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thecleverdame · 4 years

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Gods of Twilight - 15

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking. This chapter does contain some non-con elements.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

*This story is complete. All 27 chapters are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

Outside of your private moments together, Sam has always been rather gruff. But even those not in on his secret must know that something is amiss. He’s beyond irritable, yelling at the servants, sending back all his meals muttering about how nothing tastes right.

His rut is fast approaching, but you’re holding firm to your choice to stay with him.

“Deep breath in,” the midwife instructs, pressing on your stomach as you lie back on the bed. She palpates your belly, searching for some elusive marker of your fertility. “How often are you together?”

“Often,” you can’t help but grin. “Much more frequently than before.”

“You’re in good health. I have faith you’ll be with a child soon.” She smiles. “It takes longer for some.”

“Martha,” you whisper. There’s no one else in the room but what you’re about to ask is not a request you want one of your handmaids overhearing. They’re waiting in the hall with sharp ears. You know all too well from the gossip they disclose to you on a daily basis. They’re always listening. The servants are the breath and life of the castle, and any scrap of information spreads like wildfire. “I was once told of a concoction that midwives give to women during labor. A drink that helps to ease the pain.”

“Yes, I have my own recipe. Not to worry m’lady, when the time comes it will help.” She sits up, patting your hand.

“Well, I was wondering if you could bring the herbs to me now...today?” You try to remain nonchalant, but her interest is peaked as she sits back.

“Are you in pain, madam?” she inquires, looking toward the closed door. Discretion is vital to her position and she knows how to keep her mouth shut.

“I am not at the moment, but there are times when I am. There is something I need to do for my husband...that I need your help with.” You watch her eyes narrow as you struggle to explain yourself and in turn not make Sam look like some sort of monster. “It’s not what you imagine.”

“I don’t imagine anything. I make no assumptions, my queen. But if you’re experiencing pain when you’re with him, it could be a symptom of something more serious.”

You take a deep breath, trying in vain to hide your embarrassment.

“It’s hard to explain, exactly. But it’s not that I am sensitive in any way that’s abnormal. It’s just that my husband is very...large. And he has certain...demands that I find difficult. I expect him to become even more demanding in the coming days.”

Her eyes widen for a second, but if she’s truly shocked she doesn’t let it rattle her. She simply nods in agreement.

“Anything you need, I will supply. Give me a few hours to put together everything you’ll need.”

“I will need enough for several days,” you add.

She stills again, biting her tongue but confirming your request. “Then that’s what you shall have. I’ll send a messenger this afternoon.”

“I’ve asked you plenty of times brother and I’ll ask you again. Won’t you reconsider?”

“Why are you so dead set against me staying with my wife during my rut?” Sam looks to Dean, studying his brother.

“She is not one of us, can’t you see that?” Dean pleads for Sam to understand. “She’s a snake, Sam. Tell me you see it.”

“Stop.” Sam sits back in his chair, amused at the very notion. “Not this again.”

“A woman like that, with her beauty, doesn’t just give herself over for what she’s about to experience. Do you truly believe it’s by chance that you smelled her scent on a letter and then brought her here?”

“What is it that you think she’s up to?” Sam asks, his patience wearing thin. “Tell me. I’m listening. What great caper does she have planned? Will she scale the wall with the crown jewels tucked into her skirts?”

“Her greatest trick was convincing you that she’s harmless.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.” Sam purses his lips, ready for this conversation to be over.

“Was I wrong about Ruby?” Dean spits back and Sam goes rigid.

“Don’t start with me about Ruby.”

“Even after you knew what a snake she was you kept going back for more. Her affection for you is genuine but it’s tempered with insanity. Ruby was hungry for you, and your power, in equal measures.”

“But Y/N is not Ruby, not even close.”

“That is an unfounded statement. You don’t know anything about her. You married her on a whim and now she’s a human woman willing to withstand your rut. She’ll be the end of you.”

“You sound like father,” Sam retorts. He can’t help but be somewhat flummoxed, his brother is single-minded when it comes to you. “Is this the same nonsense you spouted to her at the cathedral that had her so upset?”

“Of course she came crying back to you. Anything to make her look like a victim.”

“No,” Sam shakes his head. “In fact, she wouldn’t tell me what you said. She kept your confidence even when I asked her to tell me.”

“She’s smart, brother. Intelligent and cunning. Mark my words, you’re going to regret this. What if you hurt her?”

“I won’t,” he shrugs. And he is as sure as he sounds, he’s taken all the necessary precautions. “Rupert mixed me a tincture to help keep me under control.”

“You were practically feral when you had me tie you up…”

“Of course I was. I was in the middle of a rut, unabated.”

“Well, you’ll have someone to fuck this time,” Dean hisses, pouring himself more wine.

“Dean, I need you to stop fixating on her. She’s a good woman and I care for her.”

“I know,” Dean nods, staring at the fire. “I’m just afraid we’re both going to see the day you regret that statement.

“Tonight?” You ask hesitantly, watching your husband pull his shirt over his head.

“By morning,” his eyes are locked on you, his muscles flexing as his body tightens, then releases. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes,” you affirm immediately.

The truth is you’ve never been more unsure of anything in your life. Dean’s words are knocking around in your head, but you trust Sam. He would never hurt you, and you believe in his ability to show restraint.

“Would you like to have me tonight?” you offer. His nostrils flare out, clearly excited by the idea. It’s a week since you’ve been together, he insisted on giving you a proper break.

“No, we should wait. This isn’t going to be easy for you.” He lifts his chin toward your side table. “The midwife brought the tea?” You nod in confirmation. “Drink it now. And have some prepared for later.”

“I will.” You pick up the mug, nearly choking on the bitter taste. “And you have your tincture?”

“Yes, I’ve already taken several doses,” he smiles, crawling into bed. “This will strengthen us. Bond us together, I can feel it in my bones. We’re meant to be together. Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” you assure him, closing your eyes as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

Blinking awake in the dark of the room, all you can feel is an overwhelming heat and stickiness engulfing you. It’s suffocating as you grunt awake, only to find you can hardly move.

Sam is wrapped around you from behind, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, pushing his stiff cock into the small of your back over and over again. He’s sweating like a beast, so much so that you’re practically drowning in him.

“Sam,” you whisper reaching behind to grab at his hip. He groans in response, clearly still asleep. “Sam,” you call his name again, this time giving him a squeeze.

He rouses behind you, stilling for a moment before shoving his hand between your bodies to fist his cock.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, nipping at the shell of your ear. He might be half asleep, but at the moment he’s running on pure primordial instinct.

“Yes,” you hiss as he rolls you onto your back, sliding between your legs. He’s already naked and in a swift move so are you, as your nightdress is quickly discarded. There’s enough light to see his red-rimmed eyes, dark and deep as if he hasn’t slept in a week. His pallid, warm and clammy skin rubs against yours.

There’s no lead up to the deed, he just takes himself in his hand, blinking the sweat out of his eyes as he pushes his cock into your channel and slides inside until he can’t get any deeper. His belly is moving against yours as he finds a rhythm right from the start.

This doesn’t feel bad at all. If his rut is just this you’d have gladly offered yourself up long ago. The always challenging stretch of his cock fades into pleasure as the scratch of his pubic hair rubs against your bud with each stroke.

“You’re tight,” he mumbles, closing his eyes in concentration. “So good.”

His hot, open mouth finds yours, kissing you with each breath, tasting and teasing until you’re arching upward into his chest. One hand finds your breast, plucking at a sniff nipple until you’re whimpering into his mouth as his hips meet your inner thighs.

It’s quicker than normal, but you’re right there with him. Your orgasm crests, fluttering around his cock and moaning in delight until you are utterly limp, pinned in bed by the weight of his hips. It’s not long after he cums with a grunt, squeezing your breast in his hand as his knot pops wide and locks the two of you together.

