#but does he move all his furniture by himself or does he ask watson to help or does he expect mrs hudson to do it for him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

could i request a brief connor-angst drabble? the happy-ending AU with B and Demetri Connor, please

CW: Referenced conditioning and torture including dubcon/noncon situations in the past, angsty fucky dubcon thoughts now, referenced past biphobia/homophobia with religious overtones/parental emotional abuse

Demetri and B belong to @slaintetowhump and @moose-teeth

Mostly, he’s cool with it. He understood that they had bonded to each other in a way deeper than Connor could ever have hoped to bond with anyone, right from the start. They shared hell together - shared being held by men bent on destroying whatever of themselves they tried to hold onto, shared those mens’ bed, shared their tricks and games and torture techniques. They shared scars, witnessed times scars were made and times they were treated. They had built something shared, in secret, in the dark.

Connor’s just the asshole who was a part of the whole fucking machine of it, who helped hold up the structure and sure as fuck did his part to destroy them and others like them, who decided one day to stop.

That’s all he is.

He’s not better, he’s not good.

He’s just another motherfucker who had it turned on him and couldn’t handle it anymore. He’s just some dick trying to turn it around, too little too late. You don’t get redemption, for the kind of shit Connor Manning has done. All you can do is try to get away, make sure that you don’t fuck up anyone else any worse than you already have.

He couldn’t - and would never - ask for B’s forgiveness.

All he could do was give B - and then Demetri - a home in which they could rebuild whatever they still had left inside them. Connor Manning, a big damn hero all right, scooping up ruined pets to try and fix his own mistakes.

Good fucking job, numbnuts, you destroyed a hundred lives but you can kind of maybe make two lives better, aren’t you just the pinnacle of goddamn human achievement.

Jesus, I hope they do leave you, it’s what you deserve. It’s all you deserve. Should’ve just told Ferrick to fuck you death, he’d probably enjoy the goddamn challenge.

Connor kicked the barn wall with his boot, watching the momentum travel through the wood. Nearby, one of the fuzzier barn cats, a big fluffy gray with white front paws B had named River Rock, lay along a stall divider, tail swishing idly back and forth, watching him.

He doesn’t even know what set him off, exactly. He’d woken up thinking about it, and then there’d been something... maybe the other two doing the dishes after breakfast, some flirtation between them, the way they worked so easily and perfectly together...

He’s not stupid, or not all the time, anyway. He gets it, he does. He gets that he’s just the way they get to be together, the setting for their happy ending, part of the furniture.

He’d already been on edge and then they were just so perfect together, fit together like puzzle pieces, the large muscular ex-Guard Dog and the smaller lithe half-trained sort-of Romantic (what the fuck was that asshole mob boss trying to do, anyway) laughing together and Connor had sent them on an errand out where his land butted up to Anne’s pastures just to... just to buy himself time to lurk in here with the barn cats and hate himself.

Hating himself comes as easily now as it did when he was sixteen, and isn’t that a fucking laugh riot. Samuel Watson, Jr., went off to the big city - changed his name - comes back home and slides right back in to the same way he felt when he was just... Sammy.

Maybe he should call his mother in Florida and ask her to tell him all the ways he’s going to hell, add that on. It’s not like he’d even notice the extra weight, anymore.

Mom, you’ve got no fucking clue what I’ve actually done to deserve hell, but why don’t you tell me about how it’s the parts inside me that damned me, and I can tell you about how my actions were so much worse than my identity could ever be.

“Connor?” Demetri’s voice is soft, and Connor tenses in surprise, but he doesn’t turn around.

“I thought I told you to go work out near the fields,” He says, his voice caught, eyes burning hot. He can’t turn around - Demetri’s too good at seeing tears even when Connor hides them.

“I, I know you did, but... I was talking to B, and we thought-... you seemed sad. So we came back.” The voice gets closer, the scrape of Demetri’s boots on the barn’s dirt floor, pushing aside the hay they put down to help the cats keep warm in the winter.

“Why?” Connor lays a hand on a bit of heavy, rusted metal. He’s not even sure what purpose it served, it’s laid here along the wall since his grandfather owned this farm. Maybe they built the fucking barn around it. “Why did you come back? Why do you ever?”

There’s a pause, a silence, and then Demetri’s boots scrape along the floor again, coming closer and closer. Connor holds himself perfectly still, refuses to look at the blond. He doesn’t tremble when he feels a long-fingered hand along his back. “Connor? What do you... what do you mean?”

Connor’s eyes close, tears building there, threatening to spill. “I have twenty-five grand in a savings account,” He says, trying to get the words out fast enough that he can’t stop himself.

Don’t leave me.

“And I can sign the truck over. I’ve got papers for you both, fake IDs, Social Security numbers, the works. It’s in my safety deposit box. I’ll give you money, and everything you need - you can stay in my old apartment if you want, I just-... I have everything you need to leave.”

“Why... why would we want to?”

Connor hadn’t even heard B. His boots didn’t make the same scraping sounds that Demetri’s did. B was trained to move silently, had had it even more strongly reinforced in him that he should be seen and not heard. When his voice asked the question, rumbling and deep, Connor caught his breath at how close B was, just on his other side.

“Why-... why wouldn’t... why wouldn’t you?” To his shame, Connor has to sniff back the tears, then, and the sound is as loud as a shout in the silent barn. His voice is trembling, struggling to get the words out.

He’s sniffling like a fucking kid when he doesn’t have the fucking right.

B is the first one to slide arms around him, nuzzling into he side of his head, into Connor’s thick dark hair. Demetri’s arms move around his waist, and there’s one on either side of him, the same way they often end up at night, but this isn’t sex and this isn’t sleeping, this is... something else.

“Love you,” B rumbles, just against his ear. “Stay with you, Connor.”

“Well, you shouldn’t, and y-you shouldn’t want to. I’m the piece of shit who did all of this to you.”

Demetri, after months here, showed a sharp-witted humor in flashes, the buried man under all the drugs and training digging his way slowly out. And now, he rested his cheek on Connor’s shoulder and said, gently, “Maybe we like the piece of shit who did this to us. Or we like you, anyway, which isn’t the same thing at all.”

“Yes, it is, I’m exactly the same as I was.”

“Not the same... you’re not.” B again, and he felt like they were winds blowing him around and shielding him from the wind, at the same time. They were both. “Not the same. None of us are.”

“I just-... I just wanted to do one good thing.” Connor groans, ashamed of himself for the admission. “I don’t think... I thought, maybe I could do one good thing, and if it’s the only good thing I could do, at least it’s... something. When you’re ready, I have everything you need to go.”

“We’re not, though.” Demetri kisses his cheek, at the same moment B nuzzles back into his neck, and Connor leans back into the affection he can’t possibly earn, will never deserve.

“Not going anywhere.” B’s teeth just graze his neck, and Connor catches his breath at the soft little sting.

“You can’t make us,” Demetri teases, an easy flirtation that seems less trained and more genuine and sincere, or maybe Connor just can’t tell the difference when he’s like this.

“Love you,” B murmurs into his neck. “We love you, Connor.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Demetri snorts, and there are fingers lightly pressing on his jaw, until Connor opens his eyes to find his face has been turned to look right at the blond, who gives him a slight, wry smile and the softest kiss. “Connor. Don’t you think B and I get to decide that, now? We decided we love you. Just try and stop us.”

“Demetri-” Connor’s eyes drop, only just now realizing Demetri isn’t wearing a collar today.

Demetri blinks, then his smile widens when he sees Connor’s gaze move to his neck and he tilts his chin up slightly, showing off the bare expanse of neck. “All day,” he says, almost shyly. “Since our shower. We want to be here.”

B’s fingers, then, taking his chin to turn it back the other way, and B’s kiss is harder, rougher, lasts longer, but Connor melts into it. “We want to be here,” He says, in his deep voice, the intensity of his gaze focused entirely on Connor’s face. “Both of us. With you. Love you.”

Demetri’s mouth is on his neck while B kisses him again.

“We love you, Connor.” Demetri’s lips move against his skin. “Life doesn’t give you... doesn’t only give what you deserve.”

If they tore him apart right here in the barn he’d have understood it was only what he'd earned, payment in turn for all the evil things he’s done.

Instead of what he deserves, they give him this.

Over and over again.

We love you.

#emotional whump #villain redemption #connor manning just wants to be friends #whump #trauma recovery whump #box boy #box boy multiverse #box boy universe #moose-teeth #slainteowhump #angst #connor hates himself SO MUCH #I'm not sure I make that clear enough #SO MUCH

61 notes · View notes

darkesttimelinestuff · 4 years

Link

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness. “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor, picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino. The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

#fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #wtfmulder #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #mulderxscully #halloween #haunted house #spooky #msr

8 notes · View notes

miller-day · 4 years

Text

hi everyone!!

during the semi-hiatus i took from tumblr i became obsessed with psych (people who follow me on twitter know) and i even started writing about it. i thought it would be so funny to see how a crossover between shawn/gus and sherlock/watson would go, so i took it upon myself to make it happen. i’ve only written 6 pages of it but i’m thinking about going forward and writing more, but firstly i wanted to know if it’s actually worth it so i’m posting what i wrote on here and i hope that if ANYONE actually reads it and enjoys it, then let me know <3

(none of the characters are mine)

“Shawn Spencer. Psychic detective.” Watson shifts his glance from the open newspaper on the coffee table to Sherlock, who’s standing in the kitchen and looking like a misplaced giant, his 6 feet of flesh and bones (or just bones) still forming a comical comparison with the small-dimensioned furniture of their apartment, most of it bought by equally small-dimensioned Mrs. Hudson. “I see you’re now interested in the supernatural?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Please. You know my demon-hunting days are long past.”

Watson waits for Sherlock to develop his last statement, even though he’s not sure he actually wants to hear more of it, but his roommate’s attention seems to have been captured by the stirring sounds he’s making with the teaspoon against the glass of his mug. “What’s this doing here, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him to know what he was referring to. He goes about as though Watson’s presence in the room is as dispensable as a fly on a summer day, something you dismiss with a single hand motion and move on, and sits on his usual red sofa. Watson rolls his eyes, not yet immune to Sherlock’s peculiar way of being even after almost two years of friendship, and throws the newspaper onto his lap rather angrily, to which Sherlock replies, “Hey!”

“Shawn Spencer,” Watson says, pointing at the bold black letters on the top of the page that’s facing Sherlock, the phrase PSYCHIC DETECTIVE SHAWN SPENCER SAVES THE CITY OF SANTA BARBARA FROM ANOTHER KILLING SPREE making its loud announcement above a picture of two guys proudly smiling in front of a police station. “You were reading this.”

“How observant,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you should be the one solving the crimes and I should be the one writing about it on my blog.”

Watson exhales angrily. “Why are you avoiding this topic?”

“It’s not so much avoiding this specific topic as much as it is me avoiding you,” Sherlock stops to take a sip of his tea. “I’m busy.”

Watson rubs his left temple in an attempt to soothe the vein he’s foreseeing popping in a couple of seconds. “If you say so.”

He ends up sitting dramatically on the opposing couch. They’re both silent for a while, Watson with his eyes closed and his head resting against the cushion, Sherlock noticing the rhythm of his best friend’s chest rising and falling as he approaches, slowly, the realm of sleep.

“Alright, fine. Do you want to discuss this?” Watson opens his eyes in surprise at Sherlock’s sudden rupture of the room’s previous quietness. “I think the guy is obviously a con-man.”

Watson blinks, noticeably distressed. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, come on. Please don’t tell me you believe this bullshit.” Sherlock says, his sarcastic laugh creating an itch on his roommate’s skin, then places his mug on a table nearby. “You’ve believed worse, though, so I’m not exactly shocked.”

“I just asked a question. I think the guy deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

Sherlock’s expression is void of any inclination towards an agreement with Watson and giving the psychic even the tiniest bit of credibility. Crime-solving, as far as he is concerned, is an art, a study of the human brain, a test of one’s skills in terms of impulse-control and harmony of the senses, a practice no one can ever master in its entirety, and for someone to taint its name with something so low and idiot as an alleged psychic ability only makes him furious. The worst part, he thinks, is that people aren’t contesting it at all — the guy managed to make his name go from Santa Barbara to London after all, and from the looks of it, he has the entire local police department on his side.

“Oh, don’t start,” he says, a tone of annoyance dripping from the edge of his words.

“With what?” Watson asks, a little amused.

“With your whole thing,” Sherlock gestures vaguely with his hands. “You’re free to think what you choose—”

“How kind of you.”

“—but I won’t let you waste my time with arguments in his defense. He either has someone on the inside or he actually solves the crimes, but I won’t acknowledge any talent on his part if he’s doing something so stupid as hiding under the pretense of ‘communications with the supernatural’,” he does the air-quotes mockingly, “or whatever term he uses to call it.”

“Are you jealous because the spirits like him better than you do?” Watson asks, a smile of mockery slowly taking form on his lips. “I’m sure if you’re kinder to people they might just come around to talk. Y’know, if you’re a good bloke and all that.”

“You’re thinking about Santa Claus, Watson, but given that he’s not any more real than whatever powers your little Shawn Spencer claims to possess, I suppose it’s a valid assumption.”

“He has a partner. You know that, right?”

“Who? Spencer or Santa?”

“Shawn Spencer, obviously,” Watson replies. “You said you think he has someone on the inside, and he’s not alone in that picture. He works with someone.”

“Oh, but I meant inside the police department, to give him information and such. The man on the picture is his...” Sherlock sighs. “Best friend, I guess. As if they couldn’t get more embarrassing.”

Watson throws his head back in laughter and Sherlock stares blankly at him. “What?”

“Nothing! It’s just...” He puts his hand over his mouth, then itches the back of his head, still smiling. “If you think about it, they’re kind of like us.”

Sherlock’s face has an expression about it that makes him look as though he’s taken a bite out of a lemon. “What do you mean?”

Watson hasn’t stopped giggling, and Sherlock looks at him with puzzlement, expecting an answer.

“I mean, they’re two friends who solve crimes together.” Watson replies, his tone an indication of how obvious the comparison is.

“I don’t suppose you’re suggesting I’m the Spencer in this scenario?”

“Well, you’re the one who’s always going on with the ‘you see, but you don’t observe’ bullshit. I always thought you meant it literally, but perhaps you meant something more... metaphysical? Seeing like a psychic, maybe?”

Sherlock stands up abruptly. “This isn’t funny, Watson.”

Watson chuckles. “Agree to disagree.”

“You know, I’m positive I could expose that Spencer within seconds of meeting him,” Sherlock says, and starts pacing around the room like his thoughts are too fast in his mind for him to be still. “His partner, for instance—”

“I think you meant his best friend.” The smile of mischief is still there.

“Is a pharmaceutical salesman. What does this tell you?”

Watson furrows his brows in confusion. “That he has a discount on paracetamol?”

“You’re useless. Utterly, completely useless,” Sherlock replies. “How did you even manage to get a medical degree?”

“Oh, well, they just give it around these days,” Watson rests his elbows on his thighs and places his face on his hands, a Little-Mermaid-like position that weirdly fits him. “Showing up is pretty much the only requirement.”

Sherlock ignores his roommate’s response and continues, this time more to himself than as a contribution to their conversation. “Shawn Spencer’s partner having another job is an indication that their whole business isn’t as solid as they make it seem. It might be to help with the money for rent and transportation and such, but it could also be that the financial guarantee he’s seeking is preparation for the moment when Shawn is inevitably exposed for being a fake.” Sherlock stops and scans Watson for an indication of him having been convinced. “Or he just had that job before this scam started and doesn’t trust Spencer to keep it for much longer, at least not enough to make him quit.”

Watson rests his back against the cushion again. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with this bit, make me hate the guys?”

“No, of course not. I just want to show you the other side of things, the real side. But you can choose to live in this delusion as much as you want. I mean, go ahead. Keep thinking the supernatural actually exists! I’m sure it helps you sleep at night.”

Watson rolls his eyes and angrily grabs the newspaper, which, at this point, is on the floor, having been stepped on by Sherlock at least five times, and his eyes immediately fall on the picture. The one whom he reads is Shawn is on the left, plaid shirt and cocky grin giving him the appearance of an average guy you wouldn’t be surprised to see eating chicken wings or making obscure references to movies from the 80s. His hand is up as though he’s waving to the crowd in front of him, not even a little bit worried about his unconventional methods being an easy target of judgment. He looks like he belongs there, Watson realizes, and for a second he almost wishes he knew those guys. The best friend/partner, Burton Guster, is on the right, his hand placed on his chest in a gesture that would suggest humbleness if it weren’t for his facial expression, a look about him that seems equally receptive of the recognition and praise as Shawn is. He’s wearing a buttoned shirt that’s tucked under his pants with a belt, and the two of them form such a distinct contrast to each other that Watson finds it rather amusing. He can’t help but think about the many pictures of him and Sherlock that have appeared on the newspaper over the years, and he wonders if people have analyzed them the way he’s analyzing Shawn and Guster at this moment. They can undoubtedly notice Sherlock’s arrogance and Watson’s shyness from the capture of a lens, but can they also see his excitement, Sherlock’s determination, the deep and unspoken connection the two of them share but hardly ever acknowledge? Can they understand what motivates them from within, the drive for justice, the thrill of the chase pumping in their veins?

“I think you’re being too harsh with them,” Watson says simply, putting the newspaper on the couch next to him.

“How come?” Sherlock replies. “I think I’m being perfectly adequate.”

“I don’t know,” he crosses his arms. “It’s just... Okay. Let’s suppose he is indeed faking his powers.”

Sherlock points a finger at him. “Which he totally is.”

Watson ignores him and continues, “Does that inherently mean he’s a bad person?” Sherlock stares at him, silent. “He has put a lot of bad people in jail, and no doubt has saved a lot of lives in the process... Doesn’t that give him a little bit of credit?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He doesn’t respond immediately; instead, he walks to the window and gazes at the street below, strangers passing by with shopping bags and dogs on leashes and briefcases on hand, the sounds of London fading away as background noise as he concentrates on details of the everyday life. He notices the mark of a ring on the girl with the dog’s finger, the dust on the shoe of the guy with the briefcase, the small tear on the shopping bag carried by the woman. He absorbs all of it in, knowing none of this information is relevant to his existence, and takes a deep breath.

