12 days of letter writing

   The TIME OF SNOWDOWN is arguably the most significant Runeterran 
holiday since it’s the only occasion wherein citizens of Valoran have
historically agreed to put aside their differences for a short time.

in the spirit of Snowdown, reblog this post before December 13th to receive an ask with a URL on, or some time just before, that date. You will become the Secret Santa for the blog you receive, and it’s up to you to send them a nice message or two… or twelve.

For example, send the blog you receive some nice anons for the 12 Days of Snowdown, or have your muse anonymously write letters to their muse. It’s up to you how you conduct your Secret Santa-ing, whether IC or OOC. The only rule is to make sure you spread some Snowdown cheer, and that you reveal yourself on Christmas Day!

If you have any questions don’t hesitate shoot secret-snowdown a message. or check out the FAQ page under the read more for some help. Follow this blog too for any updates concerning the event in real time~

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To the Girl I Thought I'd Grow Old With

There are mornings when I wake up, and just realize you’re gone. After almost a year of trying to act like it doesn’t bother me, like I’m dealing with it just fine, like I don’t give a shit anymore, the tragic thing is I still do. And it’s during these days that all the guilt and pain of losing you suddenly break loose and wash over me in currents.

You, the one constant thing I had in my life since 4th Grade. You, the only person who has kept me rooted on times when I felt like I was losing grip on my sanity. You, my best friend. My soul sister. My spirit animal.

I wish you’d stop beating yourself up, because I know that you still do. And I also know you never wanted this to happen. I know this wasn’t your fault. I know you tried to fix this, even.

It was all me, sweetheart. I was the first to pull back. I’m the one who recklessly replaced our friendship for something so incredibly fleeting. I’m the one who selfishly held one, single mistake against you and used it as an excuse to avoid you. So please, please, please, stop blaming yourself.

I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough, but god, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I had to screw things up. I’m sorry I had to take what we had for granted and slowly rip it apart. I’m sorry I had to sever a connection that was supposed to last forever. I’m sorry I couldn’t even tell you I’m sorry in person because even after everything, there’s still nothing I value more than my stupid ego.

And thank you. Thank you for five years of friendship. Thank you for all the days I never had to spend alone. Thank you for all the ridiculous text conversations about crushes and frenemies. Thank you for all the birthday letters and Christmas presents. Thank you for the chances I didn’t deserve. Thank you for still taking time to talk to me even when what we had is gone and over. Thank you for being a part of my life I’m not sure I can even replace.

I’m glad you’re happy. I’m glad you find yourself surrounded by so many people who love you and make you feel nothing short of special. I’m glad they make sure to plan birthday surprises for you, and never forget to invite you to pool parties in the heat of summer. I’m glad you’re comfortable enough to have deep late night conversations with them on the phone. I’m glad they make up for all the things I’ve never gotten to do. And I’m glad that even though we drifted apart, you still haven’t forgotten me.


I miss you too, M.
Happy National Best Friends Day.

A Forgotten Wish

It was lying in the bottom of the box, after all the other baubles and detritus of a former life were cleared away. Some binned, some carefully repackaged and placed in places of honor around Baker Street, and some hidden away under carefully indexed socks never to again see the light of day.

It took Sherlock a moment to recognize the non-descript paper. After all there was nothing really outstanding about it: folded three times, slightly yellowed around the edges with time, crumpled like the owner had held it tightly in their fist before giving it up. When he did realize what it was he was seeing, it was with a slight tremor that he reached into the box to retrieve it, lifting it with a care usually reserved for handling dangerous corrosive chemicals. Unfurling the paper he slowly scanned the contents, taking note of the sloppy scrawl, a child’s writing only later maturing into the slightly-less sloppy block printing that would be used to comment on everything from tobacco ash to shopping lists. Backward S’s making him smile, he traced each one carefully as he remembered the events that led him to write this letter.

****************************************************************************************************

Another fight. Could one really call it a fight if It were one-sided? But another split lip, skinned knees, ripped hem. Other children it seemed would never understand him. He always vowed to try to be more like those he spied running and playing and jumping, but something always gave him away. Some trace of “wrongness” that either came from his manner, or most often, his mouth.

It was Mycroft who found him that time. Home from School for Winter Holiday, he dusted him off and asked him why he cared so about what they thought.

“I’m lonely,” Sherlock remarked.  “I want a friend. Just one friend who will never leave. Even you left.”

Mycroft looked stricken for one moment before gathering Sherlock to him in an awkward hug, “I’m sorry Little Bee.”

“Myc, do you think if I ask Father Christmas for a friend, he’ll bring me one?”