You wish you would have been in unison. When the timing is just right, and you cum around his growing knot, it doesn’t hurt as much. But this isn’t unbearable, more uncomfortable than anything else.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his breath hot at your shoulder, burying his face into the pillow beside you.

“Yes,” you confirm, stroking fingertips up and down his back.

Gripping you tight, he rolls over, letting you lay on his chest. Two great hands cup each of your buttocks as he rolls his hips upward, letting his knot tug inside your tender sex.

“This feels so good,” he groans, allowing the width of him to push and pull, tucked deep. Lunging upward he drags his nose and open mouth along the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and his knot slides further inside and then fights to pull out.

It hurts, but you hold your tongue. You came into this knowing not everything would be enjoyable for you. This is about Sam, and you’re damned and determined to be everything he needs.

“I’m going to put my child in your belly,” he promises, his tongue licking a thick stripe from the hollow of your throat to up under your chin. “Watch you grow big and round with my pups. Do you want that?”

“Yes.” Stifling a cry as he nearly pulls his knot from your cunt with the sheer force of his hips. “Please, just wait,” you sputter, gripping both his biceps and holding on for dear life.

“Will you give me more than one?” He’s lost in his own fantasy now, unable to focus on anything you say. One hand curls lightly around your throat, fingers stroking before squeezing gently. “I’ll give you as many pups as you can bear. Watching you grow thick with my child again and again.”

He’s finally able to full free, his knot hasn’t gone down completely but that doesn’t stop him for promptly fucking you again as if he hasn’t just cum.

“Sam,” you groan, trying to get him to slow down, but it’s as if he can no longer hear you. His head is buried in your neck, mouth sucking at already bruised skin as he forces what’s left of his knot inside your throbbing cunt again and again.

By the time you take his knot for the second time, you’re crying. Fat tears roll down your temples as he forces himself inside you again and finds his completion. When he picks his head up to look at you his eyes are black. His pupils are so big all you can see is the dark abyss of his stare.

He doesn’t see you. He might see a woman that he has an urge to breed, but there is no you. You might as well be a soulless body, willing, open and taking his seed.

After enough time passes he pulls out and falls into a restless sleep for close to an hour.

During this time you take the opportunity to gulp down three mugs of the midwives concoction.

The third time happens quick and fast.

You’re unprepared as he throws you onto your stomach, yanking your hips into the hair and taking you from behind. He’s too deep like this and thrusting much too hard. You’re sure he’s going to break you.

‘Please,” you’re freely begging now. “Please, slow down. Sam, not so fast. Please.”

He simply grunts in response, the ability to speak seems to have deserted him and all that’s left is the shell of the man you naively entrusted not to hurt you.

Everything after a certain point becomes a blur.

The tea is doing very little for the pain but manages to completely subdue you, ensuring you're a prisoner in your own body. You want to scream and fight him. But all you can do is hope you don’t suffocate while you’re face down in the bed with his cock in your belly.

It’s unclear how long it’s been. Maybe only a few hours, but it feels like days. You haven’t opened your eyes for a long time now, afraid of what you’ll find.

The last coherent thought you have is of Dean’s warning. If you survive…

You should have listened.

Sam wanted you beyond reason and now he’s going to do something he’ll never be able to take back. Everything between your legs is in pain and on fire...and then you sink into a wonderful black abyss to be met with the relief of nothingness.

#alpha!sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction

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ambeer6 · 5 years

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Samurai Flamenco exchange

Here is a Masagoto fic I wrote for @prince-kraehe for the gift exchange hosted by @watchsamuraiflamenco. asked to use the themes romance and fluff, but it ended up mostly just domestic.

This is set after they’ve been married for a while. I hope you enjoy it.

When Hidenori arrived back home, he noticed Masayoshi’s shoes still missing in the hall. He must still be out. A quick look at his new phone, Masayoshi insisted they buy new matching phones together, revealed that it was nearing 7 o’clock. Hidenori let out a sigh and made his way to the kitchen. Could just was well start cooking right?

Standing in front of the fridge, looking at the options, a thought suddenly came. Curry would be the correct option. It was almost the anniversary of their meeting and curry used to be their go-to during that time. Hidenori smiled as he held the exclusive Flamen Red curry paste in his hand. It was extremely rare as it featured all members wearing red.

Hidenori was still chopping up vegetables when he heard the front door open. Some stumbling later a familiar voice could be heard.

“I’m home!”

“Welcome back!” Hidenori yelled back.

Loud footsteps made their way to the kitchen. Door opening. Short pause and a sniff. Then Hidenori felt arms wrapping around his waist. A face pressing against his own.

“How was work today for the cutest husband in the universe?” Masayoshi asked.

“I don’t know, how was work for you?” Hidenori replied without hesitation.

“ah, uck! I meant you!”

“I know, but you’re wrong.” He laughed, “Now are you gonna tell me about your day or what?”

Masayoshi took a step back but let his hands rest on Hidenori’s hips.

“Today I visited an elementary school with Momoi. She told them about what kind of hero work is legal and what is not. Apparently they were afraid we might influence the kids too much.”

“You probably do.”

“Anyway, I told them my story about how I became the hero I am today. Momoi kept interrupting me to clarify to the kids whenever I did something illegal.”

Hidenori couldn’t help but laugh. He almost cut his finger and Masayoshi pouted at him.

“After all that, we had an afternoon full of exercises. The kids were super excited and I was pretty surprised how strong some of them were!”

“So you stayed late to give them secret hero training?”

“No, I wish I could, but Momoi took me on a secret shopping mission to buy Flamen Pink merchandise. I actually got to keep this one”

Masayoshi sticks out his hand and Hidenori laughs again when he sees the bright pink bracelet on his husband’s wrist. He spins it slightly to reveal Momoi’s face on it and turns back to the pan with a grin.

“Wait a second,” Masayoshi huffs, “I asked you about your day first! You didn’t answer me yet!”

“It wasn’t super eventful.”

“Oh come on. I know you can do better than that!”

“Fine. A lady came over to our station and started complaining about some florist being rude to her.”

“Just rude?”

“Yes. I had to listen to her complain for 20 minutes before I could actually ask her if there was any actual crime involved. Turns out there wasn’t and she was simply warning us about this person being potentially dangerous.”

“So do you think the florist could be dangerous?”

“Not really. In all honestly I felt more sorry for the florist having to deal with this lady than anything else. The entire story started with her admitting she was trying to return flowers after supposedly using them for a week.”

“Returning them.”

“Yes, she tried to return the flowers.”

This earned Hidenori a laugh from Masayoshi. He looked back to find his husband sitting down at the dining table burying his face in his hands. He actually looked more like he was suffering secondhand embarrassment rather than laughing at the story.

A ping from the rice cooker. Hidenori gestures at it and Masayoshi jumps back on his feet to take the rice out. The curry itself was almost ready to serve as well.

Masayoshi got out plates and started scooping rice onto his own, when Hidenori took the pan off the fire. The entire room smelled like curry. The two of them filled their plates with curry and rice, thanked for the food and started eating.

Suddenly Masayoshi gasped.

“Nori, don’t tell me this is the Flamen Red curry?”

“It is. I thought it would be nice to eat it since it’s been almost 4 years ago that we met. Just two more days-”

“That’s a super exclusive curry though! I wanted to save it!”

“It wasn’t the last one! We have one more left!”

Masayoshi stood up and started searching the cupboards in disbelief. Hidenori groaned, but refused to let this stop him from eating. He chewed down a mouthful of curry as he heard Masayoshi sigh out in relief.