He’s reminded of a babysitter he used to have back in the day. Susan Carter. She was, in theory, hired to take care of both him and Mycroft, but Sherlock’s brother, even in his youth, acted like someone older than his age, someone who could take plenty of care of himself even though he was still sleeping with a night light on and occasionally peeing his pants. Sherlock didn’t like Susan very much — he actually felt that way about pretty much everyone at that time, but with her it was especially intense because she’d spend the entire day checking in on him. He couldn’t just simply tune her out diving into the depths of his mind castle, because it was a guarantee she’d be there too, her high-pitched auntie voice asking him questions like, “Do you want some tea, Lockie?” or “Want me to read you a story?” Never mind the fact that she was merely doing her job, one which he was aware she was being paid for incredibly well (it wasn’t easy to find someone willing to accept employment in the Holmes residence those days): he wanted her out of his sacred place, expelled out of his house like a virus after an antibody attack.

His will ended up being his way, in the end. Susan decided to quit after Mycroft put laxatives in her tea one day, and all of this happened because she had entered his room, without knocking, and caught him during one of his private costume sessions. Mycroft would sometimes spend hours alone in his room doing this — one day he’d be a king from the Victorian times, ordering the toys in his room to attend to his commands, and the other he’d be Britain’s first astronaut setting foot on the moon. Sherlock was never allowed in, even though he’d usually want to, much to his own dismay, and when his nanny caught Mycroft dressed up as Shakespeare in the middle of a reenactment of his own play, Mycroft decided it was best to put matters into his own hands. Or, really, the poor lady’s digestive system, which got torn to shreds after that tea. Sherlock was glad to see her gone, but it sadly wasn’t much long before another nanny stepped in to take her post, and the others after her blended together to create one amorphous being in his mind, all identities a dense cloud of memories he, to this day, associates with despair and annoyance.

What made Susan stand out amongst them was the fact that she liked tarot cards. Sherlock always thought of it all as rather stupid and tried to avoid her “sessions” as much as possible, but sometimes she managed to catch him in the sofa, staring at the ceiling or memorizing the patterns of the paintings on the wall, and she’d say “let’s have a reading, Lockie! You’re not really doing anything much now, aren’t you?”, to which he’d have no reply. He’d sometimes run away to the garden, but other times he’d admit defeat and sit next to her on the dinner table, and she’d spread the cards and explain the meaning of every one of them, even the ones which weren’t chosen by Sherlock. Surprisingly, he’d sometimes find himself enjoying those moments, especially when Susan’s eyes would sparkle with excitement and he’d wonder if one day he’d ever feel that way about anything. She’d maneuver the cards with the utmost gentleness, like they were thin pieces of glass she could drop and break at any moment, and he’d almost let himself smile. He never would, though, because he was still a Holmes, therefore still genetically indisposed for such an act.

Sherlock later in his life learned that Susan had died not long after she quit her job as his nanny. She was murdered by an ex-boyfriend who needed some money and was leeching off of her and the tiny, almost inexistent amount she had. She was stabbed eight times in her own living room, the very same Susan who would put an extra spoonful of sugar in his afternoon tea even though his mother’s orders were of strictly one. Sherlock hated himself the day he found out. When his mother told him over the phone, bile crawled up to the back of his throat and left in it a bitter taste that lasted until the next morning. Sherlock wanted to punch someone, punch himself. The murderer had already been caught by that point, but Sherlock wanted badly to be the one who had found him, perhaps because he felt like he owed something to Susan. He couldn’t catch his own eyes in the mirror for a while after that discovery.

“I think I’m going to bed.”

Watson blinks in surprise. “It’s five in the afternoon.”

Sherlock wraps the belt of his robe on his stomach. “I am very tired.” He gives the reply as though it was an act of courtesy on his part, unneeded.

“You said you were busy about three minutes ago.”

He slumps his shoulders in a dramatic gesture like there’s a sudden weight on them he can’t bother to carry, and then straightens his posture again. “Haven’t you heard of procrastination, Watson? My being tired at this very moment doesn’t exclude my desire to sleep.”

Watson narrows his eyes, bites his lower lip. “You’re planning something.”

Sherlock fakes an appalled look. “I am going to bed. Think of that what you will.”

He starts making his way across the living room and Watson says, “Tell me what you’re thinking!”

“Ask your friend Spencer to tell you that! He’s a psychic, he’ll figure it out!” He’s halfway through the hallway by now, his screams reverberating against the walls.

“You’re forgetting your tea!”

“You can have it, it’s too sweet for me anyway!” is the reply before Sherlock closes the door and creates a vacuum in the room from the instant end of the conversation.

Watson groans in frustration. “I could kill him. And I think I could get away with it. Except he’d solve the bloody thing in the afterlife. Oh, Watson, you were such a fool, left the clues right there for everyone to see!” He mimics Sherlock’s posh way of speaking.

He picks up the mug Sherlock left on the table and takes a sip. “A perfectly good tea, also. That bastard.” Watson’s tone of voice is annoyed, but as he takes another sip, there’s a smile on his face.

#psych #psych fic #sherlock #bbc sherlock #psych au #sherlock au #writing

4 notes · View notes

perspective-series · 5 years

Text

Switched Perspective (8)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings:

(Check the reblog for the links to the previous chapters and the prequel!)

This is a sequel to A Third Perspective! Read that first or you will be confused!

The five of them ate in silence for a few minutes.

“So..” Thomas decided to address the elephant in the room. “Why exactly did you all switch sizes?”

Virgil and Patton shared a glance. “We have no idea,” Virgil said. “We just woke up like this, in both of their beds.” He pointed and Logan and Roman. “And they woke up in ours.”

“I think perhaps the best course of action from here would be to do some research,” Logan suggested, setting his makeshift cup down. “The library will be our best bet.”

“Okay, Hermione Granger.” Roman rolled his eyes.

“I can take you to the library, Logan.” Thomas offered, being the only human that could drive.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “The library? As if you’re gonna find anything there. Wouldn’t it be better to look for clues in the places that we ended up?” Virgil pointed out and motioned to the area around him.

“I mean...Virgil does have a good point.” Patton spoke up. “Don’t be mean though.” He added, not liking the tone Virgil had used.

“...Sorry, Pat.”

“Perhaps we should split up then,” Roman suggested, wanting to keep Virgil and Logan apart. “Logan and Thomas can go to the library, and the three of us can search the apartments.”

“Excellent suggestion, Roman.” Logan looked to Thomas expectantly. Thomas, following the examples of Virgil and Patton, place his hand on the counter next to Logan. The shrunken human climbed onto Thomas’ palm, making sure to crouch in the center to avoid being thrown off. This turned out to be unnecessary, as Thomas lifted his hand at the speed of a grandmother’s electric scooter.

“Have fun you two!” Patton waved.

Logan waved for the both of them, Thomas too focused on the task at hand to even think of waving as the two disappeared into the hall. A moment later the front door closed and the three were left alone.

Patton turned to Roman and Virgil, glancing between them. “Alright, so, how do we want to do this?” Patton asked.

Virgil shrugged. “You and Roman could go back to his apartment and look around. I’ll stay here and do the same.” Virgil suggested, trying to appear nonchalant. But he had a plan.

“Sounds good to me.” Roman smiled at Patton, hoping the human would be willing to bring him along.

“Aw yeah! Some good ole’ fashioned Roman and Patton bonding!” Now that Patton wasn’t scared of Roman anymore, he was actually excited to spend some time with the former human. He laid his hand in front of Roman. “Shall we?” He giggled.

“We shall.” Roman scampered onto Patton’s hand as quickly as his injured leg allowed.

Patton held Roman close to his chest as he waved at Virgil with his free hand. “See ya later Virge!” Virgil waved back until the door shut and then turned to look at the apartment with a smirk on his face.

He had just had the perfect idea for revenge for Logan. He would do exactly what was done to him, to Logan. Then Logan would finally understand how Virgil felt. All he had to do now, was find what he needed.

***

Patton carefully made his way to Roman’s apartment, shutting the door behind him as he made his way into the bedroom. “So, this is where Virgil woke up?” Patton asked as he set Roman down on the desk.

“Yup, in my bed.” Roman pointed to the hole in the wall from which he had emerged earlier this morning. “And I woke up somewhere in that dark maze.”

Patton blinked. “Dark maze? Oh! You mean the walls?” Patton thought for a moment. “Right, I almost forgot, you woke up in my room.” Patton hummed, looking around the room. Wondering where they should start looking for clues.

“I guess the bed would be a good first place to start?” Patton suggested, before picking Roman up again and bringing him over to the bed.

Roman winced slightly as he was grabbed, but bit his tongue to keep from making any verbal protests. “Sounds good, Patton.” Roman all but hissed through clenched teeth.

“Great!” Patton set Roman down and used his hands to scan over the bed. He hummed in concentration, despite not knowing what he was looking for. “Maybe you could look over near the pillows?”

“Um, sure Patton.” Roman walked over near the pillow, not sure what to look for. The shrunken human slowly walked the perimeter of the pillow. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Then Roman tried to lift up the pillow. Though he tugged with all his might, it was too dense for Roman to even lift the corner.

“Ah, a little help here, padre?” Roman requested sheepishly, trying not to feel disheartened at the fact he could not even move a pillow.

Patton looked up, unable to keep the smile off his face. He chuckled as he came over towards the front of the bed. “Aw, I almost forgot how small you were.” He hadn’t even been a human a full day and yet he found himself forgetting what it was like to be Roman’s size. Patton probably should have been a bit more worried about that, but he was too caught up in everything else to give it much thought. “Here, I got it.”

He lifted the pillow, only to blink in surprise when he saw a small piece of yellow paper underneath. “Is that yours?” He asked Roman since it was his bed and all.

“No.” Roman frowned, taking a step closer to try and inspect it. It seemed to be some sort of sticky note. “I’ve never seen that before.”

Patton hummed and grabbed the paper, turning it over and noticing the words on it. “Be gentle with the fragile and friendly with the meek?” Patton read aloud, looking at Roman with a questioning gaze.

“What the heckity heck, 5 abs and one peck?” Roman frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea...but if this isn’t yours that might mean it has something to do with all of this!” Patton exclaimed, he went over to place the note on the desk so they didn’t lose it. “Maybe that means there are some more around here too!”

“Wonderful deduction, Watson!” Roman praised, being sincere.

Patton blinked. “Watson?” Once again, another one of Roman’s names had him confused.

“Oh, it’s a Sherlock Holmes reference,” Roman explained. “Watson is Sherlock’s beloved sidekick. The two are detectives who find clues to solve crimes.”

“Oh!” Patton said, at least getting the gist of it. He started thinking about where the next clue could be. If he found one in Roman’s bed, then maybe… “There could be a clue in my bed!” Patton exclaimed out loud, turning to Roman with a grin.

“It’s entirely possible.” Roman agreed. Although his face morphed more into one of unease as he realized he would have to be the one to go to Patton’s room, considering Patton was just a little too large for the entrance now.

“Although, unfortunately, I’m not sure I could find my way back there,” Roman admitted sheepishly. He also didn’t want to try, simply because his leg and ribs were already protesting the idea strongly.

“That’s okay! I know the walls like the back of my hand, I can tell you which way to go! Besides, it’s not too far from here.” Patton said, not giving any warning as he scooped Roman up and placed him on the floor near the entrance. Patton sat down criss-cross behind him. “You should be able to hear my voice just fine too.”

“How could I say no?” Roman chuckled, saying it aloud as a joke but on the inside really wondering how he could get out of this. Roman steeled himself, ignoring the way his bruises were once again dully throbbing after Patton’s sudden grasps. Slowly, Roman began to march almost like a toy soldier as best he could into the hole.

“You got this Roman!” Patton grinned. “You’re gonna start by going straight and then once you reach a cross section, you’re gonna turn middle left. Okay?” Patton did his best to explain.

“Okay!” Roman yelled back, but his agreement came too early. Roman paused in the darkness, already lost when he could still see the bedroom light shining behind him. What the heck was middle left? Roman made his best guess, hoping he wasn’t about to tumble down off a beam and fall a few stories.

“Now what?” Roman called. Now that he had turned the corner, there was no light anywhere. Roman kept his hand firmly on the wall.

“Now keep walking straight and turn right and then an immediate left!” Patton called out. Half of him did wish he could be with Roman through this. But he was sure Roman was doing fine.

“Turn right, then left,” Roman muttered to himself, slowly walking forwards. “Right then left, right then left…” Roman paused at the first intersection. “...or was it left, then right?”

Patton listened closely, furrowing his eyebrows when he heard Roman’s steps in the wrong place. “Um, Roman? I think you're going the wrong way.” He called out.

“What?” Roman paused, stopping in his movements. “You said left, right?”

“I said right and then left.” Patton reminded him. “I think you’re on your way to the kitchen right now.” Seeing as Roman’s voice was somewhere between here and there.

“Augh, sorry.” Roman corrected his mistake, backtracking and making the proper turns. It was a good thing Patton had told him to turn back; Roman thought he might’ve heard some scurrying sounds coming from the other direction. He shuddered, trying not to picture the multitude of grotesque creatures hiding in the dark. “Alright, right then left. Now what?”

“Just one more right turn and you should be there!” Patton grinned when he heard Roman once again in the right place.

Roman followed the directions, feeling the walls change texture underneath his fingertips but still unable to actually see anything.

“Uh, Patton, is there any way for me to get some light in here?” Roman yelled down the hall.

“Yeah, there should be a small plastic candle lamp next to the bed. Just press the button on top and it should turn on!”

Roman felt around, tripping over various knick-knacks that were lying about. How much stuff did Patton have in here, anyways? After his legs had acquired a new set of bruises from all the furniture Roman ran into in the dark, Roman finally found the aforementioned button.

As light filled the room, Roman slowly turned in a circle to take it all in. The walls seemed to be covered in discarded scraps of scrapbooking paper. The whole scene resembled that of a dollhouse room that someone also used as storage for craft supplies. Indeed, a surprising amount of things from thread to crayons were lying about the floor. A light blue scarf was laying in the corner, and Roman slowly realized the giant fabric pile served as Patton’s bed.

Atop this scarf sat what appeared to be a fairly small (by human standards) greeting card, white with a golden border. Roman picked it up as best he could, opening it to read the cursive scarlet ink written inside.

“True strength comes not from the individual, but from his friends.” Roman frowned, not sure what that could do with this whole curse business. However, there was no doubt in Roman’s mind that this was another clue.

“Patton, I found something!” Roman called joyfully, beginning the trek back down the hall after he turned off the light.

“That’s great!” Patton said, grinning. They were finally getting somewhere it seemed. He eyes caught a glance of something to his left and he looked up, only to be met with yet another yellow paper. Tilting his head, because he was sure that hadn’t been there before, he grabbed it and read what it said. “Observe in greater detail the ones that surround you.” Patton frowned, what did that mean. These notes sure were cryptic.

#gt #Giant/tiny #thomas sanders #sanders sides #infinitesimal!sides #au #borrowers #virgil sanders #switched!virgil #patton sanders #switched!patton #roman sanders #switched!roman #logan sanders #switched!logan #character!thomas #human!thomas #switched perspective #part 8

84 notes · View notes

janeofcakes · 5 years

Text

Finding John Watson: Chapter 1

**This is a working title and one I’m leaning towards. It might change.**

John’s eyes open slowly, or more like not open. The lids are heavier than he would expect.They feel like mini lead aprons over his eyes. Like the ones used to cover parts of the body not being x-rayed. The weight of them us troubling. Just how long as he been asleep?

After stopping for an angry sigh and a cursory wetting of his lips, John finally cracks his eyes open only to close them again at the blinding light. He gasps in shock and starts coughing, his throat incredibly dry. He raises his hands to cover his mouth and rub at his eyes. But nothing is touching his face, not a single fingertip. Barely staving off panic, John takes stock of himself. All of his limbs are definitely intact. He can feel all of them, but they won’t move. Not one finger or toe, not even a twitch. Something is seriously wrong.

Ready to panic now, John forces his eyes open and blinks furiously until they adjust to the dim light of the room around him. It is obviously a hospital room. The beige walls and paintings of fruit bowls and island scenes attest to that, as well as the bed and other furniture - a few wall closets, a basin, a door that is most likely the loo, and a few moderately comfortable looking chairs for visitors. The blinds over the only window are drawn and John can’t see a clock anywhere. No way to find out what time of day or night it is. He furrows his brow, considering his predicament. There could be a clock behind him, but that doesn’t help at all anyway. He can only look around the room with his eyes, after all. He tries looking back to his right as far as he can and that’s when he notices the telltale curtain that can be pulled around the bed, and when he hears the steady, if not fast, beeping of a heart monitor.

Taking in all of this is a second or two, John casts his eyes down his own body and finds everything definitely intact. He can see that easily, even with his lower half covered by sheets and blankets. His upper half is not covered, his arms look far paler and smaller around than he has ever seen them. He looks at them more closely as he tries to move, not missing his inability to move his own head as he does it. The head of the bed is angled upward so he is sitting up a bit and thank god for that. It is the only reason he can see any of his own body.

He strains his muscles and screws up his face in concentration, biting his lip as he raises his head off the pillow, even if only a fraction. He watches as he tries to move his toes and fingers, but nothing happens. Dropping his head back in frustration, John lets out a loud sigh and tries not to scream. He wets his lips, lifts his head in determination, and tries again. This time, after what seems like days, his fingers twitch and his toes wiggle ever so slightly. He drops his head back on the pillow and lets out a few heavy breaths. John squeezes his eyes shut as he pants into the quiet room and tries not to panic.

What the fuck? What the hell happened to me?

He tries to remember, but he can’t. And that’s when John realizes he can’t remember anything. Not a thing. Who is he? How did he get here? Where is he? What the fuck happened to him?