Mycroft hid his watery smile behind his hand, “It’s worth a try, William. I’ll help you write a letter.”

And so Sherlock had sat down at his writing desk and with Mycroft’s help composed a letter to Father Christmas asking for someone to watch over him, a friend to play pirates with, who would listen to his stories and never leave. He folded it three times and grasping it tightly to his chest, asked if Mycroft would please post it the next day.

Sherlock had no doubt Mycroft had held his word, for there on Christmas morning was a beautiful Irish Setter puppy, whom Sherlock promptly named Redbeard. And when Mycroft left again for school, Sherlock had Redbeard to whisper his secrets to, and cuddle during storms. And it didn’t matter that no one else wanted to play pirates with him because Redbeard was his first mate.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. The day Sherlock lost his only friend, he decided that friends were silly anyway, and no one would ever hold his heart again. Friends were for stupid boys named William, and Sherlock was going to face the world alone.

****************************************************************************************************

Sherlock looked down again at the letter in his hands. Mycroft had kept it all these years, tucked away with his important files and papers, the only box that contained any family information. Why this letter? He’d dearly love to ask him. It seemed now he’d give anything for Mycroft to sweep into 221 with his arrogant manner when for so long it was a annoying imposition. But that was as unlikely to happen as Redbeard to come bounding in the flat so best to stop that train of thought immediately.

“Sherlock, you finish that last box - what’s wrong?”

“Just old ghosts, John, something I’d forgotten.”

“Sherlock?” John kneeled down by Sherlock’s side, hands reaching out to rest on Sherlock’s knee. Strong hands, used to defend, to protect, to treat, and to love. Sherlock smiled as he watched the firelight play off the band on John’s hand, the same glint that matched his own.  

“Something you want to talk about, love?”

“It’s nothing John,” Sherlock replied as he leant down to brush their lips together tenderly. Once twice, a kiss for his husband, his lover, his friend. “It’s just that I realize Father Christmas really does exist.”


tags and notes under the cut

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Here’s my offering for the 12 days of Fic Mas 2016! Bit late, I know.  This will be one large story broken down by prompt.  It’s an AU, surprise!

**The complete work will most likely be PG-13 at the worst, but it does involve mentions of characters who have been abused in the past (residents of a women’s shelter, mostly).  No actual scenes involving abuse will be detailed, and no graphic descriptions of any abuse will be included.  There will be brief allusions to past abuse only, if anything.


And so, I present: Some Fluffy Gay Hallmark Channel Nonsense for Your Holiday Reading Pleasure!


Day 1: Letters to Santa

“-And I would also please like a puppy and you had better make it the sort that grows up big and looks really scary and that makes a good guard dog to help me protect Mummy and Rupi.

Thank you very much from Ravi age 8.”

John finishes reading and lets the final letter (complete with a wax crayon rendition of what looked like a horse but must be a dog) flutter back down onto the desk in front of him.  "Brilliant,“ he says.  "So, that makes… three new flats, four new dads, two pit bull terriers, and one ‘Dear Father Christmas, please make sure my father goes to prison.’  Easy enough.”  He doesn’t even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  He watches the back of Sherlock Holmes’ curly head across the room where he’s got his head bowed over whatever it is he’s fiddling with.  The air smells like burning solder.  “Listen,” he begins, voice low.  “How the hell are you going to make these kids happy? You’d have to be cruel, or a naive bloody idiot to promise a bunch of children spending their holiday at a women’s shelter that they’re getting just what they want for Chr-”

“The father’s already going to prison.”

John stops and raises his eyebrows.  "Is he?“ he asks, wandering over to watch Sherlock work.  He steadfastly ignores the ridiculous fluttering that starts up in his stomach when Sherlock straightens up, tugs his safety glasses away from his eyes and onto his forehead, and faces him.

It’s too much.  The graceful cheekbones and the absurd plastic goggles and the somehow-lovely duck’s egg blue eyes… It’s honestly too much.  John decides to spare himself the painful kick of longing in his chest and instead fixes his gaze resolutely on the mess of gears and wiring Sherlock was just fiddling with.

He tries not to think about the large, fine-boned hands that had been doing the fiddling.

"I’ve called in a favour at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock continues.  "He’ll do time, and the restraining order will be duly enforced.  On that you have my word, as well as Detective Inspector Lestrade’s, who despite being generally incompetent, is a firm believer in keeping promises.“

John blinks, taking in what was just said.  "Is there anyone who doesn’t owe you a favour?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up, and John just catches the movement from the corner of his eye.  

“How’s our young Ravi’s spelling?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“Um.”  John drags himself away from Sherlock’s side and looks over the last letter again.  “Huh.  Flawless, actually.  Well done, Ravi.”