He watched his husband sit back down at the table, smiling in relief. He really was very good looking, Hidenori thought to himself. He was a little disappointed that Masayoshi still doesn’t trust him when it comes to food. He would probably have more hope for Hidenori flying a space ship with no prior knowledge about it’s workings than for Hidenori to not cook up his last exclusive curry.

“You know, you should’ve warned me. Even as Flamen Red myself, I only got my hands on 3 of these ever. We can only enjoy this 3 times!”

“I know, I’ll ask you before using the last one.” Hidenori stared at his plate. “Actually one package is enough for 4 people, so we can just put this in the fridge and eat it again tomorrow. We could technically enjoy it 6 times that way.”

“That is true, but it’s definitely the best when freshly made!”

“You could always request them to do another collaboration with the same curry brand.”

“It wouldn’t be really the same, though…”

The rest of the meal was spent coming up with concepts for Samurai Flamenco themed foods. The two of them washed the dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge. They headed over to the tv and watched the news.

Hidenori was intently listening to the weather forecast when he felt Masayoshi leaning onto him. He looked to his side and realized his husband had fallen asleep. It wasn’t so rare for this to happen. Masayoshi worked multiple jobs and would often get home exhausted from work. Today he also woke up early to prepare for work.

A smile made its way onto Hidenori’s face again as he turned down the volume of the tv. He brushed the hair out of Masayoshi’s face and leaned to kiss him on the head. It’s been many times and he knew he could safely move Masayoshi to the bedroom without waking him up.

Several years back, Hidenori would probably have complained and woken him up, but now he knows it’s better to just let him rest. A quiet buzzing of his phone grabbed his attention. He opened up the email he just received.

I’m so proud of you!

Hello mister Hazama number 2! You’ve been doing so well lately! Your last message made me so proud! You’ve come such a long way.

When you first told me about Masayoshi, I thought he was just some silly guy, but as time went on you really fell for him hard. I could tell from the way your messages changed!

You’re not still angry about the time he mixed up the laundry, are you? Everyone makes mistakes sometimes, even you.

Ever since the two of us broke up, we’ve been messaging each other less and less. This was somewhat disappointing to me at first, but right now I think that was the right decision.

When I don’t hear from you every day, I just get more excited to what you have to tell me next time I receive an email.

But more importantly, I think this was the right decision for your sake. You have become a lot more kind and courageous since then, but mostly I feel like you’ve become more calm. More relaxed, so to say.

I will definitely still keep messaging you from time to time, but I think you’re doing very good without me. Now that you have Masayoshi, I see you started feeling better and better. No need for me to cheer you up anymore!

Anyway, I intended on keeping this short, but in the end it got pretty long. Bottomline here is: I’m proud of you! Super duper proud! You’re doing well and I will always be cheering for you!

<3 Love!

#samurai flamenco #samflam #masagoto #justice husbands #my writing #happy anniversary

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swiftlythebest · 5 years

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If you are still on a Schmico kick, would you mind writing them adopting a puppy or kitten? Like just walking out in a park on a gorgeous day and both falling in love with a baby animal at an adoption fair? I just need all the Schmico fluff in my life. Thank you for even considering this ask. I love your work by the way!

Thank you! I actually almost adopting a cat last weekend, so this prompt seemed fitting. It’s definitely some cheesy fluff, so I hope you’re cool with that. And the cat in the ficlet is inspired by my little furball! I put some of it under a cut. I hope you enjoy!

Nico Kim and Levi Schmitt were smitten with each other. They had been together for a few months and had just spent their first Valentine’s Day together. For Nico, it represented finally finding the right guy who made him feel complete, whereas for Levi, it represented finding a place to belong and truly become himself. Both thought this relationship was it for them, but it felt a bit too soon to admit it. That didn’t stop Nico from dropping every hint possible that Levi should move in with him.

Currently, they were walking through a park near Nico’s apartment, hand in hand and having an easy conversation about anything and everything.

“Wait, you were pre-med and a national champion tennis player in college?” Levi exclaimed, astonished by Nico’s ability to juggle such demanding workloads.

Nico shrugged. “Tennis was a great way for me to calm down and destress. It was just a plus that I was actually really good at it.”

Levi gave a fond laugh. “I’m beginning to think you’re really good at everything.”

“No. I can’t knit.” Levi erupted into laughter. “I’m serious! I drop stitches like crazy.”

“So maybe you’re not perfect after all.” They gazed into each other’s eyes, captivated by the other’s presence. Suddenly, their loved-up staring contest was broken up by a loud meow.

Turning, they both noticed a little cluster of cages with animals in them and a table with a poster for a local animal shelter. Apparently, they did pet adoptions in the park every Saturday morning, a fact neither man knew because they hadn’t both had time to stroll through the park on a Saturday morning. Levi pulled Nico towards the cages, cooing at how adorable the whole display was and how lucky they were to be here to witness it.

“Nico, look at this cutie!” Levi stuck a finger in between the bars of a cage containing the cat which had meowed at them, a small ball of fluff with tuxedo coloring. The cat nuzzled against Levi’s finger and continued to meow loudly at him. “She likes me!”

“Of course she does. You’re the best.” Nico whispered, leaning in to stroke the cat as well.

“Shush, you! I’m serious, the cat seems to really have taken a shine to me. And you.” After a curious sniff at Nico hand, the cat had begun to rub her head against his hand.

“Oh wow, Lily hasn’t taken to anyone this quickly before.” A woman had appeared next to the cage, drawing the attention of the two men and the cat. “She’s generally more cautious.”

“She called us over, actually.” Levi was still absentmindedly playing with the cat, who was purring loudly.

The lady grew wide-eyed. “She did?!”

Nico furrowed his brow. “Is that bad?”

“She’s never done that. She tends to just hide when people approach her and she certainly isn’t beckoning anyone to her.”

“Well, she likes us. Don’t you, Lily?” Levi cooed as he rubbed under the cat’s chin. She purred loudly and jutted up her chin to give Levi more area to pet.

“Listen, I know this may seem abrupt, but are you too looking to adopt? Lily has been with us for a few months now and is just so shy. We’re worried she may never have the confidence to make a true connection. But here you two are!” The lady was practically bouncing with excitement.

“Oh, we’re not -”

“Actually, we would be interested.” Nico interrupted.

“We would?” Levi turned to Nico, surprised.

“Well, why not? My apartment building is pet friendly and a cat would work with our weird hours. And she needs a good home. We have that.” Nico shrugged, as though this huge step in their relationship was no big deal.

“Oh, wonderful!” The lady clapped her hands. “Let me go get the paperwork.” She walked off as Levi turned back to Nico.

“So she would be your cat, I guess. If she’s living with you. But I’ll get to see her a lot.” Levi seemed somewhat disappointed

“Or… she could be both of ours,” Nico suggested.

“What are you saying?” Levi asked, confused.

“I’m saying, you should move in with me. I’ve been meaning to ask for weeks, but the timing never seemed right. Well, here’s the catalyst I needed. Live with me and Lily and we can be this cute little family.” Nico looked so hopeful and cautious, as though expecting to be shot down.

“You really want that?” Levi was wide-eyed and Nico couldn’t look away.

“I really do. Move in with me, babe. Let’s get a cat and be so sickeningly domestic.” Nico couldn’t help his wide smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it!” Levi surged forward to give Nico a hug.

That was how the lady found them a few moments later: wrapped in an embrace with blinding smiles. They filled out the necessary paperwork and soon had a cardboard carrier in hand that was meowing loudly. After a trip to the closest Petco, they brought Lily and her new accessories back to Nico’s - their - apartment. When they let her out of the carrier, she roamed the area, smelling every surface, before curling up on the couch.

“She’s already right at home.” Levi laughed.

