little nervous chuckle. I half smiled and nodded my head.

"Yeah, we do. I'll call you later okay?" I said when I saw Liz walk in the office "I love you"

"I love you too" she said, then hung up the call.

"It was Mags" I said throwing the phone on the desk "says Gale is going at her."

"We're on our way to talk to Dixon's brother, hopefully we can work this one out before tomorrow."

Luckily, we did, but I didn't expect it to be at the expenses of Reven Wright's case resolution. Knowing that I'd somehow failed her made me nauseous, Hitchin got to walk free, and so did we. What I had to give up, I gave it up because of Mags, and our family. I couldn't afford her going through me going to jail, and the both of us having to raise a child in those conditions.

Maggie had to delay telling her sister about her pregnancy for almost two weeks after we did the ultrasound. Between all the comings and goings of Red's problems, she'd had to reschedule dinner with her at least three times. When I arrived home after being in the clear from the grand jury, I saw her sister's car parked outside.

I opened the door to see her poke her head from the kitchen, then walked quickly to me.

"What happened?" She asked with a frown.

"We're good" she lifted her eyebrows at me.

"For real?" I hummed affirmatively and held her by the waist, kissing her lips quickly.

"Yeah, Reddington helped. Is your sister here?" I pulled her to the kitchen, walking as we spoke.

"Yeah, she just showed up,she got mad at me for postponing dinner so many times she just dropped on us, we were going to ask for pizza."

"Have you told her?" As soon as I walked to the kitchen, Madison was sitting in the kitchen table and heard me.

"Told her what?" She asked whilst she took a sip of her glass.

"Maggie's pregnant" I said. She instantly choked on her water, making Ethan next to her stiffle a laugh and pat her back.

"I knew that already" he said smugly

"No you didn't" Mags walked to her sister with a kitchen cloth. Madison rose up from her seat to hug her, and I assumed the tears on here eyes weren't just from the water she'd tried to drink.

Madison didn't leave Maggie's side during the dinner, she just looked at her and hugged her and reached out to touch her stomach. I just assumed it was her motherly instinct taking over, Madison had basically been Mag's mom, she's taken care of her, half raised her.

Once the dinner was over, Mags was upstairs undressing and changing into her pajama when I entered.

"So" she said looking at me "what happened? How did you fix it"

I sighed in a little annoyance and sat on the bed, getting changed as well.

"I had to give up Reven Wright."

"Give up who?" She asked.

I laid on the bed and waited for her to turn off the light and make her way to the bed.

"Reven Wright, Hitchin killed her, and I've been going through her reports to see if she'd slipped on something so I could charge her. She hired a fixer who cleaned the traces. He led us to her body, and I had the proof I wanted to charge Hitchin. I had to give it away if we wanted her to squash the grand jury investigation"

"Ow" she lamented, placing her hand on my chest "I'm sorry baby. But Reven knows you know the truth, I bet she's thankful you found her and were able to give her some peace."

She moved closer, my hand landed on the side of her thigh and pulled it over on my stomach, feeling her closer.

"So you're going back to work?"

"Yes, I have to go and retrieve my badge tomorrow. Still, I don't know what's gonna happen, Reddington is broke and powerless. It could take time and I want to do other things"

"What other things?" She inquired.

"Well, house hunting, we need a bigger house."

"We 100% do not need a bigger house"

"Yeah we do, where are you going to put the baby?"

"I'll move my office downstairs and get rid of the guest room"

"No, we're getting a bigger house."

"We're not"

We were.

#donald ressler #donald ressler x oc #fanfic #the blacklist

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waitedforgarridebs · 6 years

Text

Fix-It #2: The Final Problem is "Staying Alive" (1/3)

Why Bond Air and TRF are linked

Going into series 2 now, and we all know where that leads: The Reichenbach Fall.

But why did Sherlock Holmes have to die – without actually dying?

Soon after the pool, Sherlock gets himself into very deep waters – only this time, it will be almost impossible to fix the situation again.

Even for Mycroft.

This is part #3 of the "Game Theory" series (x).

Interlude: The series 2 timeline conundrum

It was Mrs Hudson, in her dress, with the deerstalker.

The timeline of series 2 is a bit... wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey.

Referencing this thread (x), but long story short: Sherlock wasn't all keyed up, put himself through cold turkey and harpooned a dead pig because of Irene, but because of what happened at the pool.

Therefore, Sherlock and John went to Baskerville before they ever got involved with Irene’s photographs

The same newspaper in both scenes indicates that Sherlock's desperate search for the last stack of cigarettes in his flat happened on the same day Irene first decided that "it's time" to go and attract Sherlock's attention.