Suddenly John hears the click of a doorknob and his eyes dart to the room’s entrance. A woman in her early thirties pops in, her brown eyes locked on his and she stops for a second before moving into the room. She closes the door behind and walks to his side silently. She is about five five and pale. Her dark brown curls bounce a little as she walks and John finds it familiar, comforting. He instantly feels he can trust her, though he doesn’t know why. He watches he with intrigue and she smiles.

“Hello. It’s so good to see you awake,” her voice is warm and flows easily from her lips. She isn’t whispering, but her tone is quiet as though wanting to spare him any loud noise. She pulls an ear thermometer from a wheeled cabinet near the bed. “My name’s Eileen. I’m your nurse. Can I take your temperature?”

Eileen. Why does that sound so familiar?

John nods, his chin moving minutely, but it’s enough and her eyes brighten. Passed his first test - comprehension. She gently places the device in his ear and he hears it beep. She removes it and records it in a logbook lying on top of the mobile cabinet. A logbook. Now that is telling. They only use a logbook for long-term cases these days. John furrows his brows. How could he possibly know that?

“I’m going to take your blood pressure, okay?”

John’s chin dips again ever so slightly, but a little more than the first time. Smiling again, she does it by hand and he watches her write the result in the book. She counts his pulse for a minute and records his heart rate. She looks at various monitors and enters their readings into the logbook, and then everything into a laptop on a counter nearby. Two copies. A paper one to refer to without logging in, something to be seen quickly.

The fingers of John’s left hand tingle and twitch, wishing they could hold that book and flip through its pages, see how far back it goes. It is the smallest of movements, but it’s enough to tell John that he will be moving again in time. However, he will be in physical therapy for a long while, if his arms are any indication. He needs to rebuild the muscle, reclaim his fine motor skills, walk again.

John’s thoughts cease abruptly. How does he know all this?

“Sorry about that. Just some things I need to take care of. Housekeeping,” Eileen jokes kindly. His lips start to move, to form words, and she pauses. “Are you okay? Do you have any pain?”

“Nnnnno,” he can barely be heard, even in the quiet room. He cringes and swallows, trying to create some moisture in his mouth and throat. As if reading his expression, Eileen moves closer and touches his hand lightly.

“You have an NG tube in your nose. Do you think you can drink water okay?”

John tries to say yes, but only mouths the word. The nurse nods at him with a tender smile and steps over to the bank of closets. She opens one to reveal a small refrigerator and removes a bottle of water. As she pours some in a plastic cup, John considers this new information. This is not a normal hospital. Individual rooms in ordinary hospitals do not have closets that hide their own mini-fridges.

“Here you are,” the nurse holds the cup and straw close. “Ready? Go slowly now.”

John sucks on the straw when it hits his lips and, oh my god, the ice cold water feels heavenly in his warm mouth. It flows gloriously down his throat as he swallows, feeling renewed and refreshed. Even when she takes away the cup, saying it won’t do for him to drink too much all at once, he sighs contentedly. He focuses his deep blue eyes on her when she turns back to him and speaks before he has a chance to try.

“I know you have a lot of questions and I’ll answer as many as I can, but I need to ask you some things first. Will you answer my questions?”

“Yes,” John’s voice is full of gravel and still very quiet, but he can tell the water has already helped and it will get better as time goes on.

“Perfect,” Eileen smiles. She touches his arms and hands, legs and toes asking each time if he can push against her hands or resist when she pulls. He tries as best he can and confirms that he can certainly feel her touch, but can do little else. She asks if he can tell whether or not his muscles are contracting or trying to move and he says yes. Not unexpectedly, this news pleases her. She takes a moment to explain that he is on IV fluids with nutrients in addition to the NG tube. He also has bags providing various medications, all of which she explains.

John listens intently and suddenly it strikes him that not only does he understand everything she tells him, but he knows what everything is and what it does before she says it. Based upon all the information she has given him, he has definitely been in this room for quite some time. But exactly how long and how does he know so much about medicine? Who has kept his muscle from wasting away completely and who has been shaving his face, cutting his hair? Eileen, presumably. How long has she been such a lifeline to him?

“How do you feel? Do you understand all I’ve told you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. That’s perfect,” she smiles again. She smiles a lot. ”Now I have some questions. Are you okay to answer them?”

“Yes,” John nods, noticing his head moved a little more this time. A warm tingle of excitement and adrenaline rushes through his body from head to toe. A corner of his mouth turns up.

“Good, good. Just let me know if you need to stop.”

“Okay.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

John looks at her blankly.

No. I have no idea.

Not ready to say those words aloud, John inhales deeply and closes his eyes. He tries to concentrate, tries to look inside his own mind for the answers. He once heard someone talk about turning his mind into a house. No, not a house, a palace. Suddenly he can hear a deep voice, absolutely delicious in timbre, telling John exactly how he does it. The rich and silky baritone explains dividing his mind into wings and rooms, putting information and people and events in the different places so he never forgets anything and can access it whenever he needs it.

Who are you? Are you real?

John looks into his own memory and tries to find rooms, tries to find anything. He can’t find enough to habitat wings and what he does find is hidden by panes of black glass. He tries to open one of them, certain that all the answers are hidden behind these panes of glass, but it will not budge. John hears Eileen’s voice asking him if he is all right. He takes a moment before opening his eyes. Eileen. Eileen. Why is that so familiar? And the dark curls, the pale skin…

A pane of glass nearby shatters without warning, startling John enough to open his eyes and gasp. Eileen’s eyes are wide with worry and she is leaning toward him, a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you all right? Are you in pain?” her voice is tense, but steady. John actually, shockingly turns his head to the left about an inch to look at her.

”John,” he rasps. The name behind the glass is his. He knows it’s his, but that is all he found.

“Yes, Yes, that’s good. Can you tell me your surname?” Eileen’s tone brightens and she straightens her posture again. John pauses and tries to think, to remember.

“No.”

“That’s okay. Totally okay,” she assures him. “It’s to be expected with a head injury. It’ll take some time to come back.

“What?” John tries to ask a full question, but can’t get all the words to come. He had surmised as much, but confirmation of a head injury is still welcome and key. Well, as welcome as that news can be. John wants to know more. He has to figure out what happened to him and who he is. “How. How did…”

“I know you have a lot of questions, John,” Eileen tells him sympathetically when he can’t finish the sentence, “but your doctor really should be the one to answer them.”

Doctor!

A piece of the puzzle emerges from the fog left behind the broken pane, behind his name. John is a doctor. It explains why he knows so much about medicine and hospital procedure. He fixes Eileen with a determined expression.

“Doctor.”

“Yes, your doctor’s name is Madison Hoover,” she tells him. “She’ll be able to tell you more when she comes for rounds in a few hours.”

“I’m a doctor,” John manages.

“Yes, you are. That’s wonderful, John. You see? It’s starting to come back already. It won’t be long now.”

John closes his eyes and another dark pane of glass shatters. The face of a young woman becomes clear.

“Molly Hooper,” John exclaims in a hushed and still rough tone as he looks at the nurse, who shakes her head.

“Hoover. Madison Hoover. She’ll see you as soon as rounds begin. I guarantee it. She’s been on your case from the start.”

“How long?” John asks in a whisper, but he can see immediately that the nurse is uncomfortable answering anymore questions. He will have to deduce it for himself. Deduce? Who has said that before? Yes, John, I deduced it.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you do need your rest and it’s very early. Rounds aren’t for hours,” Eileen lets him have another drink of water. John’s lips curl up contentedly once he is finished and she puts the cup on the side table.

He has so many questions and concerns, but the cold water on his throat is like a magical relaxant and he actually does feel sleepy. In spite of this, John has absolutely no intention of sleeping. He has his own plans to find the answers to his questions. Strangely, he feels almost excited. It’s like a mystery that he must solve. Why does he feel like he has done that before? Not once, but many times over.

But not alone. I wasn’t alone.

“Try to sleep, John,” Eileen touches his hand gently. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

John nods, his head moving more than the previous times, and he thanks her. She smiles, goes to the door, and slips out.

**And that’s the first chapter. I’d love to know what y’all think and hope you enjoyed it. There’s more to come!**

@whodwantmeasaflatmate @swissmissing

#Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #sherlockholmes #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #season 4 #s4 fix

112 notes · View notes

imagines-so-what-if · 6 years

Text

I is for Impressing You

Headcanon and scenarios for Sherlock, Mycroft, and Moriarty

The prompt: How he tries to impress you.

Genre: Fwuff.

Rating: K+

Reader type: Quiet, patient, shy

SHERLOCK MASTERLIST

Headcanons for Sherlock trying to impress you.

Bby boy is all about trying to impress you with his deductions. It’s his pride and joy, after all!

He’ll absolutely put down others in front of you (especially Anderson).

“Were you born without a brain or did you lose it when s/he entered the room?”

“How that tiny little brain of yours is developed enough for you to speak is a scientific miracle.”

Will call everyone else but you an idiot.

Might unintentionally insult you by deducing you.

Loves explaining things to you. Even if you know the answer he’ll still enjoy telling it to you.

Embodiment of sass and sarcasm.

Will attempt to succeed in whatever interests you (for example if you’re big into cooking he’ll try to make an elaborate dish for you).

He’ll drag you along on his cases so you have more chances to be impressed by him.

Sherlock scenario

You hovered near the back of the crime scene beside John. You were technically a civilian so you really shouldn’t be there, but Sherlock had effectively dragged you along with him and John. Still, you didn’t want to accidentally contaminate evidence or cause an issue with the already irritated officers, so you tried to stay out of the way to the best of your ability.

Sherlock was kneeling beside the body, his eyes rapidly moving about as he examined it.

Without looking up he snapped, “Shut up, Anderson.”

The man who had walked into the crime scene just then halted. He was beside you so you could clearly see the flush of anger on his cheeks. “I haven’t even said anything!”

“I can hear your lecherous thoughts about Y/N. Remove yourself before you waste any more of the air here.”

At the word lecherous you blushed bright red in embarrassment. The man named Anderson stammered out, “I was not!”

You shuffled a couple steps away from him and he threw you a look of disbelief.

“Leave,” Greg sighed. “You’ll only rile him up.”

The man looked thoroughly offended and gave Greg a scathing look of disapproval, but he did turn around leave.

Greg turned to look at Sherlock and asked, “Well?”

“Solved it,” Sherlock said brusquely, abruptly standing back up. “Ridiculously easy, I’m sure you could figure it out on your own within a month or so.”

“So what happened?” You asked hesitantly.

Sherlock looked at you, fixing you with his sharp blue eyes. He took a deep breath and then launched into a huge monologue explaining how the victim was obviously killed by her sister. He listed such minor and seemingly unimportant clues but which all added up to the big revelation. You couldn’t help but be impressed by his deduction and you exclaimed at the end, “That’s amazing! You’re so brilliant, Sherlock.”

His lips twitched and he cocked his head. “Well, yes.”

“If this was so easy why did it catch your attention?” John asked, struggling not to grin at Sherlock.

Sherlock glared seethingly at him. “How could I have known it would be so alarmingly easy before coming here?”

“Well I mean you first rejected coming here and then all of a sudden Y/N shows up and suddenly it’s a fascinating case—”

“Your memory is failing you, Watson,” Sherlock snapped. “Case is solved, end of story.” Then he looked back over at you, blue eyes burning into your own. “You haven’t eaten yet, but you’re hungry. Let’s go.”

“O-Okay,” you managed to get out before Sherlock grabbed your hand and dragged you away again.

You could hear John and Greg’s laughter behind you.

Headcanons for Mycroft trying to impress you

Mycroft is subtle with how he impresses you. He’s not one for grand gestures or drama.

He already knows he’s an impressive man, and he’s certain you already know it, too.

That being the case there are times where he can’t resist showing off. For example he might play a strategy game against his brother or someone else you know of high intelligence (chess for example) and you ��coincidentally” walk in on him winning.

He’ll prepare elaborate meals for you and not tell you he made them until after you’ve already praised them.

He’ll subtly steer conversations so he can slip in some of his impressive feats.

He will without a doubt casually put down anyone he views as competition when you’re in earshot.

Backhanded compliments are his bread and butter for this.

“Oh, yes the report looks extremely put together considering it was done by a primary school child.”

“A truly fascinating story. You’ve almost been upgraded from imbecile to a vaguely interesting imbecile.”

“What a charming mind you have! Thinking for an instant s/he would take any sort of interesting in you. My, I wish I could experience such wild delusions like you.”

Mycroft scenario

You were returning home after a long day of errands, expecting to find it empty. To your delight, however, you saw the lights were on in Mycroft’s study. As soon as you entered your home you could smell something absolutely delicious dominate most of the house.

You wanted to go to the kitchen to see what new lovely creation Mycroft made, but you were more excited to see your husband.

With a skip in your heart you moved quickly through the halls, slowing down as you heard Mycroft’s voice along with someone else’s. It sounded like his brother, but that would have been odd. Sherlock didn’t typically visit Mycroft (if anything it was the other way around, or you playing messenger for them).

Still, stranger things have happened.

You walked in on the library, surprised to find that the lovely smell was also coming from it. You immediately spotted a decadent cake—your favorite kind!— and you felt your stomach sing praises at that.

“... Checkmate, brother mine.”

“Tt.”

Reluctantly, you looked away from the mouth-watering cake and over at Sherlock and Mycroft. The two were sitting opposite of one another at Mycroft’s gorgeous chess table. Sherlock was perched on the edge of the chair and looked, for all intents and purposes, like an angry kitten told it was time to take a bath. Mycroft on the other hand was perfectly at ease with a small bemused smile on his face.

Both men looked up at your entrance. Sherlock glaring and Mycroft’s eyes gleaming. “Welcome home, my dear.”

“Thank you,” you returned. “Sherlock, everything okay? You hardly come here.”

“A little wager, that’s all,” Mycroft smoothly answered on his brother’s behalf. “He lost, though, and now he has to pay up. The case file will be by the front door. Do you require assistance—?”

“I know where the front door is,” Sherlock snapped, standing up with grace and grabbing his coat off the back of the chair. He tilted his head towards you. “Good evening, Y/N.”

“Be safe going home,” you said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder as he brushed past you. Then you turned back towards Mycroft, gesturing towards the cake. “Whatever is the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing really,” Mycroft hummed, standing up from his chair and straightening out the nonexistent crinkles in his coat. “A new recipe. Care to try?”

“Mycroft I know it’ll be heavenly. You’re always such an amazing cook.”

“Of course, of course,” he demurred, “but can’t a man want to his impress you?”

You blushed, smiling shyly at him. “We’ve been married for five years, Mycroft...”

“Time won’t change my desire, my dear. I will always want to impress you.”

Headcanons for Moriarty trying to impress you

This guy is all about grand gestures.

He’ll buy you expensive things and fly you out to random and exotic places. He’ll arrange fireworks to cover the London sky; he’ll rent out an amusement park for a whole day (or more) for you; he’ll take you to ridiculously expensive places.

It’s easy to show off with money and it’s one of the few things he’s comfortable doing. Everyone has a price, right?

Still that won’t be enough. Sure you could be impressed with the wealth he’s accumulated but that doesn’t mean you’re impressed with him. He’ll show off his intellect at every chance he gets.

He’ll manipulate events and conversations to his benefit. He’ll want every interaction you have him with to leave you in awe.

He’ll base it off of your interests. Interested in writing? Coincidentally he’s published a few books. Like to cook? Oh, wow, guess who’s won a Michelin star. Big fan of whatever fandom? Guess who’s buying the franchise.

Everything he does and says will be over the top.

(If you’ve been with him long enough he’ll actually start to compete against himself over past actions to impress you.)

He will absolutely brag about his criminal achievements and particularly elaborate plots.

Moriarty scenario

It was still early on in your relationship with him. You’d been friends with Jim for a few years now, but your relationship was mostly through online messages. You hadn’t met him in person until a week ago when you moved to London.

It was actually rather odd. You were miraculously offered your dream job! And amazingly enough a crazy cheap (it was almost exactly as much as you could afford for a flat without having to live paycheck to paycheck) flat in a gorgeous neighborhood (frankly you didn’t believe the pricing given to you could really be it because it was so beautiful).

When you had moved into the new home (somehow a lot of your old stuff got destroyed by the movers on the way so they paid you ten times the price it was worth to replace so in addition you got brand new furniture that you sorely needed) you almost instantly got a message from Jim asking to meet in real life.

The meeting had been brief since you had to get ready for work—he met you at a cute little café near your new home—but absolutely delightful. The two of you instantly connected and you were enamored by his brilliant mind and charming wit.

You had only been able to meet up a few more times after that until tonight.

Tonight was first “proper” date with him.

Now you knew Jim was wealthy (he was upfront about that after the two of you became friends) but that didn’t matter to you. You liked Jim for his addicting personality and you loved talking with him.

Still, you were caught off guard by how crazy expensive the restaurant was that he had taken you. It was in the heart of London and everyone was elegantly dressed.

You felt oddly out of place there, but Jim was quick to put you at ease with his warm banter.

The two of you sat down at a small little table. It was lit by candlelight and the music and conversation swelled around you.

“What do you think?” he asked, leaning towards you across the table.

“I-It’s gorgeous. Certainly very busy though, isn’t it? They must be constantly booked,” you replied, looking around. Every table was filled, after all.

“Is it too loud for you? Too many people?”

It was a bit intimidating being surrounded by so many beautiful and obviously rich people, but you didn’t want to say that out loud. He was treating you, after all. It would be rude to speak ill of his choice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t—”

Moriarty smiled charmingly at you, a gleam in his eyes. Something about his gaze made your voice fall silent. With great care and grace he lifted up his wine glass and gently tapped his spoon against it. On the third chime everyone else in the restaurant fell silent.

Then in the next second they all got up and filed out. You watched them leave with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape. Within the minute the restaurant was entirely silent save for the sound of the candles flickering.

Moriarty watched you with that same smile on his face. “Better, my dear?”