“Well, it is her home now. And your home now. It’s our home.” Nico wrapped his arms around Levi from the back and the two swayed on the spot for a while, basking in the love they shared and home they were building. Lily meowed loudly from the couch, calling the two men over. They laughed and made their way to her, allowing her to curl up between them. In that moment, everything was warm and lovely and perfect.

#schmico #asked and answered #desertwiccanchicken #schmico prompt

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geekmama · 6 years

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Idiots in Love

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018, Day 7, Writer’s Choice

And we’re back to Sherlock and Molly’s engagement, with three short stories from Greg Lestrade’s pov. As he said in Gravitas...

The satisfaction of watching the live-action post-Sherrinford sitcom, 'Idiots in Love', had been a private delight for months...

Domestic Bliss

For all his curiosity -- and sympathy, too, of course -- Greg had refrained from contacting Sherlock for a good six days after the Sherrinford/Musgrave affair, but on the seventh he absolutely needed Sherlock’s sharp wits for a tricky case, so he pulled out his mobile and, after only a moment’s hesitation, texted him.

No reply.

Which was unusual. Even if Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to come out to a crime scene, he was almost always willing to provide input via text message or even Skype, if the situation warranted it. And as for answering, Greg sometimes thought that mobile was bloody attached to his hand, he was that quick.

Greg tried texting a couple more times, with the same result, and then he found he was really starting to get worried.

So he sent one off to Sherlock’s brother. There’d probably been quite the blow-up with the Holmes mum and dad, what with them not having known their daughter was still alive. Maybe the boys were still in the midst of smoothing things down in that quarter.

But Mycroft replied almost immediately.

Sherlock is fine, as far as I know. He is with Dr. Hooper. - M

Greg nodded (as though Mycroft could see him -- ha!) and texted back his thanks.

He’d known, of course, that Sherlock was staying with Molly, since 221B Baker St. was a bit too blown up for habitation, and he’d heard it from John, too, when he’d run across him walking little Rosie in Regent’s Park.

“Yeah, Molly’s taken him in,” John had said, with a crooked smile, which Greg had taken to be relief that he didn’t have to put up with a possibly unstable houseguest after… well, everything. John had been through a lot in the last six months. Or six years, more like.

“They’re okay, then?” Greg had smiled, remembering how worried Molly had been after that phone call, and then Sherlock’s reaction to hearing that she’d begged to be included when Greg had been summoned to Musgrave. “I was hoping they would be. Now if Sherlock’ll just refrain from bein’ a git for a while…”

John had laughed. “I think he’s working on that. And Molly’ll keep him right.”

That was no more than the truth. If anyone could make Sherlock behave, it was Molly Hooper.

And apparently they were sorting it out, since Sherlock was still there in her flat.

He tried texting Molly, then, but though she, too, was usually quick to reply, there was, again, no answer. He frowned.

It wouldn’t hurt to go over there and check things out. When Sherlock was involved, you just never knew what might be happening.

A few minutes later, Greg was on the brick walkway and approaching Molly’s door when it opened and Sherlock stepped out -- but not a Sherlock Greg had ever seen -- or not in public at any rate. Molly’s street was a quiet one, of course, but Sherlock’s state -- dressing gown negligently tied over what Greg strongly suspected was precisely nothing, dark curls styled a la bed-head, and a somewhat glazed and strangely contented expression -- was as near to indecent as made no odds.

And it was bloody one in the afternoon!

And he was holding, with tender care, a puppy.

Greg halted on the walkway and gaped. Sherlock, for his part, jerked his head up suddenly, eyes widening, and his contentment taking on more of a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Greg! What are you doing here?” he blurted.

Greg, beginning to be amused, quirked a brow. “I’ve got a case, and I tried to text you but you didn’t reply. What’s that you’ve got there? A bloodhound?”

Sherlock’s consternation faded to fondness as he looked at the pup, who was trying to lick his hand. “Basset Hound,” he corrected. “Here, Cal, time to take care of business.” He set the pup down on the grass, just off the front porch, and the little dog immediately began to sniff around with intent. Sherlock straightened, smiling at his new protégé.

But just when the pup had settled to his “business”, a bit of white fluff dashed out the door and, as it passed, Sherlock uttered a cry of dismay and gave chase, onto the grass and along the flower bed next to the house. The pup joined in with a tiny, delighted bay, and Greg watched open-mouthed as Sherlock cornered the bit of fluff, which turned out to be a rather posh-looking kitten. Sherlock then caught both the animals up, one in each hand.

“Bad Hobbes!” Sherlock scolded the kitten, and then noticed that the sash of his dressing gown had loosened somewhat in the chase.

Yep. Precisely nothing on underneath.

“Bloody hell!” Sherlock muttered, with a glance at Greg. But with his hands full of pup and kitten he was unable to remedy the situation and finally growled, “Just come inside, will you?”

“Happy to,” Greg told him. This was becoming more amusing by the minute.

Greg followed the comic trio into the flat, then closed the door as Sherlock bent down to carefully set his new pets on the tile floor. They bounded off to roughhouse while the detective straightened and adjusted his dressing gown, pulling the sash tight, rather firmly, before turning back to face Greg.

“So. You have a case?” Sherlock asked, briskly, looking down his nose at Greg, obviously wishing to put the whole of the previous awkwardness aside.

Greg subdued his smirk and began, “Yes, I’ve--”

“Sherlock, Hobbes didn’t escape did he? He’s not--oh!”

It was Molly who’d interrupted, coming down the stairs, a note of concern in her voice, until she suddenly noticed Greg standing there. Greg felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen, but really, how could he help it? If Sherlock’s fashion statement had been startling, it was nothing to this one of Molly’s. She was wearing a very skimpy garment of some sheer material, white with a delicate blue flower pattern, edged with lace and fastened at the sides with blue satin ribbons. And, again, nothing else. Greg had only seen her out of her loose-fitting work attire that once, at that unfortunate Christmas party in Baker Street, and that was years ago, now. Really, he would have been less than human if he hadn’t stared at the vision before him (and it was certainly worth staring at, he had to give her that).

But he didn’t have long, for she gave a kind of horrified Eeep! and turned to scurry back up the steps and out of sight.

Sherlock cleared his throat in a somewhat pointed manner. Greg turned to him, feeling a bit sheepish.

But Sherlock apparently didn’t know quite what to say, either, for a moment -- which was a first. He was also turning rather pink. Greg was hard put not to burst out laughing. Presently, however, Sherlock did pull himself together, and said, coldly, “I trust I may rely upon your discretion?”

Greg fought down his grin and said, “Yeah, of course you can. Won’t tell a soul.”

Sherlock gave a small sigh and un-pokered somewhat.

And then light footsteps were heard, coming down the steps.

It was Molly, again, now decently swathed in a long, blue satin dressing gown.

“Greg!” she said, smiling, if somewhat pink-cheeked herself. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah! Apparently things are just fine,” he replied, still carefully not grinning.

Molly blushed rather pinker, but said, “We… ah… Sherlock is still recovering from… ah… everything.”

Greg nodded and said, with what he knew to be admirable gravity, “It’s good of you to help the lad.”

But even Molly couldn’t help giving a tiny snort of laughter at this, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, completely done with it. “For God’s sake, he’s here on a case, Molly!”

“Are you?” she asked, brows rising.

“Well, yes,” said Greg. “Can’t do without the world’s only consulting detective for too long, now, can I?” He subdued his mirth and dug out his mobile. “Here, both of you take a look and tell me what you think.”

They did take a look -- Greg had brought some pictures, and he gave them a brief verbal rundown of the details.

And then they argued about what they were looking at for about five minutes.

Greg listened to the give and take of the conversation with interest. Sherlock wasn’t affording her any slack, but Molly held her own, and in the end Sherlock was nodding at a couple of the points she’d brought up, and they finally came to a consensus.