And looking at the following exchanges, one can't but wonder whether one really should stick to the timeline of John's blog, where "By Royal Appointment" and "The Hounds of Baskerville" are listed with a one year gap (!) in-between:

So, since the real timeline of those two episodes isn't exactly linear, I just want to point out that our favourite torture scene at the end of THoB…

… could have happened at any given point in time – and not necessarily "right after THoB".

Back to the pool

Because this is where we left off in the last post (x) – and Sherlock and John just almost died together.

Which left Sherlock a bit… wired.

This "game" between him and Jim escalated pretty quickly, and he probably only realised when he saw John strapped in Semtex how much he actually had risked by agreeing to rush headlong into this “game”.

Then again, Jim Moriarty is probably the most interesting and diverting opponent Sherlock has been facing in a really long time, if not ever, so going back to dealing with those ordinary clients now must be a real downer.

Therefore it's not surprising to see Sherlock suddenly taking so many cases, not only in an attempt to occupy himself, but also trying to find a truly interesting mystery.

Exactly this increased activity, in combination with John's blog, quite "accidentally" results in them becoming an internet phenomenon and eventually builds up Sherlock's reputation as "boffin" detective.

Not every case seems to be worthy of Sherlock's attention, though. And whenever simply ignoring the boring cases doesn't help, Sherlock goes out and harpoons even-toed ungulates.

Or hacks into John's computer and reads the emails to his girlfriends.

Tl;dr: He's horny bored.

And a bored Sherlock is never a good Sherlock

Because, even if he himself is blissfully unaware of it, he's getting dangerously close to discovering a lead to another project of the real Moriarty.

Again.

Aren't we lucky that Sherlock would rather go and fight an invented super villain, while being dressed up as a ninja (x), than notice the number of people suddenly coming to Baker Street inquiring about the missing bodies of their dead relatives.

Still, this starts to become quite of a problem: Not only could every next client finally make Sherlock notice the pattern he so far blindly has been ignoring, but John is also blogging in great detail about all those strange cases regarding bodies which are not where they are supposed to be, and how BAFFLED, and flummoxed, and bamboozled Sherlock is about all this – on a publicly accessible website which has been gaining a lot of traffic and attention lately.

(x) (x) (x)

Provided that potential clients continued dropping all those clues about the Bond Air project at this rate: Even if Sherlock won't draw the right conclusions from all of this, somebody else out there eventually might.

And then Sherlock's boredom-induced hunt for a missing rabbit gets him involved in yet another top-secret, conspiracy-laden government project...

Granted, this way at least he stops poking at project Moriarty for a couple of days, but breaking into a military base using a master keycard he nicked from his big brother certainly goes on the "con" side of the "Sherlock's utility" list.

Let's put his time and gift to some actual use!

And since Sherlock is not the only "princess" to go around and cause trouble these days in order to alleviate their horniness boredom, maybe he'll even get a knighthood out of it.

Sending the gay detective to extract some compromising photographs from a lesbian dominatrix who's trying to blackmail the Royal Family – what could possibly go wrong?

… damn.

Tfw your distraction turns out to be linked to the secret you wanted to distract from.

Or to be a bit more picturesque: Mycroft's carefully constructed house of cards didn't only collapse just now, but got crushed by the weight of a grounded passenger jet.

(x)

"Bond Air" is Mycroft's "Skyfall"

Thanks to Sherlock's deduction, the whole Bond Air operation is now compromised and therefore cancelled – the plane will never fly.

We know that this was not the only plane Mycroft and his people equipped with dead passengers, and that they collaborated with at least two foreign countries for this whole operation – however: The following statement, together with Mycroft's extreme distress in the final third of the episode, do seem a bit "exaggerated", if they really were talking only about planes…

Years of planning to intercept bomb attacks on planes, that seems to be not only very specific, but also a bit... inefficient.

(Also, corpses don’t usually have that long of a shelf life.)

But if we were talking about deceiving terrorists by redirecting and controlling crimes in general, "months and years of planning", as well as Mycroft's very emotional breakdown in this specific episode suddenly do make a lot of sense…

Because Mycroft's worst nightmare just came true: By making the wrong deduction at the wrong time, Sherlock just ended up doing something very bad.

Sherlock inadvertently busted Project Moriarty

And the "funny" part is: Sherlock is absolutely unaware of what he did.

But that is the thing about Sherlock: Very often, he just deduces things – unable to control it himself.

And he doesn't think about the consequences of what he just happened to deduce before he voices his conclusions. So, depending on the circumstances, this can in fact make his genius more harmful than useful.

SHERLOCK: There’s a margin for error but I’m pretty sure there’s a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.

(And we've all seen how that one ended…)

There is a certain irony to the fact that Sherlock didn't have to know anything about the true motives behind the Bond Air operation – it being tied to project Moriarty, that is – to make ^this momentous deduction.