“U-Um—wow.”

He winked. “Oh don’t say that so soon. I’ll give you a real reason for that praise later tonight.”

#Sherlock x reader #Sherlock headcanons #Sherlock scenario #Sherlock reader insert #sherlock imagine #Mycroft x reader #Mycroft headcanons #Mycroft scenario #Mycroft reader insert #mycroft imagine #moriarty x reader #Moriarty headcanons #moriarty scenario #moriarty reader insert #moriarty imagine #x reader #reader insert

682 notes · View notes

abadpoetwithdreams · 6 years

Text

Nirvana in Fire Episode 9 Reaction

In just one week I will be taking to the skies yet again, this time to go visit my dear friend ewokshootsfirst for two weeks! So as of this typing I hope to finish this reaction post before I depart, since I do not expect to get any writing done while I am away, but if I don't manage that feat then, um, sorry, and I guess you are reading this in early February instead of mid-January. (Note: GUESS WHAT it's February I literally resumed watching this ep as SOON as I was back in the US and dramafever stopped blocking my videos (I found out even saved-for-offline-viewing videos are unwatchable overseas the hard way, lol). I did write about half of this before my trip, but the rest is post. While very jetlagged.)

Episode nine begins with a focus on a sign that apparently reads Su Residence hanging over a doorway, so this is our cue that Mei Chang Su has, indeed, moved out of the Snow Cottage. Ironically, his new manor is covered with literal snow, as the fall from Jing Rui's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night has evidently not slowed, but never mind that. I hate that now whenever I see snow falling at night my first thought will be good time for a murder, btw. Thanks, Nirvana in Fire.

There are lots of workers bustling around carrying furniture and sweeping and mending things and doing other busy moving-house work, and in the midst of them in the middle of a snowy courtyard Fei Liu is building a snowman. Or at least he is piling snow up in a shape that might turn into a snowman. Maybe he is building a SnowMeng to destroy. Su is watching him fondly from beneath a sheltering jut of roof. When a man (might be Li Gang, hard to tell from this distance) tells Su he should go inside, because it is too cold for him out of doors (he looks very bundled up in this scene), he says okay and then immediately is like FEI LIU THROW ME A SNOWBALL which is the exact opposite thing to what he just agreed to, sighhhh. So he starts playing catch with Fei Liu in the snow, and it would be adorable because he looks so giddy and happy, but I'm with his household on this one, GET INSIDE AND GET WARM, MCS. Why do even the cute things on this hell show just make me sad??? A woman also scolds him and tells him to go inside (and again he says okay and doesn't budge, behold Actual Child Lin Shu, ladies and gentlemen), but then a fellow named Doctor Yan shows up, and he looks Serious. All it takes is a harrumph from the imposing-looking doctor, and Su guiltily, reluctantly, retreats indoors. This is an oddly charming scene, but of course in typical NiF fashion it's also terribly sad, because it isn't fair, our hero should be able to play in the snow and enjoy the chill air, and it's yet another reminder of how he is caged: in his invalid body, in his false face and persona, in his self-imposed quest for justice. Strangely enough, this scene reminds me of how Jing Rui described how carefree his friend Su was before they returned to the capitol together. For the first time, I can sort of imagine what that would have been like, and it is heartbreaking.

Young Master Lin Chen is so smart to have sent Doctor Yan over, Li Gang says with a smile, as he watches Su re-enter the house. Ahh, Lin Chen, the sword dancer! Nice to hear his name mentioned again, as I have not seen him since episode one and I quite liked him in that ep. Also a reminder that he was the one looking after Su's health, and it would seem that has not changed.

Meanwhile Minister Gao is happily pouring himself a relaxing cup of tea, cheerfully expounding upon how good he feels now that he has handed the murder well case off to the other ministry as Ban Ruo suggested. If he had kept working on that case any longer, he jokes, I'm afraid that this case might still be around but I wouldn't be. His audience, one of his subordinates, laughs politely and then says slightly apologetically that The magistrate of Lantai County seeks an audience. Gao reacts as poorly as might be expected, all happy relaxation feelings gone, but his officer hastens to reassure him that this is nothing like the murder well case. It is simply that people have spotted a beast on Xiaogu Mountain. Wait, what? That has to be relevant to the plot somehow but as of now it just seems really random. Gao says the other man should take care of it on his own, and expresses his fervent wish that no more cases implicating imperial officials pop up. I don't think he will get his wish; not as long as Mei Chang Su lives, anyway.

Now it is time to check in on what Yu is doing! A new character has arrived to meet with him: this is Minister Qi, and I thiiiink he is Yu's ally in the Ministry of Justice, because he reports that Minister Gao took Ban Ruo's hint and sent all case materials to the Ministry of Justice, and Yu responds by saying that now he knows that the case is in Qi's hands he no longer worries about anything. Minister Qi smiles way too much, it's creepy. Well, smile while you can, mister; I am certain MCS will come for you eventually! Qi reminds Yu that if they manage to take down Lou Zhi Jing then Yu will be able to hopefully install one of his supporters in the highly influential Minster of Revenue position, further growing his political power. Yu definitely knows this already, so this is just early-episode exposition to remind the viewer of where the stakes are in this situation.

Cut to: Mei Chang Su again, and AHH I LOVE THIS SCENE. Mainly because it introduces what is one of my favourite bits of MCS Extraness™ so far, namely, the game pieces. Yeah, that's what I want to call them: these wooden tiles carved with a lot of writing I obviously can't read. Are they supposed to be a visual nod to mahjong, with its eliminating pairs of pieces from the gameboard? (Since as is revealed in this scene, Su is balancing how he is crippling CP and Yu by taking out their allies in even matches?) Anyway, he is holding two of them meditatively, as he sits in his new manor, and when Meng shows up to ask what he is plotting (hi, Meng!), Su begins to lay out the rules of this deadly game he is playing with the powerful officials in government.

Yu and the Crown Prince are vying for the throne, says Su. We know this. He then goes on to elaborate, however: each prince has equal power over the six ministries of government. We already know CP has Revenue and Yu has Justice, but now we have confirmation that this equal balance exists. Meng, listening, suddenly frowns and stoops closer: there on the table are six wooden tiles, each painted with the name of a ministry. THE GAME IS AFOOT, WATSON. I LOVE THIS. It's both really cool, a very clever and dramatic visual way of helping the viewer keep track of what is surely about to become a very very complicated game of politics, but also just a little chilling to see Su literally reduce people in the capitol to pieces in his game. Is there a tile with Jing Rui's name on it because I wouldn't be surprised. Just disappointed.

Meng lays each piece out and says what each is, which I appreciate because dramafever wasn't subtitling the tiles themselves and for an instant I was worried I'd have to track down online translations for them (I have tried to avoid any and all googling related to this show because I'm terrified of spoilers). The Ministries are:

Justice, Personnel, and Public Works (Yu's team) Revenue, Justice, and Rites (CP's team)

Not sure why Justice is listed on both sides, unless they are different branches of it or something. Or just a subtitle thing again. Guess I'll find out as I go along.

Meng pauses, considering the tiles, and then looks up at Su, who has been watching him in silence. You are thinking about cutting off their supporters one by one? he asks, looking, I think, a bit concerned. Su smiles like this is a private joke, then replies that he isn’t just getting rid of the six ministries (JUST the six ministries, oh yeah, because obviously that would be underachieving), he is getting rid of our old friend the Duke of Qing (who has been haunting the doings on this show ever since the beginning of episode one!) and the Marquis of Ning as well. Military? Meng asks, and Su confirms. He is looking not just to destabilize the powers that be in government: he means to utterly tear them down. Lin Shu has come home to ruin the lives of everyone who wronged him and to raise up the righteous and guys I'm getting emotional about this I have to move on.

As we already know, the Marquis supports CP and the Duke of Qing supports Yu, keeping that balance of power equal. And now Su starts illustrating to Meng how he has started to tear his foes apart, all the while carefully keeping that balance so that they do not suspect: the Minister of Revenue, Lou Zhi Jing, is done for after the whole Orchid Garden scandal, taking out one person from team CP. And how does Su illustrate this? By picking up Revenue's tile, considering it for a moment, and then casually tossing it into the brazier so it can burn there and keep him warm. Lin Shu is my favourite drama queen, this is so unnecessary and yet so satisfying. BuRN THEM BURN THEM ALL

Furthermore, he reminds both Meng and us the viewers, the Duke of Qing has also been taken down, so that's one less ally for Yu. Su allows himself a tiny smile at this one, and then yep, into the brazier the tile goes. Prince Yu might still want to fight for his ally, though, says Su, and even more ironically he might come to Su for help in that fight. And then, with perfect comedic timing cutting the tension of this scene: in comes a servant announcing that Yu has just arrived for a visit. Meng is impressed by Su's predictive skills, but you can just see the animation leave Su's face, and indeed his entire body; he visibly sags, steeling himself. He may have anticipated the visit, but he is not happy about having to deal with Yu again. He was enjoying showing off to Meng, I think; enjoying being able to share his plans with a friend he can trust.

Meng says ah, I will go into hiding before Yu comes in, and I was honestly a bit disappointed he didn't just do the ol' lampshade over the head and stand in a corner bit or whatever the equivalent of that is in ancient fantasy China, but he exits to hide much more sensibly and now we cut to see Yu stepping down from his carriage at Su's door, and he is wearing this giant collar of almost blue fur, his outfit is exquisite. Oh, and we also see Su return his wooden tiles to where he stores them in a plain wooden box at his side, while meanwhile the Duke of Qing and Minister of Revenue are burning merrily away in the brazier. Still totally legible, by the way, but this doesn’t seem to worry Su so I won’t let it worry me either (but can you imagine how amazing it would be if Yu noticed, ahahaha).

They talk about the Duke of Qing case a little and Yu tries to act like, oh, that's all water under the bridge, no hard feelings. But then he makes a formal bow (!) and asks Su for help on the case! Father has already formally summoned Prince Jing today to appoint him in charge of trying the case, says Yu. Su does a very good fake surprise reaction at hearing this.

(We are also treated to a glorious little scene that basically just consists of the Minister of Justice scurrying to welcome Prince Jing to his office and praising Jing for his military service and commenting on what an honor it is to have him visit (lies) and not-so-subtly asking why are you here instead of resting on your time off from the battlefields? and then Jing turns around with icy deliberation and just fixes him and his sycophancy with the most deadpan, scathing Look, and WELCOME BACK JINGYAN I HAVE MISSED YOU SO)

Back at Su's house he asks Yu: didn't you or the Crown Prince protest Jing taking control of this case? Yu looks unhappy as he admits that the Emperor has forbidden them from getting involved, and further that whatever Jing decides will probably go in the Crown Prince's favor (since, remember, Yu's ally is in the wrong here, and Jing will always be fair). But Yu cannot do anything to interfere, or his dad would be very upset. He also admits that he is worried because he cannot bribe/influence that stubborn Prince Jing anyway LOL. That's my boy!

Su looks a little proud of that stubborn Prince Jing but he does remind Yu that Jing owes him a favor (for shielding him from punishment in the Ni Huang case). Yu just huffs a small, disparaging laugh at that:

You might not know what my seventh brother is like. I have never sen anyone in Imperial Court who is as thickheaded and behaves more like an old fogey. Not even father can handle him at times. I'm afraid that small favor isn't enough to make him obey me.

Priceless. Mei Chang Su, listening to Yu's analysis of Jing, looks increasingly amused, but manages to hold himself in check. He also fidgets a bit with his right hand (all these closeups of Hu Ge's hands are killing me btw I always love watching how people use their hands in film and his are so nice. Yes, I guess I have two fixations on this show: Su's hands and Jing's eyebrows.) which I guess is significant since the camera focuses on it but I don't know why. Maybe that's his tell when he's thinking hard, I'll have to pay more attention in future.

Su says So essentially you want me to somehow control Jing to make sure the Duke is spared punishment? Yu leans forward eagerly: that is exactly what he wants, and if Su can do it, Prince Yu will be extremely grateful. Su keeps fidgeting with that hand. Maybe it's more just a tell of when he wants to kill someone lol

Meanwhile, Jing is making the Minister of Justice's life miserable by reciting the protocol for the trial at him, demanding proper preparations be made, and announcing his Imperial-ordained authority over the trial. Qi tries to bluster and delay by saying he hasn't received any orders from the Emperor yet, so he cannot start doing what Jing says until he gets said orders! Jing blinks, taken aback a bit: I AM the Imperial order, I just told them to you right now, he says. That's not the same as actually seeing official paperwork, Qi simpers, and it's easy to see why he likes Yu, they are both super slimy. Look, Prince Jing, he says, in a very insincere show of apology, I wish I could start helping right away and it isn't like I WANT to make you look bad, it's just that official protocol says I cannot do what you say until I get the paperwork. Aw what a shame. Oh, and also I am already busy with many important cases and am understaffed etc. etc. so you might have to wait a while to get this case started anyway! Poor Jing looks very put out, but he cannot exactly argue. How long does Qi need to prep the case? he asks. Oh, not too many days, Qi replies. It should only take maybe two weeks? How does two weeks sound? I hate Qi. Jing considers, then steps forward. The official paperwork will arrive tomorrow, and I will return here then, he says. By then, think carefully before you answer me. And then he just WALKS like a BOSS out of there, knocking Qi deliberately aside with his shoulder as he goes and totally ignoring the Minister of Justice's attempts at speaking to him further. He's so sick of having to deal with this horrid little man already and he hasn't even properly started the job yet, poor Jing.

Back with Su and Yu: Su tells the prince that what he is asking for is a dead end path. When Yu is confused, Su explains: Yu is very powerful and has everything going for him but he has forgotten the most important rule: that there is one person against whom you must never set yourself, namely, the Emperor. Yu leaps to his feet, alarmed. What? Su is mistaken; he would NEVER go against his father's will! This is a big deal not just because obviously one must not cross one's emperor, but also the emperor is Yu's father so doing anything against him is a huge crime against his filial responsibility as well as his political allegiance. No wonder Yu has such a violent reaction to Su accusing him of such an act.

Our Mei Chang Su, however, is unfazed. Who do you think demanded that Qing be tried to begin with? he asks Yu. Do you think it was the Crown Prince or Jing? No; it was the Emperor, and thus if you try to interfere with the outcome of the trial in anyway you are setting yourself against not one of your brothers but against the Emperor himself. DO look at the big picture, Yu.

Yu sinks back down, shaken. Is there really no solution? Yu asks. Su shakes his head: The Duke of Qing is a lost cause, he says, and I think Your Highness knows it. (This is intercut with the Duke of Qing and his family being dragged out of their house in chains, to emphasize just how Doomed he is.) Yu takes a bracing gulp of tea and says he does not think Su understands just how important Qing is to him. Oh, I do, says Su, with a slight chuckle (you have NO idea, Yu). Yu starts to question why Su left the Marquis' manor so quickly: surely there must be a reason? Su dodges the question, and Yu backs off a little disappointed, but then vows that as long as you are willing to favor me, the gates of my manor will always be open for you. Su doesn't exactly look thrilled by this promise, but that's just what he gets for his deceptions working so well. I'm pretty sure in the novel I remember him literally throwing up after spending time talking with Yu because Yu nauseates him literally that much, so I like imagining that that expression is just his fighting not to hurl face. All of Mei Chang Su and Yu's conversations are made even better by just keeping in mind that Su is spending them fighting not to literally vomit.

We meet yet another new character: Lie Zhan Ying, Jing's adjudant general! He works with Jing so I automatically like him. He also has something of Jing's straightforward, no-nonsense mannerisms, which is a nice way to remind us of the divide between the political and the pugilist lifestyles, I love all the attention to detail in this show. Ying has arrived at whichever political building is holding the plaintiffs in the Duke of Qing case, to collect them and bring them to Jing's manor. The official who meets him at the door is wholly obliging, in stark contrast to Minister Qi's attitude towards Jing earlier. This official also mentions that the Crown Prince sent a message saying Prince Jing is going to all this trouble, so we mustn't hinder him. He also mentions how We are all working for the Emperor here, so basically Mei Chang Su was 100% correct in his advice to Yu and Yu has dodged a bullet by taking his advice and not trying to mess with the case. His meddling would have been VERY obvious and would have made him look VERY bad.

We return to Su and Yu, the former of whom is apparently walking the latter out. Yu takes a moment to ask if there is any further advice that Mei Chang Su wishes to impart? In my opinion, replies the very innocent and unbiased Divine Talent, it's best for Your Highness to abandon Duke of Qing State now and support Prince Jing. YOU SNEAKY CAD I LOVE YOU. (Sidenote: I forget if I mentioned this before, but the lighting work in this drama is delightful. This scene, for example, looks so very cold even without the clouds of breath curling up when the actors speak, it's lit so everything and everyone looks so frozen and sharp and blue. I'm yelling at my screen for Su to go put that gorgeous fur collar back on, even Yu is wearing his furs for goodness' sake, BEHAVE, LIN SHU.)

Yu is taken aback but considers. Jing is a prince, he says, and is acting under Imperial decree. No one, therefore, would think to stand against him; what does he need Yu's support for? Okay, so he has seemingly conveniently forgotten that that is EXACTLY what HE was planning to do just a few minutes ago. After a moment he grudgingly concedes that Minister Qi miiiiiiight stall things a bit, but that is all. Su, who totally eye rolled when Yu played innocent, shakes his head with a smile. Certainly Jing might need the support of the Ministry of Justice for the case, he says, but he isn't just talking about this mess with Qing. He is talking of all the days to come. And I start cackling at the look on Yu's serious duped face because I swear, if Mei Chang Su successfully tricks Prince Yu into supporting Prince Jing and aiding in his ascension to power, I will laugh myself SICK. THIS IS SO GOOD.

Su calmly explains that there will be more cases to be tried after Qing, and many of them will undoubtedly involve powerful families and wealthy landowners like the Duke. How could Prince Jing handle that alone? If Prince Yu were to throw his political weight behind Jing, then not only would Jing truly owe him on a scale that he could not ignore, but the Emperor would also be pleased because this would help him in implementing his agricultural policy. It is a win-win, Yu! Listen to the Divine Talent!