“There you go,” Sherlock said at last, handing the phone back to Greg. “Is that all you wanted? Good. Let me see you out.”

“Not going to offer me some tea or anything?” Greg managed to look hurt for about three seconds, but then desisted as Sherlock began to grind his teeth. “Alright, Romeo, I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Romeo? Romeo?!” Sherlock exclaimed, outraged. “Romeo was an idiot!”

Molly began to giggle helplessly, and Greg said, “Ah! But we’re all idiots in love, aren’t we?”

“No, we are not,” Sherlock snapped, his feathers thoroughly ruffled. “Now get out! I’ll contact you tomorrow. Or next week -- if you’re lucky.”

He opened the front door and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, encouraged Greg to leave.

Greg said to Molly, “I’ll bid you a very good afternoon, then, Dr. Hooper.”

“Thank you, Greg,” she said, smiling.

He considered saying, Cheers, mate! to Sherlock but it seemed unwise to goad the lad further. Sherlock refrained from speech as well, though he did slam the door when Greg had barely stepped out onto the front porch.

But then the sound of Molly’s unbridled laughter could be heard, and Sherlock’s voice, saying something sharpish, after which there was a bit of combined laughter and shrieking until it all faded into the distance -- up the stairs and into the bedroom again, no doubt.

Greg could finally let loose, grinning and chuckling in delight as he made his way to the car, got in, started it, and set off down the road. Lord! What wouldn’t he give to tell someone of this miraculous, unprecedented turnaround.

Sally Donovan would never believe it.

And as for Anderson, well, there’d be no living with him, for obviously he’d been right about the pair of them all along.

o-o-o

Contrition

About a month later, Greg asked Sherlock to come out with him on a truly baffling case, “sure to be at least an eight on the Sherlock scale of interest.”

“Hmm. I doubt it,” had said the consulting git, but in a strangely subdued manner. Still, he added, “Alright, come pick me up in half an hour.”

Greg was, to put it mildly, taken aback. “Pick you up? You want to ride with me? In my car?” Sherlock never rode in a police car, if he could help it, even an unmarked vehicle. Greg had known him a long time and quite understood. The road to the current Sherlockian state of sobriety and domestic bliss had been long and bumpy indeed.

But all Sherlock said now was, “Yes, why not? Problem?”

“No!” Greg exclaimed. “See you at noon, then.”

“Make it twelve fifteen,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “I need to shower.”

Greg’s brows rose. “I’m not interrupting something again, am I?”

“No, not at all. Molly had the early shift, left at some ungodly hour.”

“Ah. OK. Good. Twelve fifteen then.”

The weirdness continued. Sherlock was ready on time, gave Greg a perfunctory nod, and got in the car, but was far from his usual self. He seemed strangely quiet, almost preoccupied. Unhappily preoccupied.

Trouble in paradise? Greg thought, but he said nothing about that. After they’d gone a few blocks he pointed out that there was a folder of pertinent evidence sitting on the dashboard. “If you’d care to take a look.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry,” Sherlock said, and reached for the folder.

‘Sorry’! Good God…

Greg kept glancing over at him as he leafed through the notes and photographs. It didn’t take him long, and before more than a couple of minutes had passed the folder was closed on his lap and he was staring out the side window again. The phrase in a brown study popped into Greg’s head.

“Well, what do you think?” he finally prodded.

Sherlock gave a sort of shrug, and continued looking out the window, frowning, though he did offer, “Probably a five, and the brother-in-law did it, but I’ll be more certain when we get there.”

Greg shook his head, exasperated. Of course “truly baffling” would be child’s play for Sherlock -- and he wasn’t even giving it his full attention.

There was something going on.

But it would have to wait.

They arrived at the scene a few minutes later and Sherlock perked up a bit. “Maybe a seven after all,” he muttered, looking about him. He pulled out his little magnifying lens and went at it.

The crime scene was an old house in Camden that had seen better days, quite dilapidated, with overgrown shrubbery that included roses and lots of them. After a few minutes, Greg noticed that Sherlock seemed more interested in these flowers than in the evidence to hand.

“Oi, what are you doing? Got anything yet?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied, and in his usual style he rattled off a detailed summary of the many reasons it was obvious the brother-in-law had, indeed, done it. But then, when he was finished, he added, “Now, what kind of roses do you think these are? These yellow ones.”

Greg stared at him, then snapped, “How should I know? And what difference does it make?”

Sherlock stiffened at the admonitory tone, then said, “Right. I’ll be in the car.”

As he stalked away, Greg determined that he was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, far more baffling than the case of the murderous brother-in-law had been (apparently).

He passed on Sherlock’s analysis of the case to his colleagues, who exclaimed over the clarity and perception of it.

“Yeah, well, he’s good,” said Greg, “as we should all know by now. But he’s a bit off today, so I’ll let you blokes dot the i’s and cross the t’s while I take him home.”

Various expressions of sympathy followed, and requests that Sherlock be given their best.

“I will,” Greg said, trying to smile, then bade them adieu and headed out to the car.

He slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door, but did not start the motor. Instead he turned toward Sherlock and said, “Alright, what’s going on? Have you been up to your old tricks with Molly? ‘Cause I tell you to your head, if you start bein’ a bastard to her again--”

“I haven’t!” Sherlock protested, but then added, “I mean… not lately.”

Greg lifted a brow. “So it’s something from the past? It isn’t like her to hold a grudge--”

“She’s not.” Sherlock looked away for a moment, then pulled himself together and faced Greg manfully. “If you must know, she found out last night that I did remember her from university, though I’d pretended not to. That first time we first saw her at Bart’s. You remember. The Johnstone case.”

Greg stared, recalling the occasion clearly for all it was ages ago. He almost blurted out, Why?!?, but stopped himself, and frowned. And glared a bit at Sherlock, too, because he knew exactly Why. So instead he asked, “How’d she find out?”

“We met a… a mutual acquaintance. Last night, at a restaurant. He was a bastard, in our days at Oxford. We were all at a party, one of those all-out end-of-term things, and he lured Molly away and would’ve… well. He didn’t. I didn’t let him.”

“My God! Rape?” Greg exclaimed, horrified even at this late date.

“Yes. Possibly. He was big, a rugby player, team captain or something, and very drunk. She’d had too much herself -- he’d seen to that. And she was… small. Barely more than a child, really, thinking back on it. In her first year, and I was a teacher’s assistant in her organic chemistry class.”

“I see,” said Greg, slowly, picturing how it must have been. “I suppose she was in love with you even then?”

“Noooo!” Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes. “How could she when she didn’t know me at all?”

Greg gave a humorless laugh. What Sherlock didn’t know about women -- women of all ages -- could fill a book. And if the git hadn’t been a young Adonis -- or something even more interesting -- Greg would eat that bloody deerstalker of his.

“So. You already knew she was smart, and you used her schoolgirl crush. For years. Lord, no wonder she’s furious!”

“Yes, she was,” Sherlock said, looking worried. “She’s not, now. Or she says she’s not. But… I’m afraid…”

“I’d be afraid, too,” Greg agreed.

Sherlock said, firmly, “I have to do something more than apologize. Will you take me by a florist’s shop? I thought--”

“Yellow roses!” Greg smiled. “That’s a good start.”

For the first time that day a bit of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s face. “Do you really think so?”

Greg laughed. “I think you’ll be years making this up to her, but yeah, a dozen or two of roses, and maybe some chocolates, to start with. To go along with the groveling you’ll have to do -- because you know you will, right?”

The smile faded, but instead of pokering up, he just looked crestfallen. “Yes. I expect so. Let’s go, then.”

It was nearing six o’clock on that warm, late-spring evening when Molly walked out her kitchen door and into the back garden, took in the scene before her, and cried, “What are you doing?!!”