Hence all of Mycroft's efforts to distract his brother and to keep the situation under control turned out to be in vain… In the end, all it took was an ill-timed deduction meant to "impress a girl".

Bond Air is exposed, the terrorists know about the bomb – it is only a matter of time now until someone else eventually figures out the truth about project Moriarty.

And if a worldwide "network" of criminals ever were to realise they had been played like this the entire time – by secret services and governments…

… millions of innocent citizens would fall victim to the vengeful wrath of a lot of very dangerous people.

This whole thing has become too woolly, too messy...

The sting operating "Moriarty" needs to be stopped immediately, and the traces leading back to the legitimate authorities behind it all obfuscated as thoroughly as possible.

It is convenient enough that outsiders who've already been in touch with Moriarty think of him as a "consulting criminal", hence "a person", and that he is thought to be the one and only leader of this worldwide network of criminals.

A sudden and moreover unexplained "disappearance" of Jim Moriarty, however, would only cause unwanted suspicion; there needs to be a convincing reason for him to permanently cease his activity as a consulting criminal.

And what could be more permanent than killing this "person" off…

(x)

Not only is this the proper way to deal with such a "loose end", but one also wouldn't have to fear the revenge of any of Moriarty's now disgruntled clients due to cancelled deals and unsettled grievances.

"Moriarty" has to die – because one can't really take revenge on a dead person

But in order to actually nip any burgeoning hard feelings in the bud, the story behind Moriarty's downfall has to spread to even the furthest branches of the network as quickly as possible.

Hence merely an obscure, whispered voice would not suffice; not only would it take too long, but its (obviously non-existent) credibility would need to be established and proven first, etc etc etc ...

An already well-established, widespread, fast-paced and reliable information channel is needed.

"I love newspapers. Fairy tales – and pretty grim(m) ones, too."

And one thing is certain: The more sensational the news, the faster and wider it will spread.

How utterly convenient that "Jim" now happens to commit The Crime Of The Century.

That alone would already be a good enough story by itself, but it doesn't quite fulfill its actual purpose: As of now, James Moriarty only is being accused of attempting to steal the crown jewels (among other things), and therefore he is nothing more than an "ordinary" thief.

But remember: The whole point of this was to make the world believe that James Moriarty is a "consulting criminal" and the leader of a huge underground network.

Jim officially needs to become Moriarty's face

Because then, if Jim was to die, Moriarty (and eventually his network) would die with him.

But it wouldn't have been very convincing for Jim to just go out there and claim to be the most evil mastermind to ever have evil'ed – which is why he actually got his hands dirty and broke into all these places.

The three most secure places in the country.

And then he got acquitted of the charges without having to show any proof for his "innocence" to the jury.

That's quite a feat.

And, on the surface, also a very marketable skill set for a criminal mastermind.

So far, there's nothing really remarkable or fishy about it: Advertising for his criminal business seems to be a good enough explanation for why Jim did what he did – but if it had been the actual reason, the episode would have ended right here:

Having managed to vanish without a single trace after getting all this public attention, James Moriarty would have gone back to his now booming consulting business and happily continued to sit in the centre of his web till the end of days.

There was no need for Richard Brook

If James Moriarty actually broke into all these places in order to advertise, he wouldn't have gone and activated the self-destruct button by "creating" Richard Brook only six weeks later.

But there was a Richard Brook, and eventually the story ended with both Jim and Sherlock committing (fake-)suicide on the rooftop of St Bart's.

As if this had been meant to happen all along...

… and, to quote Moffat, "what a waste of a scene that would be". (x)

;)

Up next:

Part 2 of this post.

Link to part #4 of the series (x).

Follow @the-game-theory or me myself for updates.

Why is the series called “Game Theory”? (x)

My never-ending great big thanks to @mollydobby, as always, for the discussing and betaing. 🍪

Also, and I forgot that in the last two (ugh!), many thanks to @callie-ariane for her transcripts (x); what would the fandom do without her!

And since I did announce a SURPRISE last week: As you already noticed, the series 2 post has got multiple parts – two of which will be published next week on Tuesday AND Thursday! :)

(^because there actually is a little cliffhanger inbetween the next two, and I don't want y'all to suffer... ♥ )

Tagging people – if you’d like to be tagged in future posts as well, feel free to write me!

@elephant-in-the-bloom @may-shepard @wiscolina @devoursjohnlock @sarahthecoat @wibblywobblybowtie @violetvernet @etherealweekes @etoileetiolee @thewarriorprincessinthefield @shylockgnomes

#meta-tuesday #Sherlock #Sherlock meta #meductions #Mykey #The Game Theory #MyH #JM

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