Sooo . . . you are having me draw Prince Jing over to my side? Yu asks slowly. My cackling intensifies.

Yep, that is correct, Su says, and with a touch of smugness: I have been planning this since the Ni Huang incident.

Yu is most impressed. He presses Su to tell him what the point of this strategy is. Su answers easily: What is the fuss about losing the Duke of Qing State? In terms of military power would two Dukes of Qing State even make up for one Prince Jing? OH, BRILLIANT. When presented like that, it make SO much sense! If you can get Jing on your side everyone is always on about his stubbornness and his lack of subtlety, so he would be the ideal ally. Plus, everyone (Yu and CP included) keep overlooking him because he has zero political power. But he has spent his entire adult life building military power. So of COURSE he would be more valuable a military ally than Qing! LIN SHU I LOVE YOU. AGAIN.

Prince Yu spends a full ten seconds silently having his mind blown (yes, I timed them, because his myriad of baffled/astonished/delighted expressions was HILARIOUS to watch, all hail this actor) but he emerges out the other side with a giddy smile. If I could win Prince Jing over, that would be great! He exclaims excitedly, before sobering a little to add that but judging by his temperment he wouldn't obey my orders to summon the army when I need him. LOLOL I WANT TO SEE THAT AU PLEASE.

Again, Su looks pretty amused by this read on Jing's character. He reminds Yu, however: why on earth would Yu ever need an army? Is he planning on taking the throne by force? WHAT? NO THAT IS CRAZY TALK, says a very worried Yu. That's right, Su. Play him like a fiddle.

We interrupt this scene to enjoy a temper tantrum being thrown by good ol' CP, who is raging about how Yu has essentially done in Lou Zhi Jing. Fine, then, he shouts, I will make certain he loses the Duke of Qing, too! And thus he is following neatly the path Su has laid out for him, effectively disguising the hand of Mei Chang Su in all this. The Marquis, much calmer (he always worries me, he is too clever), says CP doesn't have to worry about the Duke; even if Yu dared try to meddle in the trial, Prince Jing wouldn't back down. The Duke is doomed. Similarly, though, the Marquis points out, Lou Zhi Jing is also definitely going to be convicted of his various disgusting crimes. This means that the position of Minister of Revenue will soon be vacant! If CP acts fast, he can recommend one of his allies to the position before Yu can and thus can take control of that political seat and tip the scales in his favor. CP is mollified by this, but then goes on to scoff at the Marquis' urging that he not be anxious:

As long as Mei Chang Su exists how can I possibly remain calm? No matter where he moves to, you have to get rid of him!

Uh, oh. The Crown Prince storms off and the Marquis does not look unduly bothered by the order. Ugh, Jing Rui, you deserve so much better but your father is a toad.

Back with Yu and MCS, Su is continuing to remind Yu of his place. In the capital His Majesty is in charge of the Palace Guards. Commander General Meng watches over the palace. Should anything go wrong, who would have the chance to launch an attack once the Imperial decree was made? Yu looks so intensely uncomfortable. You're right, he admits to Su. Su reminds him the goal now should be to gain the Emperor's favor.

As to who gets military support, it's just a matter of perspective. What's the point of having [Jing] obey your every word? Even if we were to say at the least that should Crown Prince one day seek to hatch an evil plot and put His Majesty in danger, or to go against his decree, judging from Prince Jing's personality would he wait to be summoned by you to defend His Majesty?

Yu thinks this over, sighs, and agrees. Prince Jing prides himself on being righteous, he says disapprovingly. Oh, Yu. Su reminds him that helping Jing doesn't mean doing anything grandoise, just--be friendlier. It seems I will have to pay a visit to Prince Jing's manor tomorrow for your sake, Su says. He explains basically that Jing is super dumb when it comes to politics and so he must himself intercede to Jing on Yu's behalf to let him know what's up, otherwise Jing probably wouldn't even recognize any favors Yu does for him. Su is so mean when talking about Jing, he must love him very much. Also, this is hilarious that he has justified his comings and goings to Jing's manor to his enemy like this, so now when Yu sees Su with Jing he will just be happy and think they are working for him, while they are all the while working together to burn him down. Yu even bows to Su in gratitude, thanking him for his hard work, and if Yu wasn't such a hateful snake of a man I would feel very sorry for him right now. But he is, so I don't. Plus Su's blank, dead-eyed expression as he accepts this wholly misplaced gratitude has me laughing. He looks like he is 0.0005 seconds away from just turning to the camera and breaking the fourth wall like he's on The Office. Yu also pledges to be personally responsible for Su's safety, no matter what CP and the Marquis try. How many birds has Su killed with this one stone of a conversation? Lots of birds.

Yu magnanimously says Su does not have to walk him out, as he is an invalid and it is still very cold and wet; melting snow or rain or both has been dripping from the rafters of these scenes for quite some time now. Su watches him depart, and then Li Gang rushes up with The Fur and it's like the sight of the thick cloak reminds Su that he is cold; where moments before he had been holding himself with perfect ease around Yu, he now shivers and clutches the cloak close. I am very grateful to Li Gang for taking care of my boy. I wonder if Su deliberately ordered his men not to give him any warm wraps until after Yu left, for appearance's/pride's sake. The two men return inside, and Su explains to a wondering Li Gang that he had to spend a very long time talking with Yu because Yu is difficult to deal with: he is very meticulous. Interesting.Whenever Su admits anyone is a challenge to manipulate I feel like I'm marking off this character checklist in my head: knowing that Su feels he has to tread carefully when speaking with Yu, for example, will add a nice layer of tension in their future meetings.

What is heartbreaking about this conversation is it is one of the few times we have so far where Su really does seem to be at his limit. He just seems so very tired--mentally from the intricate net he had to weave to catch Yu in, emotionally from having to pretend to be so cordial and mild-mannered around Yu when probably all he wants to do is stab Yu in the eye repeatedly (or, like, shoot him in the eye with an arrow, I suppose, wasn't it mentioned that Lin Shu's weapon of choice was the bow? A super awesome choice, by the way, as it is yet another shade of character depth: our hero's specialty was ranged weaponry and now here he is in the thick of the action in the capitol having to deal with all his enemies up close and personal. Just a fun little note), and physically because of the whole, you know, not-so-slowly-dying thing. Let the man rest! Where did that grumpy doctor go??

And, alas, Mei Chang Su cannot take the time to rest. Already he is moving onto the next stage of his plan: he tells Li Gang as they walk along (with Li Gang carefully supporting his boss, I am so grateful for this man) that he needs to visit Prince Jing tomorrow. Oh, and that he will also be bringing some golden chainmail. Whaaaat? Is it going to be dangerous? a very alarmed Li Gang exclaims. Su indulges first in a solid couple seconds of flat, disappointed staring, and then with a most massive eyeroll and silent sigh before he begins explaining, poor exhausted man. This is why he needs someone like Ni Huang on his side, someone similarly brilliant to himself and capable of making the same intellectual leaps he does, so that he does not have to constantly be explaining himself all the time. He just looks and sounds so Done.

The chainmail is to be a gift for little Ting Sheng, he says. That's super cute. But Li Gang disapproves, saying such a gift will be too suspicious coming from the East Yangtze Alliance leader. True, true. But it is odd that Su had not considered that; another sign seemingly of how worn thin he is right now. He asks Li Gang what he should do then (again, odd that he is asking someone else's advice, I cannot recall him doing that before??) but before Li Gang can come up with an alternative (he looks pretty stumped) Su calls Fei Liu (who was chilling on the rooftop, as one does) and tells him he will be giving a gift to Ting Sheng tomorrow. When Li Gang starts trying to comment on this plan, stating and restating the obvious about how Fei Liu is so eccentric no one will think such a valuable gift weird, Su juSt LIFTS his hand without even looking to coVER LI GANG'S MOUTH MID-SENTENCE, silencing him, and then he has the gall to look grumpily at his hand and SHAKE it like "EEW" BEFORE WALKING OFF he is so DONE LIN SHU IS DONE WITH TODAY HIS PEOPLE WOULDN'T LET HIM PLAY IN THE SNOW AND THEN HE HAD TO SPeND HOUrs PRETENDING TO LIKE PRINCE YU AND HE JUST HATES EVERYTHING I LOVE HIM SO MUCHHHH. WHAT AN ICON.

Then we get a hilarious scene where Minister Qi happily reports to Yu that he stalled Jing and sent him away earlier and it was so easy because Jing is a political idiot hohohoho and then Yu steps forward menacingly and is all Who told you to make him leave? and Qi suddenly realizes with a look of absolute horror that he did the Wrong Thing and it's beautiful. This show is so sad and so intense and so emotionally complex and then it every so often just turns into this terrific comedy of errors (that scene with the two princes madly competing for Su's attention at the combat trials always comes to mind as a brilliant example of this) and its so? Funny? This show is a GIFT.

Cut to the Marquis of Ning's manor at night, presumably that night! He has a headache. His son in law--Jing Rui's brother-in-law but also maybe Actual Brother because this family is so messed up, the pugilist dad son whose name I forget--shows up to report that he has sent out some men. Are you confident this time? asks the Marquis. Based on earlier goings on I'm guessing this is yet another attempt on the Divine Talent's life. Over at Su's manor, he is trying to convince a very disapproving Fei Liu that golden chainmail is a good present for Ting Sheng. Once he explains that Ting Sheng is not as good a fighter as Fei Liu and thus chainmail is something he will both like and actually find useful, Fei Liu is sold, and as always I really enjoy this scene between just the two of them, but then they hear a commotion. Go ahead, Su tells a suddenly alert Fei Liu, who darts off. Su then deliberately starts reading a book and ignoring the various sounds of fierce combat coming from outside, lol. Or at least trying to ignore; he's probably just trying to distract himself since he can't go join in. Li Gang eventually reports that all intruders were killed, so so much for the Marquis' second assassination attempt!

Next day we see Su stepping down from a carriage at the gates of Jing's manor. The Sad Music is back and he's got that awful heartbreaking Look on his face again--the one he had when Ni Huang led him to his old house, the one he had when royal grandma ripped my heart out. So I immediately am like OH NO and I try to brace myself for something soul-crushing. But you know what I have learned? You cannot brace yourself for any of the pain this show inflicts. If Nirvana in Fire wants you to hurt, then by golly you are going to HURT, and there is nothing you can do to prevent that.

Because we suddenly get a freaking FLASHBACK. A FLASHBACK YOU GUYS. We haven't had any flashbacks before except to the battle where Lin Shu fell off that cliff!!! And now out of NOWHERE we see a 17-yr-old Jing SMILINGGGGGGG ANd LIN SHU IS WITH HIM AND LIKE IT'S SO CUtE I CAN'T THEY'RE RuNNING UP tHE STePS TO THE GATe AND NOOOOOOOO

AND WANG KAI'S V.O. SOuNDS SO DIFFERENT FROM HIS USUAL JING VOICE It'S SO HAPPY???? MY BOYS WERE HAPPY THEY WERE FREAKING BEST FRIENDS I KNEW IT I kNEW IT and LIN SHU WWAS SO CUUUUUTE LOOK AT THEMMMMM

(Also like they're wearing the same colors so I love that visually, obviously, but also lol Lin Shu changed his WHOLE physical appearance somehow to disguise himself but his clothing is EXACTLY the same what a loser)

So the gist of the V.O. is that my fave boys were each other's fave boys too and Jing got this mansion when he was just 17 and eagerly assured Lin Shu that as far as he is concerned it is Lin Shu's as well because Shu is is best friend and what is his is theirs as far as he is concerned and omg someone make these tears stop

(ALSO he mentions that Prince Qi was the one who found the place for him! How much older was Qi than these two when he died? My impression is old enough to be the impressive cool role model but young enough that they felt personally close to him too. I'm gonna guess mid-20s????)

The flashback ends with the camera lingering to watch the shades of these two laughing, affectionate, bright-faced boys running side by side through the gate and up to the house, running away from us, as we can do nothing but watch them rush blithely forward, knowing what horrible, unfair futures await them. It's so mean, and so effective. I LOVE it. I'm also left shaken not only by the unexpected glimpse of what Lin Shu and Jing's past lives were like and what they both have lost, but by the certainty that this short flashback must surely mean there are MORE flashbacks coming in future and OH NO but also OH yES GIVE ME ALL THE PAIN.

We return to present-day Lin Shu, who is standing gazing up those stairs, watching his past self disappear. This place hasn't changed at all, he says, quietly. It's just like how it was back then. MY HEART.

And now here comes Jing to greet his guest. He bows coldly but politely, and Mei Chang Su pays his respects too. I am in agony. Ting Sheng is very cute and bows all the way to the ground for Su, his savior, and Su helps him up with a smile and he's so sweet with kids you guys

Ting Sheng really lights up when he sees Fei Liu, who proudly bestows his gift on the kid. When Jing realizes what the gift is, he bristles and tries to give it back to Su, saying it is too valuable a present. And Su, wholly innocently, says the gift isn't from him, for goodness' sake, it is from Fei Liu, so go talk to him about it instead! Poor Jing is so confused by this, clearly unsure of how to deal with Fei Liu. The latter of whom promptly snatches the chain mail back from Jing's hands and plops it firmly back in Ting Sheng's arms. Su watches, not even bothering to hide his amusement, and Jing after a moment's inward struggle gives up and invites Su inside, effectively allowing Ting Sheng to keep the chainmail after all. Point to Mei Chang Su! The boys scamper off to play together or fight together or whatever and their fake dads head inside for their own meeting.

(Jing's outfit is especially beautiful today, btw. I missed you, Wang Kai.)

Jing introduces Su to his guard as his friend Su Zhe, and then the two of them retreat further to Jing's private study. Along the way, Su is plainly eating up the place with his eyes, these halls must be full of ghosts for him. He pauses to look out over a courtyard, and Jing pauses too, to confess that all those men they spoke with had been present when Su's arrival was announced: they had wanted to see the famous Su Zhe for themselves. So we took a detour? Su supplies, with mild good humor. Jing's subtly changing expressions here are a marvel: slight embarrassment at being found out, relief that Su is not affronted, a momentary glance of reevaluation like he is sizing up Su again, and then even a small smile as he relaxes just a little. Is our favourite prince warming up to the Divine Talent a little? Time will tell, I suppose! But this tiny exchange is certainly the closest thing to friendliness that has passed between these two so far, and contrasted with that flashback it's like a punch to the gut. Also, the MUSIC. The Sad Music is playing again, but it's being played by a flute or whistle or something instead of the deep strings that usually play it, so it feels tremulous and hopeful instead of melancholic and that makes it even worse and also sooooo much better. Once again, I take a moment to rage at how this OST isn't available to buy anywhere that I can find.

Anyway, they get to the study and it's very sweet how Jing notices Su looks unwell and inquires after his comfort and calls for one of his men to bring in more braziers to heat the room when Su says he is cold because remember Jing doesn't even LIKE Su. He is just a Good Boy. He also congratulates Su on his recent move, because apparently Mu Qing is a gossip and told Jing all about it, ahaha. Su tells Jing the reason for his visit is to express goodwill on behalf of Prince Yu: Jing will now be able to run the trial of the Duke of Qing without any difficulties. Okay, but that is what I was going to do anyway, says Jing, because of course he does. Su wryly asks whether Minister Qi had been helpful? It doesn't matter if he has, Jing responds, stubbornly unfazed. Whether he cooperates or not the case will still be tried the way it should be. He is so totally out of his depth, bless his heart. Su looks so--not happy, but lighter. Jing's unshakeable, forthright virtue must be so refreshing. The contrast between his demeanor in this conversation and his frayed-thin, irritable behavior the previous day is very obvious.

Meanwhile, Ting Sheng is proudly giving Fei Liu a tour of his new home. They go to the military training ground, where Ting Sheng says he spends most of his time. Sometimes even Prince Jing himself comes to train him, he says, and ugh that is the cutest mental image ever. Fei Liu snorts: Jing is a poor fighter, he tells his erstwhile student, in a tone that implies he thinks Ting Sheng deserves better, and Ting Sheng doesn't even defend Jing, he just grins in agreement because if Fei Liu says it then it MUST be true. I adore these kids' friendship and pray nothing bad happens to them in future. It's weird and cute and sort of sad seeing how simple their lives are, largely oblivious to all the machinations all around them and even involving them.

Li Gang, however, tries to hush Fei Liu and remind him to be respectful, and Fei Liu of course responds by elaborating: even General Meng is better than Prince Jing! (Somewhere, Meng probably feels suddenly cheerful and doesn't know why.) Li Gang tries to do more damage control, so Fei Liu continues on: I'm the best, he says. It isn't even bragging, he just says it like it is the obvious truth. One of Jing's commanders overhears this and looks very annoyed by it, to put it mildly. Uh, oh.

Back in Jing's study, Mei Chang Su is quizzing him about how he views the case. Jing lays out how he has examined the evidence and it's simple in his eyes: the Duke is obviously guilty. Su plays a sort of game with Jing by playing devil's advocate and tossing a variety of excuses and loopholes at him and Jing manages to thwart them all: the Duke is guilty, and justice will be served. Su is impressed and very proud of his (former????) friend. Then Su lays out some BRILLIANT advice to Jing: basically, Jing is going to continue to judge over cases that involve wealthy landowners, right? And a lot of them will be guilty of the same crimes as the Duke. But Su says Jing should be careful not to punish them all the same way, even if their criems are the same. Why? Because if they were all punished the same, they would feel commonly wronged by the Emperor and might form an alliance against him, united by a shared anger. If there is no apparent pattern to the severity of the punishment, however, then the landowners will be jealous of/suspicious of each other, and will be focused more on comparing their lot with that of their neighbors', and they will not be unified. BRILLIANT, I SAY. Jing agrees with the wisdom in this plan. Su recommends he lets off some of Yu's guilty allies lightly as a way of saying thanks to Yu for his support. Jing frowns: Yu should be fighting to save the Duke of Qing right now. Why is he instead helping Jing take down his own ally? You are now very important to him, Su smiles, slightly sarcastically. Jing mulls this over. This is all thanks to you, he tells Su. And he should thank him, but . . . Jing does not want people to think that he is friends with or supporting Prince Yu. He doesn't want to side with either of his terrible brothers. Su tries to assure him that people will understand, but Jing is not appeased.