Greg straightened up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and Sherlock, his Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt sweat stained and coming loose from his trousers, gaped at her.

“I thought you were going for drinks with Meena!” Sherlock said, almost resentfully.

“I was,” Molly said, “but I begged off at the last minute.” She came down the steps and crossed the patch of lawn to where they stood, shovels in hand, hard by the garden wall, an enormous hole between them -- but not enormous enough for the monstrous tub of espaliered yellow rose bush that sat off to one side, flanked by a huge (and very heavy) bag of soil amendment, and a much smaller container of something called Miracle-Gro for Roses. “Sherlock, what is all this?”

“I… I bought you roses, Molly,” Sherlock said, with rather less than his usual confidence.

She stared at the plant, which was really a very pretty thing, if a bit out-sized.

Greg said, “He looked at some cut roses, but didn’t like the idea that they’d just wilt in a few days. The florist suggested this garden center out in Battersea, nice selection, but Sherlock had to get the biggest one they had, of course. What with the size of it, and then the traffic to and from, it was a real project just getting it here.”

Sherlock winced a bit. “I thought we’d be able to get it planted before you got home. I wanted to surprise you.”

Molly looked at Sherlock, and then the rosebush again, and then the whole scene. And then back at Sherlock. She said, carefully not laughing, “You did.”

Greg sighed in weariness and relief, as she came forward, Sherlock let his shovel fall, and they embraced and kissed. At length. With such affecting tenderness that Greg finally had to turn away, shaking his head.

Finally Greg heard Molly say, huskily, “We can finish this tomorrow. Come inside.”

“I love you, Molly,” came Sherlock’s soft voice.

“I know. I love you, too,” she said, definitely teary now, and kissed him again, very gently. Then she cleared her throat and looked over at Greg. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

Greg laughed. “No thanks. I’ll just go on home, if you’re going to give up the gardening for tonight. Let me know if you need help with it tomorrow, though, eh?”

“We will,” Molly said, with a somewhat tremulous smile.

“I’ll text you,” said Sherlock. He came over and held out his hand, and when Greg took it in a firm grip Sherlock said, “And thank you, Greg. For everything.”

Greg gave him a grin and said, quite sincerely, “My pleasure, mate. Any time.”

o-o-o

The Graveyard Shift

Here it was, two weeks before the wedding, and the level of discomfort in the morgue was such that Greg was tempted to knock Sherlock and Molly’s heads together and shout, Snap out of it! Molly had been all business since they’d arrived, and Sherlock seemed to have reverted to his previous mode of existence, causing her to go pale, then pink with anger by turns. She wasn’t just rolling over for him anymore, though. He was smart, but she was, too, and their sniping about the details surrounding the death of Mortimer Revesby, laid out before them on the slab, was almost too fast and furious to follow.

What the devil had got into them? Greg wondered, so distracted by their antics that he almost missed that they’d come to a consensus on Revesby and Sherlock was now insisting that they all go off to the canteen for a cuppa, though there wouldn’t be much sustenance available since it was the middle of the graveyard shift.

“Very well,” Molly finally said, rather coldly. “I’ll meet you up there.”

Sherlock threw up his hands with a sound of disgust and headed for the door.

Greg hovered, uncertain, but Molly said, “Well, go on. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Greg, humbly, and was relieved to see her lip quiver against a smile.

He caught up with a stormy-looking Sherlock, joining him in the lift as he poked abusively at the button for the first floor.

“Sherlock…” Greg began as the doors closed.

“What?” Sherlock glared.

Greg lifted a brow. “You know you’re marrying her in two weeks, right?”

Some of Sherlock’s stiffness seemed to abate. “I… it must look odd to you…”

“It looks very odd. I mean, considering.” Greg thought of these last six months, the obvious love between them, their tender regard for one another.

Sherlock said, “She’s been… a trifle under the weather. Off her feed, so to speak. I specifically didn’t want her working any more graveyard shifts, and then she insisted she had to take this one, fill in for that dolt Sachdev so he could fly off to India for some family gathering. Or for Mike Stamford, really, since he’d agreed to take Sachdev’s shifts but couldn’t tonight, had tickets to take the family to some musical and couldn’t be here in time. But that’s Molly for you. Always letting people take advantage.”

Greg refrained from saying, Yeah, and who’s the worst offender in that category, eh?, but Sherlock must’ve seen he was thinking it for he flushed and looked away, momentarily disconcerted.

The doors opened then and they made their way out and down the hall to the canteen, nice and quiet in the wee hours. There was a small selection of cold comestibles, and drinks of all sorts. Greg picked up a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee for himself, and Sherlock got teas (one of them decaffeinated, Greg noticed), and a likely dish of tapioca pudding with a dab of whipped cream for Molly (“She likes this pap. God knows why.”)

They sat down at one of the many empty tables, and Sherlock put one packet of sugar in Molly’s tea (the decaf) and three in his own. Then he sat there, sipping and brooding, and making desultory replies to Greg’s attempts at small talk, until finally Molly came in, about five minutes later.

She pursed her lips, but her eyes were softer than they’d been downstairs as she looked at her maddening fiancé. Greg noticed that she did look a bit pale, tired maybe. Sherlock might be right… there was something strange about the whole situation... and the wedding moved forward so suddenly, too, and the odd excuse Sherlock had presented for doing so when Greg had verbally RSVP’d to him the previous week…

Sherlock stood up and pulled out a chair for Molly, and Greg was relieved to see that their eyes were soft on one another, now. Maybe the little storm was blowing over…

But then, as Sherlock sat down again, Molly looked for the first time at the dish of tapioca. An odd, very uncomfortable expression swept over her face and she suddenly went dead white.

“Molly?” Sherlock said sharply, sitting up very straight.

Molly glanced up at him, said, rather muffled, “Have to use the loo,” and was up and out of the room like a shot.

Pursued by an obviously panicked Sherlock.

And of course Greg had to leap up and chase after them as well.

He was down the hall in time to see Molly disappear into the loo, and it was evident that Sherlock was going to follow her right into the ladies’.

“Sherlock!” Greg half-shouted, in a sort of nebulous warning, but he was ignored and Sherlock pushed his way inside.

A female shriek that was not Molly’s sounded, then Sherlock’s scathing reply of “Get OUT!” was heard.

As Greg came up to the door, the shrieker emerged, an older woman, red faced and blazing mad. “This is outrageous! Where is the manager!” she demanded, but continued on down the hall without waiting for any reply from Greg.

Greg frowned after the woman, and hesitated, hearing some vague sounds from inside the loo that might have been retching, and Sherlock speaking in deep, soothing tones. He decided that it would be the better part of valor to just stay outside for a bit, guarding the door from intruders.

Presently, however, all was quiet again. There was no sign of anyone coming to roust out any trespassing males of the species. And finally Greg left his post and shoved his way inside, to make sure everyone was still alive.

He found them in one of the stalls, Sherlock seated on the toilet with a drooping Molly in his lap, her hand crushing the life out of his coat lapel while she softly wept into the opposite shoulder of it. Sherlock’s cheek was laid against her hair, and he was murmuring something, his arms tight around her.

Greg felt more than a little awkward, interrupting them, but he cleared his throat and said, “Everything OK? You… ah… need anything?”

Molly sat up, tear-streaked and sniffling, and Sherlock got a long strip off the loo roll and handed it to her. While she dried her tears and blew her nose, he said to Greg, “She’s going home. I’ve already texted Mike.”

“But I’ll be on call,” Molly said to Sherlock, with gentle insistence.

“Yes, very well,” Sherlock said, in the interest of détente. “And I’ll come with you if you have to return tonight. But no more, for all our sakes. Er… I mean both.” Sherlock glanced furtively at Greg. “Her’s and mine.”

Greg gave him a crooked smile. “And junior’s?”