What others might think is not my concern, he clarifies. However, the spirits of heroes still linger. I don't want them to think that I have finally surrendered to the others.

Su tries to comfort him: Since they were once heroes, they will know who you truly are. Jing does not look convinced in the slightest. HOW has he survived all these years surrounded by enemies and ghosts, never able to forget either?

Su stands up and paces the room a little to try to ease some stiffness and numbness in his legs, and then he approaches a bow that is displayed on its own plinth in the room and this is it, even after the flashback, THIS is the moment of this episode that kills me. Because immediately my whole brain is just OMG THAT MUST BE LIN SHU'S BOW FREAKING JING HAS KEPT IT ALL THIS TIME

Su reaches out to touch it, and Jing, who had been concerned about Su's discomfort because he is a Good Boy, immediately SNAPS at him: Don't touch it! Su freezes. Jing leaps to his feet. Badpoet dies.

Su almost whispers his apology, and Jing approaches him, with a very visible hitch in his breathing as he tries to settle himself after his sudden alarm and impulsive reaction. He looks as though he is fighting down the adrenaline rush of only barely avoiding a tragedy. Perhaps he did. But shaken as he is he also looks a little sorry for yelling harshly at his invalid guest. Jingmum raised him right.

Jing tries to explain, his eyes drawn to the bow almost as if against his will: Please don't take it to heart. This once belonged to my late friend. When he was alive, he never liked to have his belongings touched by strangers. Oh, my gosh, he isn't even so protective of this weapon because it is important or of sentimental value to HIM, it's because Lin Shu hated people touching his stuff, and Jing is a Good Friend, a Best Friend, and Su's face, hidden from Jing, looks like he, like Jing, is remembering for a moment this kid who cared about dumb stuff like that, this kid who was Jing's best friend and who is now dead, who lived a life happy enough that such small things could MATTER to him, and then he swallows hard, and bows to Jing, and apologizes for his rudeness, and this is It I CAN'T I CAN'T WHAT IS THIS SHOW HOW HAS IT MADE ME CARE SO MUCH IN JUST NINE EPISODES HOW CAN IT POSSIBLY DRAG ME DOWn FARTHER IN LIKE FIFTY MORE HOW DID ANy OF YOU WHo HAVE WATCHED THE ENTIRE THING EMERGE BREATHING ON THE OTHER SIDE

(Somewhere there exists a happier timeline where Jing tells Mei Chang Su not to touch the bow because Lin Shu hated strangers touching his stuff and Su says okay and then makes his most trollish eye contact with Jing and deliberately starts touching the bow as much as he dang well pleases and that is how Jing finds out Lin Shu and Mei Chang Su is the same person the end)

Meanwhile, a decent distance away from all this misery and bro-angst, the indignant commander at the training grounds is demanding who Fei Liu is since he thinks he is good enough to insult Jing. I'm Fei Liu, the boy replies, as if that is all the answer necessary, and as it turns out--it is! Another of Jing's men recognizes the name as the fighter who arrived with the Lord of the East Yangtze Alliance. The one who defeated Xia Dong and held his own against Meng! Yep, that's me, Fei Liu affirms. Everyone looks very impressed. We also get a scene with Fei Liu taking out some challengers to show off his skills to Jing's men, best moment being where he grabs two men charging at him by the spers they are wielding and just smashes them onto the ground, aha. He's escalating the situation, basically. I wonder if Su was counting on that to happen.

Also meanwhile, at the palace, Yu and CP are arguing in front of the Emperor about who to make the new Minister of Revenue and oh this levity is SO NEEDED my soul is revived by CP's indignant squeak at Yu and the Emperor's fed up You have been arguing for more than an hour now LOL I swear at least half the Emperor's scenes so far have just been him watching his sons squabble. I would feel bad for the Emperor, except for what he did to Jingmum, so I don't. He deserves this. Also I guess he is also somewhat responsible for whatever ruined Lin Shu's life so he doubly-deserves this. He dismisses the princes, who walk out very quickly after glaring at each other sidelong. I would so not be surprised if the instant they are out of sight they start pulling each other's hair or pinching each other or whatever. They fight like preschoolers.

After they are gone, some random official starts telling the Emperor that the princes had the right to express their opinions like that as the question of who will take the position of Minister of Revenue is a very important and pressing one. The Emperor concedes that point but also angrily indicates the massive stack of names in front of him on his table: he has too many people to choose from! The official says someone named Shen Chui is acting as interim Minister of Revenue so he can hold down the fort for now, don't worry about it. The Emperor suddenly narrows his eyes, interested. Shen Chui? he repeats. Aaaaand--end of episode!

A weird ending, but I remember reading somewhere that these episodes aired two at a time, so with that in mind it makes more sense. I don't know why the Emperor is interested in this name, but I know I will find out next time. In the meantime I'm still reeling from all the Jing and MCS goodness in this episode. I missed Jingyan the last couple episodes but he came back with a vengeance for this one, and I am SO excited for wherever the show is taking him and his weird relationship with Su-who-is-secretly-Shu. Terrified, yes, but also EXCITED. Next episode is episode 10 and I am officially in the double digits! Nine episodes of emotional trauma down, sooooooo many more to go. BRING IT.

#nirvana in fire #badpoet watches nif #nif ep9 #badpoet watches #long post #cdramas

37 notes · View notes

v-thinks-on · 4 years

Text

The Small Agra Treasure

Day 17 of Holmes for the Holidays

Previous | Next

Today’s Prompt: The secret adventures of Mary Morstan (from Wordwielder).

Note: There were some technical difficulties with Tumblr yesterday that prevented me from posting, so today is going to be a double-header.

It was around tea time. Mrs. Mary Watson was in the sitting room, reading and sipping at a cup of tea when she heard a sharp rapping at the door. The maid went to answer it, and Mary put aside her novel and stood to greet their visitor - no doubt a patient looking for her husband, who was at the moment out on his rounds, but would return soon.

To her surprise, a young woman strode into the sitting room and took Mary’s hands.

“Liza!” Mary exclaimed with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Won’t you come away with us for the week?” Liza asked. “Will and I are visiting some friends of his in the countryside again, and I can’t bear to go alone. He insisted I come, but they want nothing to do with women there. If you join us, we two can make some sport of our own and maybe you’ll give me the courage to talk some sense into him. I know he means well, but he can be so daft sometimes.”

“Of course! It can be just as lonely in London as the countryside, this way we’ll both have some company. Let me leave a note for John and I’ll pack my bags.”

It was with some girlish excitement that they hurried upstairs to the bedroom, where Mary threw some dresses into a suitcase, and then they were off with but a moment’s notice on what, to Mary, was an impromptu adventure.

***

“I really don’t know what to do, Mary,” Liza said as they sat side by side in a cab on their way to the station. “I’m at my wit’s end! Will puts on a brave face, but I can see he just doesn’t want to worry me about it. I’m afraid any day now we’ll be turned out onto the street. If only I was the benefactor of some mysterious treasure, but the closest my father has gotten to buried treasure is the cellar.”

"I would offer you a pearl, but I fear the Agra treasure is scattered in the Thames," Mary said with a comforting hand on her friend's arm.

"I know. And I wouldn't ask you to part with it. I could just do with a little treasure of my own." Liza let out a sigh and both women leaned back in their seats, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, Mary exclaimed, “Liza! Perhaps the Agra treasure is not entirely lost! Mr. Small dumped the chest into the Thames, but what if not all of the treasure was in the chest. We know Mr. Bartholomew Sholto had a miserly vein, like his father. Is it not conceivable that he had already hid away some of the treasure, especially if he knew his brother wanted to share it?”

“If he had hidden it away, how would you begin to know where to look?” Liza asked, barely able to conceal her excitement at the prospect.

“If his father found it fit to hide it for so long in Pondicherry Lodge, I don’t see why his son would be any different.”

“Oh, it would be wonderful! Just imagine it! What would you do with all those jewels? The men wouldn’t miss us, you know.”

“I suppose we could pay Mr. Thaddeus Sholto a visit,” Mary said with a smile.

“Take us to Pondicherry Lodge,” Liza instructed the cabby. “Oh, this is so exciting! Like a treasure hunt right out of a novel!”

“John has been saying he’ll write up our adventure with Mr. Sherlock Holmes one day, perhaps we can give him an epilogue.”

“Perfect!” Liza declared.

They chatted eagerly about the romantic prospect of treasure all the way to their destination. At last they sent the cabby with their luggage on to the station and made their way up to the doors of the grand house. In the bright light of day, it did not look like the house of tragedy Mary had visited on that fateful night, but it was still with some trepidation that she knocked upon the door.

Thaddeus Sholto’s Indian servant led them inside to meet the new master of the house. There was now no doubt to whom it belonged. What had once been ill-kept and threadbare was now covered in rich curtains and tapestries, intercut with paintings and vases. The contents of Mr. Sholto’s cramped oasis in the heart of London comfortably spread out to cover the large house.

Mr. Sholto himself met them in the sitting room, still as nervous as ever, repeating everything he said at least twice, if not more. “Mrs. Watson, what a pleasure. It’s so good of you to come. What brings you here?”

“My friend and I were discussing that ill-fated Agra treasure and I could not but wonder if perhaps there were a few jewels that had escaped falling into the Thames after all, and we just had to know for sure,” Mary explained.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in nervous excitement.

“Do you think it might be possible that your poor brother managed to hide some jewels away before Mr. Small took the chest?”

Mr. Sholto leaped to his feet. “That would be just like him! Oh, he must have! We must search the entire house!”

“Do you know where he might have hid them?” Mary attempted to pre-empt Mr. Sholto from tearing the house apart.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Wasn’t the treasure found in some sort of secret attic?” Liza asked. “Or maybe he buried it on the grounds.”

“No, no, no. He can’t have buried it, and the attic room was searched so thoroughly after the treasure was stolen.”

“Well, maybe there’s some clue up there,” Mary suggested. “After all, they weren’t looking for a few hidden jewels.”

“Maybe you’re right. We must see for certain!” Mr. Sholto exclaimed and led them up into the living quarters of the house without any further ado.

Mary and Liza exchanged excited smiles as their treasure hunt began in earnest.

The room had once been a chemical laboratory, but had since been converted to a storage room.

“I can hardly bear to come in here after the terrible tragedy,” Mr. Sholto explained. “I would have never thought to search, but you must be right!”

He opened the secret door to the little attic and the ladies scrambled inside. They examined the walls, the floorboards, the ceiling. Between the three of them they must have checked every inch at least twice by the time they gave up in defeat and at last descended back into the house proper.

“I could have sworn you were onto something, Mary,” Liza said, as they sat in the storeroom catching their breath. “But it has been fun treasure hunting.”

Mary nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. “Once the little attic was discovered, it’s the first place anyone would look, isn’t it?”

Liza nodded.

“That doesn’t make it a very good hiding spot. Maybe he put the jewels somewhere else. He could have stowed them away in here, near where he was keeping the treasure. With the treasure there, no one would spare a thought to look anywhere else.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Liza said and stood as she started to get her second wind.

Mr. Sholto called his servant to help them move the boxes and furniture as they combed through the room.

Suddenly, Liza exclaimed, “I found something!”

The others helped her pry open a floorboard and buried underneath was a small satchel, heavy for its size. Mr. Sholto did the honor of drawing out the contents; a small handful of priceless jewels and gold.

“It belongs to you,” he exclaimed, thrusting the bag at Mary.

She shook her head. “I don’t really need any jewels. John’s practice does well enough.”

“I couldn’t in good conscience use them after all my family has cost you,” he insisted.

Mary glanced between Mr. Sholto and her friend. “Liza, you should take one. After all, we wouldn’t have found them if not for you.”

“I couldn’t!”

Mary picked a jewel from the pile and handed it to her friend. “For a rainy day. Just in case.” She turned to Mr. Sholto. “I don’t have a use for them, but maybe someday someone else will. Could you hold on to them for me? I wouldn’t want to worry my dear John with it.”

“Of course,” Mr. Sholto said.

“Are you sure?” Liza asked, still staring at the little crystal in her hands. “Who knows what these jewels are worth.”

“I hope you never need to find out,” Mary said. “And take it as my thanks for encouraging this adventure of our own.”

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #Holmes for the Holidays

0 notes

fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years

Text

My Design Verse III

The air felt colder as he stepped out of the hired car to stare up at a rundown building on the shoreline of Lake Superior. It could have been from the cool wind coming off of the lake, it could have been the forboding empty look of the rusted and worn building, or it could have been the ice that ran down his spine remembering the last time he came to face with his quarry.

He didn’t often feel like he was in the right place outside of his home - at Quantico he felt like a zoo animal being peered at and designed to do tricks for their entertainment, at Hannibal’s house he felt like a mouse quivering in the corner trying to hide beneath the hungry eyes of a sadistic cat - but as he approached the wind-worn building at the lakeside, Will could breathe easier with every step closer.

The door stated opening hours wouldn’t be for another three hours. No self-respecting bar would open before 11am on a Sunday - those who ended the night would have only crawled out a few hours earlier with the rising of the sun, those who would want to roll in and forget the world wouldn’t find it acceptable until after midday when their drowning would be more socially acceptable to others view. And yet he was there, and he knew somehow she was too. He knew he had been lured in, and any moment longer in the claustrophobic hotel room four blocks away would have driven him around the bend waiting to be caught up in her again.

There was a creak from inside, and a shuffling of feet and furniture legs on the old floorboards. A light flicked on and cast the silhouette as she moved towards him. A shadow, dancing her way towards him to welcome him into the light, a balm to the madness she’d brought out in him so different than Hannibal ever could.

“Hey, you made it.” Her voice always surprised him, never quite matching the feminine looks right. Too many horrors and truths washing away the softness to her tone, yet to affect her exterior as well. “Come on in, nobody’ll bother us for another few hours so ya’ll can ask all the questions you want ‘bout it all.”

He followed her, though if anyone would ask him later he wouldn’t have recalled doing so. It was as if her presence sent him into a fugue state all over again, to be guided and directed and pushed and pulled as Hannibal had done so. But comparing the two felt as wrong as ever, as while Hannibal had all the appearance of goodness but drew those around into darkness, she was shrouded in the darkest parts of the world but shone through. His light through the dark, his lure in the rough waters, his bloody angel to guide him.

“You didn’t specify a time.”

“Well it’s a good thing I watched you leave this morning. Did you sleep well?” Her brow raised at him as she slipped behind the bar and he found himself standing awkwardly on the other side.

“You watched me leave?” The idea of being watched - after being under the constant stalking of the stag, the bloody gaze of Hannibal, the clinical observation of Chilton - should have sent a shiver of horror down his spine; however the brown doe eyes that smiled back at him made him want to shiver for a different reason.

Jo Harvelle gave a shrug in response, hands clasped gently upon the bar before her as she looked back at him. His neck felt warm. “I thought it best to make sure you’d arrived safely - if arrivin’ at all.” Her shoulder slumped a little again at her explanation as she turned her back on him to potter about the backspace of the bar.

“So, what…what was that crime scene about?” The first question that popped into his head since he’d caught a glimpse of his angel at that lamp post after emerging from the crime scene. The scene itself screamed psychopath, however not the usual displays of ritualistically designed depravement that followed her around.

“That, my dear Watson, was the work of a monster of the foulest kind -” Her teasing tone beligned the darkness of her words as the blonde moved about fetching two glasses down, before pouring water from a hug into each glass, “- a real monster. The kind that you heard in your closet or under your bed, creeping at your window or breathin’ down your neck as a child. The kind that made you sleep with the lights on, that you couldn’t shake the feelin’ of. An actual monster from your nightmares, and not just the likes of your doctor.”

As absurd as the words sounded, Will clutched at the glass pushed before him, throat tight and parched as if a dying man left in the sun too long, but unable to make his hands lift his salvation to his lips. The only satisfaction he could glean was from the words dropping from the pink lips before him. Lips he’d been haunted by for months.

“Are you afraid of ghost stories, Mr Graham?” Her words were barely above a whisper, and he felt himself drawn in further to her world two steps from the one he left behind. He could see it just beyond the darkness behind her golden halo hair. He could see it creeping out from the depths of her eyes. He could almost taste it on his lips if he leant forward any further. “Does the boogeyman haunt your dreams?”

“Only you.”

He heard his voice replying but it was as if he was watching from afar again. Out of control, out of his body and slowly slipping out of his mind all over again. He could abstractly realise he had switches one obsession for another, but Will couldn’t help it.

“I’m no nightmare,” her reply was gentle and her hands were soft as she moved his own to his lips. The glass was cold and the water cooler still, but he felt like he was on fire again. Boiling alive from the inside. Unable to scream out at the world as his brain fried until the liquid poured through him like a tidal wave. He felt like he’d drown from it as she stepped back with a sigh from him, “I’m what stops them.”

“Stops them?” Will frowned slightly, his brows furrowing as he ran the words over his tongue. It tasted like they could have cut him apart if he let them. “Stop what?”

“The monsters. The demons. And everything in between.”

Eyes blinked back at him, honesty seeping out of her as he took a proverbial step closer to her world as Jo Harvelle’s voice lulled over him, explaining each part of her world over the next hour. As she spoke, he felt the world wipe before his eyes in his mind as each world spang forth. The file he knew like the back of his hand, the file he had absorbed so far into himself that he bloody grace had drowned the stag away from his psyche, the file that allowed him to slip so far into her that he couldn’t draw himself out alone if he wanted to.

Each tale, each story, each spectre she weaved seemed to draw at the very fibre of the world around him - tearing down the thin veil that existed between his world and hers. His world crumbling below her soft voice, and the gloom of the darkened bar feeling equally menacing and comforting knowing that the blonde was there in it with him.

At the sound of keys in the lock, the spell she weaved began to break down for him again, veil sliding back into place with a swing of the pendulum.

The concept devolved from there, his eyes slowly opened to her insanity. That there were things that went bump in the night and called from the shadows. It had to be insanity that drove her, that turned a sweet country girl into the deadly woman he'd seen over and over again on pages and in his dreams. It was the only real answer that he could accept - she was truly a madwoman and he had to choose whether to join her mania alongside all those others she enraptured.

Or if he would break the cycle and return her to those he answered to, for her to be shut up somewhere dank and dark as he had, to be analysed and reviewed and assessed until she was nothing but a profile written on paper and her soul crushed within the system.

As the pair drew back from eachother while the tall leggy brunette entered the bar, Will felt another shiver run along his spine at the thought of his bloody angel disappearing into ink.

#AU stories #my design verse

0 notes

darnedchild · 7 years

Text

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 - Day Four

A/N : Sorry this is so late, had some Real Life Stuff come up (which meant going out to eat dinner because I’m not gonna eat Hamburger Helper at home when I’m dealing with drama, you know?). Might not/probably won’t post this on FF.net or Ao3 until tomorrow because I need a nap and some chocolate. Unbeta’d, as per.

OH, before I forget - this one is probably a hard PG 13/light M for a tiny mention of wanking. Sorry.

Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017 – Day Four (Non-Canon – First Sleepover/Sleep Together)

Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed?

The first (and last) time Sherlock sleeps on Molly’s sofa was the night he jumps from the roof of Barts. The horrid piece of furniture is far too short for him, and not nearly as comfortable as the one he’d been forced to abandon at Baker Street. Beggars can’t be choosers, unfortunately; and he was lucky that Molly was willing to put him up for the night at all. If anyone knew he was in her home after he was supposed to have plummeted to his death, she would be in serious danger.

She shuffles past him at half seven, clearly on her way to the kitchen and the coffee maker. “You kept waking me up all night, I could hear you tossing and turning. Next time just take my bed.”

They both freeze. They had never discussed the possibility of a ‘next time’. He doesn’t know what to say; so he simply says, “All right.”

Molly nods and continues her barely-awake shuffle toward the coffee maker.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The first time he sleeps in Molly’s bed, he has been “dead” for over six months. He uses the key she’d slipped into his hand moments before he’d left for parts unknown after his fall, the one he’d hidden in a safe space that no one would ever think to look for.

She isn’t home, and a quick glance at the calendar on her desk confirms that she is on shift at Barts. He crawls into her bed, dead on his feet, and tells himself that he’ll wake up as soon as she comes through the front door. The last thing he wants is for her to find a short-haired half-naked ginger wrapped in her blankets and to scream the house down before calling the police.

He wakes up roughly eight hours later, to the sound of the shower coming on in the en suite bathroom. There is a bottle of water and a sandwich waiting on the bedside table.

By the time Molly walks into the bedroom wrapped in a bright purple robe, hair wet and stringy around her face, he has already devoured half the sandwich and is carefully holding the plate under his chin to keep the crumbs off her sheets.

“I’m sorry if I scared you, when you came home and saw me.”

“Why would I be scared?” Molly asks as she sat starts to dig through her dresser for something to change into.

Surely that was obvious. “Strange man in your bed?”

She turns toward the bed with a pair of yellow pyjamas covered with cavorting kittens held to her chest. “I knew it was you. I mean, I know you’re strange, but you’re not a stranger,” she tries to joke.

He swallows the last bit of sandwich and washes it down with some water. “How? I saw John on the street today, and he never gave me a second glance.”

Molly laughs, as if she thinks he’s joking. “Who else would be sleeping in my bed? The big bad wolf? No one else has a key.” She wags a chastising finger in his direction as she moves toward the bedroom door. “And you shouldn’t be anywhere near John. Mycroft would have your head if he knew.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The second time he sleeps in her bed is only a few weeks after he’s returned to London and officially came back from the dead. He hasn’t quite adjusted to solitude and stillness in the night at Baker Street now that he is living there alone. Everything is too quiet, too alien. It even smells wrong, nothing like his years-old memories promised. Sherlock suspects that will correct itself the longer he is in residence, but that didn’t help him at the moment.

He knew Molly is working the night shift so he doesn’t have to worry about talking to anyone or pretending to be civil when all he wants was a familiar space to shut down for an hour or two.

The bed calls to him as soon as he steps through her door. He falls asleep the moment his head hits her pillow. When he wakes up four hours later he is in a much better frame of mind. A photo of Molly and the fiancé tucked into the vanity mirror catches his eye as he dresses. He glances back at the bed with an annoyed grimace.

When Molly comes home that evening, she finds that the bed had been remade with new linens and the old ones are waiting in the washing machine, cold and wet.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The third time Sherlock pauses in the doorway of her bedroom.

Something is off.

Wrong.

The room stinks of the fiancé.

A sweeping glance tells him what his mind had already subconsciously deduced. There is a dark, masculine catch-all container on her dresser, the kind that held wallets and watches when a man undressed for the night. It’s totally at odds with Molly’s bright and feminine décor. A second robe hangs off the hook on the closet door. Blue plaid, far too large for Molly’s small frame. Another phone charging cord waits on the far bedside table. A pair of men’s slippers haphazardly dumped at the foot of the bed.

He backs out of the room and immediately moves to the front door. His hand hovers over the table next to her door, her key dangling from his fingers. Surely the fiancé wouldn’t want Sherlock to have unrestricted access to Molly’s home now that they were practically living together.

After a long moment, his hand closes around the warm piece of metal. He sweeps through the door, locks it from the outside, and then carefully tucks the key into his pocket.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The fourth time isn’t even his idea.

He is in the lab at Barts, unusually irritable and snappish and so, so tired.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” Molly’s voice makes him jerk and he nearly drops the slide he’d been about to load into the microscope. He hadn’t even realized she was in the room.

“After the Zucker double homicide and kidnapping the reporters have been camping out on the stoop again. I can’t get a moment’s peace.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he glances at her from the corner of his eye as he fiddles with the magnification on the scope.

“You know you’re always welcome at mine,” Molly offers. “Go get some rest.”

Sherlock leans back on his stool and watches her face. “Won’t Tom mind having you invite another man into your bed? I sure as hell would.” He has no idea where that had come from, or why he sounds so belligerent about it. “If you were . . . If I was . . . I would want to know who’s been sleeping in my bed.”

Molly frowns and opens her mouth to say something. He’s worried for a second that she is going to ask him a question that he won’t be able to answer. Instead, she pulls her mobile out of her back pocket. “He trusts me. I’ll let him know right now.”

Her thumbs slide across the small screen as she types out the text, reading it out loud as she writes it. “An old friend needs a place to kip tonight. Told him he could stay at mine. Is it okay if we go to yours?”

She hits send with slightly more force than necessary, and holds it up for him to see. “Done.”

The phone pings a few seconds later. Molly glances at the screen and frowns, then quickly tosses it face down onto the worktop without a word.

Fifteen minutes later when she gets up to get a cup of coffee from the vending machine up the hall, Sherlock sneaks a glance at her mobile. There is a message from Tom – “It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? We’ve got to talk. Tonight.”

Sherlock knows that spending the night at Molly’s is going to cause problems between the couple.

He does it anyway.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The fifth time is the night of the Watson wedding. He lets himself in and heads straight for the bed, strips down to his skin, and curls around her pillow.

He doesn’t care if Meat Dagger finds him. Part of him actually hopes the other man discovers him naked in Molly’s bed, but he refuses to examine that too closely.

She comes home sometime after one.

Alone.

Sherlock stirs at the sound of the front door being closed and the metallic jingle of her keys hitting the little table. He waits to see what she’s going to do once she realizes he’s there.

She grabs some clothes out of her dresser and heads into the bathroom. Minutes later, she quietly pads to the bed. “I know you’re awake. Budge over, you’re on my side.”

He does, without a word. She crawls in and turns onto her side away from him.

“I’m not wearing pants,” he blurts out.

“It’s okay. I won’t peek.” Molly rolls toward him and leans up just enough to plan a quick kiss on his cheek. “Night, Sherlock.” Then she flops back over and quickly falls asleep.

She’s gone when he wakes up the next morning. Her scent surrounds him, and his cock is embarrassingly hard.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

He doesn’t remember the next five or so times he finds himself in Molly’s bed.

He’s never high when he comes to her home. He knows, without a doubt, that she’d eviscerate him if he dared to. Or worse, call his brother or Mummy.

But he’s often coming down, hyper sensitive, and desperate to get away from Janine’s cloying clinginess.

Molly is aware that he’s seeing someone, and that he’s doing something very harmful to his body. He’s seen the tight way she holds her lips, and he knows she wants to say something about it, but she doesn’t.

She insists he showers before she lets him fall into bed. She keeps a pair of men’s pyjamas hidden on the top shelf of her closet, out of Tom’s sight. He knows she’s worn them herself a few times, in between his visits, can read it in the way she looks away as she hands them over each time. He doesn’t mention it.

She shares the bed with him twice more, always curled away from him. The last time he lets his fingers softly touch her hair, careful not to wake her. It’s soft, just as he’d imagined it would be. He wants to rub his cheek against it, bury his nose in it.

Every one of those five times he wakes up with an erection that he can’t will away. The night he touches her hair, he rolls out of bed and straight into her shower where he jerks off, coming so hard his knees buckle under the stinging spray of water.

The only times he’s managed to get that hard when he is with Janine is when he’s ended up thinking of Molly. Molly’s hands on him. Molly’s mouth. Even then, he refuses to climax; telling himself that he’s being honourable for Janine’s sake, and that it has nothing to do with feeling guilty about using Molly’s memory in such a way.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The eleventh time is two nights before Christmas. Molly settles into bed next to him, careful not to jostle him too much as he’s still recovering from being shot. She leans over to kiss his cheek, as has become their habit when she’s sharing the bed with him, and he reaches up to slide his hand under her hair against the back of her neck. He holds her in place as he slowly turns his head until his lips brush against hers. It is the softest kiss he has ever had, and it makes his heart ache. He releases her, and she draws back. Her eyes search his in the barely there light from the street lamps outside the curtained window.

“Why?”

“Because.”

She nods, as if it were a real answer, then lays down. She’s facing him for once. A moment later he notices that she’s brought her hand up to rest between them, and he puts his over it. His hand is large enough to completely cover hers, and once again he notes that her ring finger is bare. That knowledge makes him irrationally pleased, another feeling he refuses to acknowledge just yet. He laces their fingers together.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The first time Molly falls asleep in his bed, they’ve been babysitting Rosie. The child is barely old enough to sit up with assistance, and yet she’s run two of her godparents into exhaustion. Her spare cot is upstairs in John’s old room, but Molly doesn’t feel comfortable with putting her down for her nap so far away.

Sherlock suggests they all lay down in his room.

The three of them settle down on top of the covers, Rosie carefully positioned on her back between the two adults.

When he wakes up, his hand is on Rosie’s little stomach and Molly’s fingers are barely touching his where they curve over Rosie’s side.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The sun has risen by the time he hesitantly lowers himself into her bed for the twelfth time. She’s asleep, twisted in the blankets. He can see the dark circles under her eyes, the dried tracks of her tears. She stirs when the bed moves. As soon as she realized it’s him, Molly tries to roll away. He catches her, pulls her into his arms, presses his cheek against her hair. She’s crying again.

“Why?” she pleads against his neck.

He tells her about Eurus, about Sherinnford, about the coffin and the phone call. “I . . . I meant it, Molly,” Sherlock whispers into her hair, his voice rough and scared. “I love you. I didn’t understand it until I thought I was going to lose you, but it’s true. I swear it.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The first time he sits on the edge of their bed, he can’t help but fidget.

Molly’s old bed has been dismantled and moved into the garden shed. They plan to update several rooms now that Sherlock has officially moved in, the first of which is the bedroom. Replacing the bed with something larger and slightly less overtly feminine had been a priority. The bedding is completely new. His antique wardrobe has been brought over from Baker Street, and now stands across from Molly’s vanity. They are planning to trade several other pieces of furniture between Baker Street and the small house, merging the two locations until they both feel like home.

They’ve agreed that it is best for him to continue to rent his old rooms from Mrs Hudson for his work. The better to keep his private life separate from the public face of the World’s Only Consulting Detective.

He has no idea why he is nervous. He and Molly have spent more nights together than apart since Sherrinford, but this is different.

He wonders if he should turn off the light, but before he can reach for the bedside lamp Molly walks into the bedroom. She’s wearing a vest that has seen better days and barely covers the tops of her thighs. Her hair is loose, but still holds that little crimp from where it had been secured in a ponytail all day while they’d moved boxes and begun to unpack Sherlock’s things.

She is beautiful.

Sherlock thinks, once again, that this is the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

He holds out his hand. “Come to bed.”

#sherlollyweek2017

79 notes · View notes

moviesihavewatchedmk · 7 years

Text

Beauty and the beast - Review

“Disney’s animated classic takes on a new form, with a widened mythology and an all-star cast. A young prince, imprisoned in the form of a beast, can be freed only by true love. What may be his only opportunity arrives when he meets Belle, the only human girl to ever visit the castle since it was enchanted” - IMDb

__________________________________SPOLIER ALERT_________________________________________

I’m speechless. In every way, a fantastic movie with extraordinary effects and amazing acting from everyone. Already when the known Disney castle was shown, I could feel that this would be a wild experience.

The original version of “Beauty and the beast”, has always given me some special feelings, and never fails to touch me. This adaptation certainly didn’t let me down. Everything from the lines to the small details seemed to bring tears to my eyes. Especially the scene in the ballroom made me very emotional and the tears were very close to flowing. It makes me happy that they were able to maintain so many beloved things from the original movie, and still managed to make it new, innovative and completely their won.

Let’s talk a bit about the special effects and all the visual.

They have kept many of the old scenes and made them big and phenomenal. For example the ballroom scene, they managed to recreate it nearly one hundred percent. The only thing I could have wished for, were if they could have made his smoking a bit closer to the original one, so it would be a bit more like a uniform, ‘cause it was really charming in the cartoon.

Another scene that really impressed me, was when she was seated at the table and presented for all the food. I don’t want to know how much time and effort it took to make that little five minutes sequence, which was filled whit everything a one could have wished for. It was in a weird way, very Broadway-like. The big scenography and the big “dance” number, was perfect in every way.

I was so impressed by the way they managed to bring they beast to life. I must admit I was a little emotional when he was shown at first. He looked to real, and they still managed to make him lovable and charming. Another thing they succeed to bring to life, was the different furniture’s around the castle. There were at no time it struck my mind that they were computer made, 'cause they just seemed so real and you really believe it. They gave them so much character and brought them to life really beautifully.

You really get sucked into a completely different world, and I really hope it will be a movie which gets recognising for the beautiful effects and will be remembered in the future award season.

The cast was spot-on. From little Tip to Belle.

My father asked me if you would think of Herminie when watching Emma Watson acting, and it really wasn’t a thought that struck me. Emma Watson really was developed beautifully, both as an actor and as a person. She was capable of transforming completely into Bell, and “throw” past performances away and make it all about this one. A think that means a lot to me, when watching actors act, is if they have their eyes whit them and manage to play with their eyes. Emma really does that, and it feels like it comes deep within her soul. It shines out of her, how much she wants this role and maybe in a way, how much she wants to make the possible best adaptation of such a beloved princess. Her voice, especially in the songs, is so pure and beautiful and is one I could listen to for hours. I really do believe, that they couldn’t have found a better person to play Belle, than Emma.

Dan Stevens is an unknown actor for me, so I didn’t had any expectations for his acting. But holy cow, I was impressed. His voice was, for me, the PERFECT choice for voicing the beast. It has this deep, but still mild tone. Even when he changed into a person again, it still had this lovely deep tune which fit fantastic for the role. His work with the beast is so well done, especially when you think about that he walked around on stilts and made motion capture. Dan’s movement was spot-on and was very identical to the original one, even though it was his own movement. When he was transformed into a human again, at first I was a bit skeptical if he was the right fit for Adam, but then I realized that Adam isn’t the “perfect” looking prince we know from other fairytales. Adam has a very rustic look, that Dan Stevens also has, and therefore I felt like he was meant for the beast. I believe, and hope, that he becomes an actor we will see much more of.

Ohh, and now to my beloved Luke Evans. Luke has always had a special place in my heart since 2010-2011. Watching him grow bigger and bigger in Hollywood is so surreal and it makes me so proud. From seeing him for the first time in “The Three Musketeers” and to now seeing him in big movies like “Fast and furious”,“The Hobbit” and now playing Gaston in “Beauty and the beast” is crazy and an amazing development. I remember when it was first announced that he was taking on the role as Gaston, that the internet was liking it, and so was I. Luke is normally such a humble and unselfish person, and he manages to play a selfish bastard with bravura. As he said himself, he wanted to create a character that people would fall for and like, and then be forced to hate, but with confusion and sadness, and I really think he succeeds in that. He shows his inner Gaston and is capable of recreating the Gaston one knows from the cartoon. Even small thing he managed to bring onto the screen, and I think it shows that he is really passionate about his career and wants to do best as possible. I’ve always wanted to be able to hear more footage from his days on the musical stage, and now they’re finally is more and even something so well composed as this.

The last ones I want to highlight is Ewan McGregor, Ian McKellen and Emma Thompson. Never in my wildest fantasies, I would have hoped for something so good as this. Their voices fitted so well, and it felt like it always has been them voicing the different furnitures. Something I especially loved was Ewan McGregor’s sweet French accent. He really nailed that one. Emma Thompson’s version of “Beauty and the beast” was fantastic. Her voice was so beautiful, and she fitted the role so amazingly. Ian McKellen gave another stunning performance, and it was so great to hear him sing. He has just the right tone for mimicking Clocksworth. I get so impressed every time a cartoon manage to move me, even if you can’t see the facial expression as you can on real people. Some people can give all it take to make a stunning performance through their voices, as they do in this movie.