Molly gave a watery chuckle and laid her head against Sherlock’s shoulder again, closing her eyes for a moment.

But Sherlock flushed, hesitated, then said, stiffly, “We don’t want it generally known as yet.”

Greg was grinning, now. “So that’s why the wedding’s in the dead of winter. I was wondering if that might be it. How far along?”

“Just six weeks,” said Sherlock, sounding a bit worried.

“But I’m fine!” Molly said, sitting up again, and looking at Greg for the first time. “It’s just a little nausea. Morning sickness, you know, because of the hormonal changes. Though unfortunately it’s not just in the morning, in spite of the name. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at tapioca pudding again for a while -- and I didn’t even get to eat any!”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll make you some dry toast when we get home.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “I think I’d like that.”

They got up, then, and when Molly went over to the sink and mirror to address the ravages (which really were very minor -- there was some color back in her cheeks and a glow of peace in her expression), Sherlock straightened his slightly crumpled and tear-stained coat and, indeed, his whole person, and said to Greg, “I… uh… once again, I trust we can rely on your discretion?”

Greg chuckled to see him like this, so worried, and so proud, all at the same time.

How far he’d come. How far they’d all come.

So he said, “Of course you can. Molly Hooper isn’t the only one who can keep a secret now, is she?” And he gave the young git a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

~.~

#sherlollyweek2018 #Sherlock #sherlolly

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noplanwithavan · 7 years

Text

THE STUFF OF LEGENDS

Our voyage through the ancient world continues. Leaving behind the Romans, sailing East, and journeying deeper into the Hellenic world. We’ve come ashore in Greece, and life is sweet here. I mean seriously sweet. Must be all the halva, honey and Easter eggs.

To get here, from Sicily we crossed the toe of Italy, arched around its instep, and arrived somewhere near the top of the high heel for a pressing assignation. We’d committed ourselves to the labours of HelpEx, having been accepted on a family small-holding in Mola di Bari. Yearning for a bit more interaction and social life, this seemed the perfect way to get under the skin - and into the kitchens - of Italian life. The girls bristled with excitement, keen to meet the family’s 8 year-old daughter named Fara. “Will it be like the olive farm we worked on in Spain?” they ask. Probably not, we say. It’s more domestic we think, not so much back-breaking work. “It’s kind of like the Roman times,” we explain “We offer to be slaves, and they feed us. Hopefully without the harsh punishment or threat of being thrown to the lions if we disobey.”

From the moment we arrived, there was a sense of familiarity, and it was clear we’d feel comfortable with Andrea, Angela and Fara. They welcomed us in to a large, round courtyard, an ancient gnarled olive tree at its centre, and a volley of yelping Italian children circling it by bike at the speed of charioteers racing the Circo Massimo. It soon became apparent the family had friends over, and Elsie and Lulu were immediately drawn into the melé, guided by the irresistible rules of play. As the sun went down the evening was warm enough to stay outside and enjoy focaccia, cheese and salad from their garden. It reminded Marcus of his family home in Pembrokeshire, Middlelands, in many ways. The same informality and open-house welcome. Throughout our week, as we worked in the garden this sense continued, people often dropping by, calling over. Meal times were sociable affairs, super-healthy and all vegetarian. There were no unhealthy snacks nor processed food of any kind in the house. So much so, they didn’t even possess a can opener. The girls responded well. They hero-worship Fara, following her lead in all things, even developing a taste for fennel, much to our surprise. During the mornings we’re left to get on with things by ourselves as the family worked and Fara went to school. Sometimes the girls would help us, other times they’d roam free, making up their own games, desperate for Fara to return home and lead the charge. At first it felt a bit strange, wandering around trying to find tools, or stopping for a snack and rummaging about in someone else’s kitchen. One morning I discovered a quote from Socrates pinned above a chalk-board. “Education is the kindling of a flame. Not the filling of a vessel,” it read. I had the simultaneous experience of agreeing profoundly, whilst at the same time wondering what to do if you suspected your kids needed a bloody blowtorch to get things lit. Nonetheless, it inspired me this quote, and I decided that incidental learning might be much less stressful. So they helped plant their own bed of wildflowers, and spent a morning in the vegetable patch studying and drawing the different shape leaves to identify which vegetables they would become. After a few days, we adjusted, found our pace, and fitted in with the family’s way of life. The work wasn’t hard - clearing plant beds, weeding paths, digging up trees which had self-seeded to replant elsewhere - but its the first physical work we’ve done for some time. Having thought this would be a breeze compared to olive harvesting, Marcus confesses he’s glad we’re only staying a week as he’s not sure his back can take much more. Trying to steer him on to lighter duties I volunteer his services in the cooking department, suggesting he make the family a curry. The idea gains traction, indeed becomes somewhat of “an event”. Despite the legendary devotion the Italians have for eating only their own, exceptionally local food, by the end of the week Marcus is consulting his brother’s “We Love Curry” pages. For come the weekend he’s headlining an Indian banquet for a gathering of our hosts’ close relatives and friends. Well, we all know he does love a dinner party, and we said we wanted to meet more people! The only complications being a complete lack of Italian on his part, and little to no idea of how many close relatives and friends might turn up. Saturday arrives, and our hosts Andrea and Angela drift off, busily engaged in their own respective tasks. Marcus is left alone to make the final preparations. Guests begin arriving and filter through the kitchen, their curiosity piqued by such un-Mediterranean, unfamiliar smells. One by one they try and strike up a dialogue, but necessity dictates small talk is limited. Sensing familiarity as they watch him stretching out dough on the kitchen worktop, the dinner guests try a different tack: “Pizza?” they opine. “No pizza,” he demurs. “Focaccia?” “No focaccia” he emphasises, this time batted away with a definitive hand-swipe. “Panzarotte?”…and on it goes, with a list of about 20 Italian forms of bread, none of which are what he is making. “Chapatis,” he ventures. “Curry, with chapatis.” But this is an enigma, and the growing swell of puzzled faces signals they have arrived at a conversational cul-de-sac.

Thankfully, the delicious food does all the talking, and even the most hardened regional food purist has to admit it. One man takes Marcus aside, “Thank you for your curry,” he confides. “Maybe I won’t eat again, but doesn’t mean I don’t like.” Then, continuing by way of clarification, “You see I only eat dishes from Bari. My wife is from Parma, but I don’t even let her cook food from her home town….unless we go there to visit her family.” Message received. In summary, partial success, but curry colonisation in Puglia remains far from complete.

Our time spent in the warmth of Fara’s family appears to have regenerated our social lives, and from Italy onwards we are constantly finding ourselves in good company. There is Ruth and Frank, the first campervanners we have met from Wales. The sight of the red dragon sicker on the back of their vehicle is such a surprise that we have to restrain ourselves from rushing out to greet them with open arms. We instantly take a liking to them, and within minutes of discussing where we’re from discover we have friends in common. A retired clown from Cardiff, Frank tells us he knows Tenby well, most fondly because of his pal there James Osbourn. From here, the conversation flows and I can’t remember quite how exactly but at some point it navigates around to toilets. (Probably something to do with it being Elsie’s specialist subject). Ruth offers to show the girls their loo.

“It’s a composting toilet, would you like to see it?” she beams. We all trail inside, fascinated to find out more. Is this even possible I think, and how does it not stink the place out in such a small space? Pulling out two large food recycling bins, courtesy of Cardiff City Council, from under the bed, Ruth begins to explain. The couple are clearly very proud of their ingenuity and challenge us to a poo test. This involves opening up each container in turn, inviting us to have a sniff, and then guess which one contains the poo. It’s actually surprisingly difficult, and we have to admit defeat. Thrilled, Ruth goes on to explain that one box contains just sawdust and ash, and the other human excrement which has been covered with said sawdust and ash. “It takes away the smell entirely,” she says. “You wouldn’t even know. Amazing isn’t it?” And it is, and I love her obvious delight at the mastery of such an unpleasant problem. Strange too how you can find yourself examining a another’s most taboo bodily function within half an hour of meeting them.