Lastly, I want to compliment the well-composed music and the beautiful costumes. Hollywood has come so far, and do anything to get people dragged into a different world. The costumes were so beautiful and true-to-life, and one could dream completely away to a different time with beautiful dresses and well-dressed men. The music was spot-on, and the different actor’s voices were beautiful and filled with power. I could really fell that this production is made by a bunch of dedicated people, who wanted to the best as possible.

Huge congratulations to Disney for making yet another amazing movie for dreaming away. And congratulations to Bill Condon for making such a beautiful musical. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And thank you from my inner child, you made her proud.

34 notes · View notes

stephenaltrogge-blog · 5 years

Link

What is the first thing that comes to your mind? God’s power? His vastness? His wrath? His sovereign rule over all things? His holiness? His hatred of sin?

If you were able to ask God to describe himself, what do you think he would say? “I am the One who created all things. I am the one who runs the universe. I am exalted above the heavens.”

In Exodus 33, Moses meets with God and asks him to show him his glory. And God essentially says, “You can’t look directly upon my majesty and splendor and glory because it would be too much for you. You cannot look directly on my face, “for man shall not see me and live.”

But look at what God does say to Moses:

Moses said, “Please show me your glory.” And he said, “I will make all my goodness pass before you and will proclaim before you my name ‘The LORD.’ And I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy. But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for man shall not see me and live.” And the LORD said, “Behold, there is a place by me where you shall stand on the rock, and while my glory passes by I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I have passed by. 2Then I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back, but my face shall not be seen.” Exodus 33:18-23

God says, “I will make all my goodness pass before you and I will proclaim my name. I will pass by you in my glory, then I will take away my hand and you will get a glimpse of my back – you will see something of my glory.” So then in Exodus 34 God does the 2 things he said he would do: he proclaims his name to Moses and causes his goodness to pass in front of Moses.

The LORD descended in the cloud and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. The LORD passed before him and proclaimed, “The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation.” EX 34.5-7

First God says his NAME: “The Lord, the Lord.” God could have then said, “Moses, you want to know who I am: I am the LORD.” That’s who I am, that’s all you need to know.

But we are more that just our names.

If you asked me who is that friend of yours? I could say, “That is Tim.” That is his name. But each one of us is so much more than just a name. If you asked me, Who is your friend Tim? I would say Tim is a wonderful husband and grandfather. He made an incredible tree house for his grandkids to enjoy. He is a servant. He visits people when they are sick. He loves God’s word. He gets up early in the morning and reads God’s word on a regular basis. He goes the local personal care home and serves people there. He is really humble and gentle. And not only that but loves carve wood and make furniture. He makes beautiful gifts out of wood for people. And he enjoys hunting. And he’s really funny too.”

We are more than just our names. Hopefully when people hear our names, good things come to their minds. Well, the Lord proclaimed his name to Moses, the LORD. But then he said “Moses, this is who I am: I AM A GOOD GOD:

a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation.”

Notice, God didn’t say, I am Almighty, all-powerful, I am Holy and Majestic and Glorious, I can crush the whole universe like a bug under my foot if I want to. I control all things, I rule all things. I am infinitely great. God could have said those things and he would not have been lying.

But instead God said: I am merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin

These are the things God emphasized about himself. He is GOOD. Now this doesn’t mean he simply overlooks sin, for he added: but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation.”

God says I won’t just clear the guilty who will not repent. We can’t just do whatever we want with no consequences. And sometimes our sins can affect our children and descendants. God says sometimes to the third and fourth generation.

But notice he said “keeping steadfast love for thousands.” The Berean study Bible interprets this as “maintaining loving devotion to a thousand generations.”

When God revealed himself to Moses he emphasized that he is GOOD: merciful, gracious, slow to anger, ABOUNDING in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love (twice he says steadfast love) for thousands (or a thousand generations), forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin. The puritan Thomas Watson says:

“God is more inclinable to mercy than wrath. Mercy is his darling attribute, which he most delights in. Mic 7:18. Mercy pleases him…. Acts of severity are rather forced from God; he does not afflict willingly. Lam 3:33. The bee naturally gives honey, it stings only when it is provoked; so God does not punish till he can bear no longer. ‘So that the Lord could bear no longer, because of the evil of your doings.’ Jer 44:22. Mercy is God’s right hand that he is most used to; inflicting punishment is called his strange work. Isa 28:21.” – Thomas Watson

Look at what Micah says about the Lord:

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger forever, because he delights in steadfast love. Micah 7:18

God “delights in steadfast love.” He does not delight in punishing people. He does not delight in exercising his wrath and anger. Jeremiah says in Lamentations:

For the Lord will not cast off forever, but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion according to the abundance of his steadfast love; for he does not afflict from his heart or grieve the children of men. Lamentations 3:31-33

God takes no pleasure in afflicting us. “He does not afflict from his heart or grieve the children of men.” Sometimes God causes grief, but he waits to “have compassion” because of “the abundance of his steadfast love.” God would rather pour out blessings than afflict us.

God’s mercy means that in his compassion and sympathy and patience and longsuffering toward us, he doesn’t give us what we deserve.

Mercy “denotes the ready inclination of God to relieve the misery of fallen creatures. Thus, ‘mercy’ presupposes sin.” A.W. Pink

In other words, when we sin, we often bring misery upon ourselves, but God’s inclination is to show us mercy and relieve our misery. He doesn’t owe us mercy. He would be completely righteous to strike us down immediately when we sin. But he is so forbearing and patient, he continues to bless us. Look how Psalm 103 describes God’s overflowing goodness:

who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy…The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. He will not always chide, nor will he keep his anger forever. He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us. As a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust. Psalm 103:3-4, 8-14

I like what David Hocking says:

When you come to the Lord, you are not coming to somebody who is sitting with a baseball bat ready to club you for every false move. The Bible teaches that His essential nature and character is mercy. Mercy holds back from us what we really deserve. –David Hocking

When you are sick and lying on your bed, you do not want somebody coming in and discussing thirty-two reasons why you deserve what you are getting. –David Hocking

God’s mercy and compassion means he FEELS FOR US, he has sympathy toward us.

Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. Hebrews 4:14-16

Jesus has been through every temptation we have been through (without sin) – so he knows what it’s like. He knows how hard it is. He knows weakness.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:6-7

God is not like the uncaring psychologist, Dr. Switzer, played by Bob Newhart: https://bit.ly/KG1MTw

Since God is so merciful to us, we should be merciful to others.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.” Matthew 5:7

Because God is merciful, he forgives us. Because God forgives us, we should forgive others. Jesus illustrated this brilliantly in the story of the servant who begged his master to forgive his debt of ten thousand talents, and when the master forgave him, went out and would not forgive a fellow servant of a miniscule debt of a few hundred denarii. Jesus finished the story by saying:

Then his master summoned him and said to him, ‘You wicked servant! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. And should not you have had mercy on your fellow servant, as I had mercy on you?’ And in anger his master delivered him to the jailers, until he should pay all his debt. So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.” Matthew 18:21-35

When we contemplate God’s goodness and mercy to us, it should produce in us first of all GRATITUDE to God

Contemplating God’s goodness to us should produce LOVE FOR GOD

And contemplating his mercy to us should make us MERCIFUL TO OTHERS

We don’t want to be like the ungrateful servant whose master forgave him a massive debt but would not forgive the tiny debt of his fellow servant.

God has forgiven us a MASSIVE DEBT – He washed away all our sins by the blood of Jesus. He should have condemned us to eternal hell for our sins, but in his compassion toward us he forgave us, gave us eternal life, then adopted us as his own children and gave us a share in the very inheritance of Jesus. So we should forgive and be merciful to anyone who sins against us.

Let’s contemplate the way the Lord described himself to Moses. How he caused all his GOODNESS to pass before Moses. Let us gaze upon God’s goodness today and give him thanks. And let us seek to imitate our merciful, compassionate God in our relationships with others.

The post When You Think Of God, What Is The First Thing That Comes To Your Mind? appeared first on The Blazing Center.

0 notes

inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

Note

hi, do you have some Johnlock shower sex fics (maybe bottomlock) ? thank you,love your blogs

Anonymous said to inevitably-johnlocked: Καλημέρα (or good afternoon depending where your from😁) Would you by any chance have any fics of john and sherlock like showering together? It could be smut or not, I just think that showering with your s/o is kinda cute and they would be adorable 🥺 Thank You 🥰

Anonymous said to inevitably-johnlocked: Hey, I was wondering if you have any fluffy bath-sharing fics?

Hi Nonny!

Aww, thanks, I’m glad you enjoy my blog!

AHHHH Okay so I know I have a tonne of fics with Shower Sex, but I haven’t started retagging fics until recently with this because someone asked me AGES ago with them, LOL

SHOWERING / BATHING TOGETHER

Through A Glass by Mildredandbobbin (M, 2,012 w., 1 Ch. || Voyeurism, Masturbation, First Kiss) – There is an adjoining door in the bathroom at 221B that leads into Sherlock’s bedroom. The door, from the bathroom to Sherlock’s bedroom, is made of three glass, semi-opaque panels. It has suddenly come to Sherlock’s attention that if he stands in exactly the right spot in his bedroom he can see through said panels, and more to the point, can see John.

Bathroom Accessories by Evenlodes_Friend (E, 3,324 w., 1 Ch. || Sex Toys, Butt Plug, First Kiss / Time, Romance, Horny Sherlock, John’s Patience Wears Thin, Humour, Bottomlock) – John discovers that Sherlock has been playing with some very adult toys in the bath.

Uninhibited by 221b_hound (M, 4,293 w., 1 Ch. || Bathing/Washing, Naked Cuddling, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Big Brother Mycroft, Relationship Negotiation, Massage, Sherlock Has a Low Libido, Pet Names) – Sherlock and John have been apart for the first time since Sherlock returned from the dead. Neither of them has had a good day. John's gets worse when Mycroft comes to Baker Street in Sherlock's absence to warn John Watson against disappointing his brother by expecting things to change. Mycroft has misjudged things rather badly. But finally he sods off and leaves John and Sherlock to reconnect, to give and receive comfort, and show each other that they are, indeed, perfectly matched. Part 15 of Unkissed

Linger by queenoftrivia (E, 4,879 w., 1 Ch. || Lingerie, Fluff and Smut, BJ / HJ, Switchlock, Sherlock in Lingerie, Come Play, Dirty Talk, Anal Fingering, Anal/Oral, Implied Shower Sex, Neck Kissing) – Sherlock decides to surprise John after a somewhat stressful day at work.

What Happens in Vegas (is legally binding in the United Kingdom) by moonblossom (E, 5,051 w., 1 Ch. || Accidental Marriage, Friends to Husbands to Lovers, CSI Crossover, Fluff & Porn, Bathtub Sex, Hand Jobs, First Time) – When a case sends the boys to Vegas, John comes out of it with a bit more than he bargained for. Part 19 of Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others

The Bathing Habits of Dr. John H. Watson by scullyseviltwin (T, 5,077 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, Happy Endings, Domestics, Baths, Slice of Life Snippets) – The knocks come crisply—three raps and then a long span of quiet. Slumping down further, John makes every effort to ignore the intrusion and relaxes as best he can in the less-than-ideal space available. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll be left in peace. There’s a brief respite of silence and then, again, three more raps on the door, in faster succession this time, followed by, “John, it’s been an hour, how can you possibly—” “We agreed two, two hours.” There’s no room for argument; John’s tone makes that very clear.It sounds as though Sherlock’s mouth is pressed right to the door when he next speaks. “What if I need the toilet!?”

Just Like That by sussexbound (E, 8,442 w., 1 Ch. || First Time/Kiss, Frottage, Virgin Sherlock, French Kissing, Anal, Emotional Lovemaking, Enthusiastic Consent, Tenderness, Crying John, Bathing/Washing, Insecure John, Toplock) – John doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants. Oh dear god, how he wants. For the first time in what feels like years he WANTS.

Johnlock Ficlet Collection by Irrevocably_Sherlocked (E, 11,505+ w., 16/? Ch. [WiP] | Random Ficlets, Pining, Angst, Fluff & Smut, Parentlock, AU’s, First Kiss, Character POV’s) - Just a collection of Johnlock ficlets, originally posted on my Tumblr page.

I'll Meet You in Hong Kong by alexxphoenix42 (E, 12,767 w., 5 Ch. || Freebatch RPF || Phone / Shower Sex, Infidelity, Polyamory, Bit of Angst, Cuddles) – Benedict and Martin's busy, busy schedules have them grabbing a few nights together in Hong Kong during Ben's Doctor Strange junket. They both have news to share. While this does pick up after the story "Forever 1895," you don't absolutely have to read that one to dive on in here. Part 2 of Forever Freebatch

A Hundred Thousand Ways to Say the Name John by Jberry (E, 16,825 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Fake Marriage, POV John, Pining John, Cruise Ship, Angst & Fluff, Case Fic) – John Watson and Sherlock Holmes must solve a case on a cruise ship. To get close to the crew and passengers, they must get married for the case on the Baetica. However, their relationship hits rocky seas both due to the case and internal conflicts. Part 1 of Baetica

John Watson doesn't have a Boyfriend by naughtyspirit (E, 18,932 w., 7 Ch. || UST / URT, Fluff & Smut, Voyeurism, Masturbation) – John's date has gone very well. Sherlock requires tea. John wishes he hadn't resolved that their relationship was strictly hands off and isn't about to address it. Unless he has to. Smut, fluff and shower time for a naked John Watson.

Through the Clouds by Mazarin221b (E, 20,004 w., 6 Ch. || Retirement, Sussex, Bees, Home Improvement, First Time, Romance) – Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing. They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want. Part 1 of Through The Clouds

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (E, 32,897 w., 1 Ch. || Past Drug Use, Blowjobs, Toplock, Mentions of Switching, Rough Sex, Background Cases, Sherlock’s Past, Sherlock’s Sexual History, Experienced Sherlock, Past One Night Stands, Fingering, Cuddling, Possessive Sherlock, Paris Holiday, Bed Sharing, Naked Lie-Ins, Bathing Together, Confessions, Worried Sherlock, Laying in Bed All Day, Meddling Mycroft, Naked Lazy Day) – Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John's head.

Right Hand Man by SilentAuror (E, 42,031 w., 4 Ch. || H/C, Injury, Slow Burn) – When John's left arm becomes paralysed after a car accident, Mary asks Sherlock to take him back to Baker Street to recuperate, as she's about to give birth. Despite the fact that the search for Moriarty is ongoing, Sherlock takes John in and takes responsibility for overseeing his rehabilitation as he adjusts to the loss of his arm.

The Case of the Vanishing Pants by SwissMiss (E, 44,025 w., 6 Ch. || Five and Ones, Post-TRF, Case Fic, UST, Homophobia, Friends to Lovers, Pining John, Showering Together, Couple for a Case, Sherlock’s Bum, Fantasies, Jealous Sherlock) – Five times John and Sherlock lost their pants in the course of a case.

The Real Great Perfumers by shelleysprometheus (E, 45,355 w., 68 Ch. || Case Fic, Alternating POV, Gay Sherlock / Bi John, Canon Compliant with Divergence at TRF, Friends to Lovers, Oral / Anal, Pining, First Kiss / Time, Dev. Rel., Drugging, Body Worship, Bathing, Love Confessions, Travelling, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock, BJ’s, Alternating POV, Jealous John) – The case, this case. This extraordinary, fascinating, scintillating case. A house. Designed entirely by its eccentric owner, built by no less than five hundred expert tradesmen in the heart of Marrakesh. A house that had, seemingly not only driven its owner out, but also to his quite unpleasant death. And a perfumer, a chemist no less, the very thought of the secrets that house could reveal, would reveal was irresistible. Sherlock had to have this case ... and it seems, he also had to have John! Part 1 of the Forethought and Fire series

Guilty Secrets by Ellipsical (E, 55,086 w., 16 Ch. || Drumsticks, First Kiss/Time, Love Confession, Self-Sexual-Discovery, Anal, Rimming, Orgasim Denial, Butt Plugs, Cooking, Furniture Sex, Bath Sex, Rimming, Double Penetration, Prostate Massage, Anal Beads, Dancing, Romance, Tantric Edging, Internalized Homophobia, Case as Foreplay) – John has a prostate exam and discovers something surprising about himself. Experimentation follows. Sherlock wants to help. They're in love. You know the drill.

The Moonlight and the Frost by CaitlinFairchild (E, 77,289 w., 10 Ch. || Case Fic, Post-HLV, Self Harm, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Oral/Anal/Rimming, Romance, Angst, Mary is Not Nice) – John has to somehow rebuild his life in the wake of Mary's betrayal and Sherlock's deceptions.

Not Broken, Just Bent by Schmiezi (E, 87,585 w., 43 Ch. || Pining, Love Confessions, Rape/Sexual Assault, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Villain!Mary, Suicidal Ideations, Main Character Death, Sherlock First Person POV, Parentlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Love Making, Possessiveness, Depression, PTSD, Kidnapping, Virgin Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending) – "For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face." Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Evil Mary.

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate Future AU || Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex, Case Fic, Emotional Love Making, Bath Time Fun) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

Two Two One Bravo Baker by abundantlyqueer (E, 114,574 w., 27 Ch. || Military AU || Afghanistan, War Story, Thriller, Switchlock, Rimming, Emotional Lovemaking, Lots of Sex, HJ/BJ’s) – Captain John Watson of 40 Commando, the Royal Marines, is assigned to protect and assist Sherlock Holmes as he investigates what appears to be a simple war atrocity in Afghanistan. An intense attraction ignites between the two men as they uncover a conspiracy that threatens everything they’ve ever known, but Sherlock is as much hunted as hunter, and everyone close to him is in deadly danger. Can he solve the case in time to save himself and John? Part 1 of Two Two One Bravo Baker Universe

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #showering #bathing #my fic recs #Anonymous

201 notes · View notes