Some days later, we are in Polignano de Mare, a seaside town set atop rocks, narrow balconies overlooking the caves eroding beneath. It’s dramatic and precarious position has led to it being picked as one of the Red Bull Cliff Diving locations, like Abereiddy back at home. While we wait to catch the ferry to Greece, we spend a wonderful few sunny days here. It’s a chance to dust off the canoe and explore the pretty inlets and coastline. It’s also our last opportunity to scoff pizza, try interesting gelato combinations like fig and ricotta, and drink good wine. And while we won’t miss the driving in Italy, we will miss the country itself. It’s fresh vegetables packed with flavour, the approach they have towards children - letting them run free, with trust and respect. And the people who seem to live life the way they coach their little ones to tackle obstacles - “piano, piano” (slowly, slowly). We park right by the sea, and the girls go scrambling over the rocks, in search of the blowholes they can hear snoring like dragons. They bring back a little blonde-haired girl called Poppy. And by sunset the girls are tucked up in her distinctive pink old-style VW campervan watching a movie, while we invite her parents Jane and Steve over for a drink. I guess its not that much of a surprise that a family who are doing a year out just like us, and having travelled much of the same route, would have met some of the same people. But it’s still heartening somehow to discover that they have. It fosters our sense of a community on the road when we learn that they too spent time with the wonderful Hilary, Richard, Jess, Chippie and Bonnie, whom we enjoyed Christmas with in Tarifa.

From Bari, we sail to Petrás in Greece. From the ferry we sight the islands, craggy and wild, whetting our appetite for what this next country will have to offer. The almond trees have now been replaced by the bright pink blossom of Judas trees, yellow explosions of Broom, and the purple profusion of low-hanging wisteria draped by the roadside. Our first supermarket stop, near to the ancient sanctuary of Olympia, doesn’t disappoint. There is olive paste spread, an explosion of sesame goods in the forms of tahini and halva, a whole aisle dedicated to yoghurt. “What do they call Greek yoghurt here?” Marcus muses. “Just yoghurt?” And then there’s the filo pastry, a world of new cooking opportunities lay open before us! On reaching the meat counter we are momentarily overcome by the language barrier, indeed the whole different alphabet, rendering us clueless. Luckily, some improvisation prevails, and by saying, “Baaaaa!!!” to the man a few times, he soon catches on that I would like lamb. There are no small portions in Greece, and he hacks off such a large chunk, it keeps us going for 3 days.

But the best thing so far has to be embracing the whole incidental learning idea full tilt. This month its purely Classics. The girls are in their element - it’s all about stories after all, which they love, and everywhere you look there’s another reference to a legend, another piece of the historical puzzle which still resonates through our culture today. Our maths lesson before visiting Olympia was measuring distances. The girls had to mark out intervals of 1m until we reached the crucial 200m mark, the distance ancient athletes would sprint. Appreciation of the site itself taxes the imagination more than the ruins of Rome or Pompei. But from the layout and the thickness of some of the columns its possible to guess at how impressive it would once have been. As always the devil is in the detail, and we try and point out as much as we came to bring it all to life. The wide open space of the Palaestra where hey have a mock wrestle, the plinths lining the approach to the stadium which would have held bronze statues of Zeus, paid for by the fines of athletes who had cheated. The inscriptions still visible beneath bearing their names and city of birth. The cheap seats up high on Mount Kronos, filled by woman and slaves, which overlooks the track where the girls race. But it is one detail in particular that really tickles them - the fact that the ancient competitors would have all been naked. This steers Elsie’s mind back onto another of her favourite topics. In many ways an ancillary to toilets - that of winkles. And she enjoys a saunter around the museum gaping at all the parts of male anatomy on statuesque display. I can’t get over the impression of soft, see-through chiton material etched out of stone on the statue of Nike, or the perfect proportions in the face of Athena and Hermes. There is a whole room dedicated to the many small figurines, votive offerings, left at the temples of Zeus and Hera. Displayed, they look like an installation of battle, exquisite in their painstaking detail.

We have a book of “Greek Myths” for children (or Greek Miffs, as they pronounce it), which is our all important educational go-to-guide for this part of the trip. And it’s mind boggling how many places and sites we have seen which are referenced in those stories. In Italy the sirens in the story of Odysseus just off the coast of Naples, the cyclops in Sicily he defeats on Mount Etna. And here in Greece, the 12 labours of Heracles depicted on the Temple of Zeus in Olympia, the temples to the oracles on the wild Peloponnese, the beautiful town of Kardamyli (one of seven gifted by Agamemnon to Achilles in return for rejoining the battle of Troy), and finally the caves of Diros. Once we discover these caves are behind the tales about the River Styx, and the journey to the Underworld, we just have to go and take a look. Brushing up beforehand on the chapters about Pluto and Cerberus his 3-headed dog. Located on the Mani peninsula near the town of Aereopoli, they are an other-world experience, and its not hard to imagine why the Greeks thought they led to a different realm. Entering the caves from a stone beach, you climb down to an underground lake where a “ferryman” awaits to transport you through a network of waterways, a labyrinth of caverns and tunnels adorned with stalactites and stalagmites. Floating along on a narrow gondola, amid the humidity and drips from above, I’m sure it would have been quite a spiritual experience, if it wasn’t for the kids hassling us to change seats and let them have a go at taking pictures.

For the last week or so we have been winding our way down the central finger of the Peloponnese, from Pylos, Kardamyli, Stoupa, Agios Nikolaus, Aereopoli, and right to the tip at Porto Kagio. Free camping is no problem here, and we can pitch up right by a pebbled beach, string out the hammock and spend our days swimming, and eating outside. Our favourite dish is experimenting with home-made pastries. Using the filo Marcus has been trying out different filled parcels - savoury spinach and feta, and sweet combinations of apple and raisin, sesame, honey and pistachio. Over the last week we’ve met a few friendly German families at some of our camping spots, sharing breakfasts on the beach and relaxed mornings with time to teach the girls card tricks, and giving them responsibilities like the chance to be head chef and make lunch for us, or earn extra pocket money by washing up.

The further south we travel, the wilder and more remote the landscape becomes. The road curving inwards along the steep terraced ancient hillsides, carpeted with wildflowers and punctuated by clusters of soft grey Mani tower houses. A few weeks ago we were inside the van discussing our concerns that the girls reading wasn’t improving greatly. They were both outside lobbing up sticks and any objects they could find into a large palm tree. At that moment Elsie burst in to ask if she could have a bowl because they were harvesting dates. As we stepped out to have a look, I had to smile. Remember Socrates, I thought. They weren’t actual dates, but they looked very similar. The girls might not be great readers just yet, but they can spend hours studying the many different shapes and varieties of plants we find here, and they can identify wild asparagus and fennel much better than I.

Easter is an important festival here in Greece, and we spent it in Kardamyli, smashing the bright red boiled eggs that symbolise the blood of Christ, and following the processions to the sound of church bells tolling out the call to worship. On Good Friday Marcus received a phonecall from his mum to say his beloved Grandmother, Gassie, had died at the age of 101. It was news he had been expecting for some time, yet forewarned and prepared as he was, it is never easy to be away from family at such a time. But thinking back on her legacy, and childhood memories of this unchanging constant in his life, it reaffirms why we are doing this trip. The more the months slide by, the more aware we are how precious this experience is. Each photo, each place has a poignancy that wasn’t there at the start. To spend this time with each other, to experience ourselves close-up it almost seems, is our gift and legacy to our children. One we hope will endure.

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