“Well done, indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, jumping up from his chair and striding to the other end of the workshop.  He stops in front of a bookshelf and begins pulling the beautiful, leather-bound books from their homes and sorting through them.

John wonders what he’s doing, but doesn’t ask.  Sherlock never answers that question.  Instead, he remarks “Not really an easy bunch of presents these kids are asking for, is it?”

“Hm? Oh, these are nothing; last week I had a pediatric cancer ward, try cheering them… hah!”

A book hits an empty bit of workbench.  John sidles up closer to try and catch the title of it.  “White Fang?”

Sherlock pays him no mind whatsoever, only giving a brief “hm” of acknowledgment.  He flips the book open, pages through it a moment, and then reaches into a drawer and withdraws what looks like a straight razor.  John watches curiously over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John.”

“Hm?”

Sherlock clears his throat and stops.  “People don’t generally watch me work.”

It’s then that John realises he can clearly smell Sherlock’s aftershave, he’s leaning so closely to his shoulder, and he steps back abruptly, trying to be casual about it.  He nearly trips over his own cane.  “Sorry, yeah.  I’m hovering.  I’ll just, uh, be going, then.”

“It’s… fine.”  Sherlock gives him an appraising look, brows furrowed as though he’s deeply confused about something.

“Yeah, no, I don’t want to bother you,” John says, looking off to the side, up at the ceiling, and everywhere else that is not Sherlock’s face.  “I’ll, uh.  Right.  When should I come back, then? Next week? I can probably be here Monday around the same time again…”

He chances a glance back at Sherlock and sees he now just looks plain-old amused.  “Tomorrow will do, John.”

“Tomorrow,” John repeats dumbly.  He thinks about the ten sheets of A4 with ten letters written in childish scrawl sitting on the desk in the corner.  Ten, supposedly hand-picked and handcrafted, gifts, finished by tomorrow.  Ten donated gifts, at that, free of charge.  Overnight.

“Oh, for god’s sake, stop it,” Sherlock snaps.

“Stop what?”

“I know what you’re thinking.  Yes, of course I do; you’re being loud enough about it.”  He stands up, strides over to the chair in front of the desk, picks up John’s coat from where it was hanging draped over the backrest, and strides back again, talking quickly all the while.  “Yes, I make toys for needy children; yes, I work incredibly quickly; no, I am not Father bloody Christmas.”  He swings John’s jacket over John’s shoulders without stopping to offer him the sleeves and puts a none-too-gentle hand flat to the center of John’s back, steering him towards the door.

“Hey, hang on! I never said–”

Sherlock continues sharply.  “Father Christmas is not real.  Beyond that, Father Christmas is an altruist; he works for biscuits and to make all the ridiculous little children smile.”  John can’t see his face as he’s currently being shuttled across the room at a pace just a little too fast for him to comfortably keep up with using his cane, but he suspects from his tone that Sherlock has just given a large, false grin.  “I am selfish.  I make toys because I’m very clever and very skilled and because it is my life’s work, and any happy, ridiculous children are simply a coincidental by-product, needy or terminally ill as they may be.”

John finds himself being pushed gently through the doorway and directed towards the stairs.  Sherlock retreats back into the workshop immediately.

“Do not mistake me for some sort of philanthropist, John. You’ll be deeply disappointed.”

John stands there on the landing for a long moment, trying to process what just happened.  He leans his cane against the wall, shrugs his arms through his coat sleeves, and turns up his collar against the weather waiting outside.  As he’s getting ready to negotiate the staircase, he hears Sherlock speak up again, far more gently than before.

“See you tomorrow.”

John’s lips tweak up unconsciously into a smile at that, and he carries it with him all the way home to his bedsit, not half because he spends most of the trip trying to picture Sherlock Holmes in a fuzzy, red suit.

day 10 of my 12 Days Of 5sos

okay but baby Hood writing in his letter to Santa that all he wants for christmas if for his daddy to come home cause he’s been on tour for a long time?? and at sitting on Santa’s lap at the local mall he whispers in his ear that he misses his daddy and that he wants to spend christmas time with him. so you call and Skype cal and tell him everything but he just shakes his head and says “i’ll try babe but I don’t think I can” but he secretly bought tickets to get home on christmas eve planning to surprise his little family. and during christmas eve both your son and you spend time with cal’s family along with yours and everything is all happy and christmassy except for the fact that calum isn’t there and you can tell that your son is super sad as he tries to fake a smile because of all of the presents he’s receiving. but then he wakes up on christmas day and rushes to the living room where the tree is located to open all the presents that you had told him Santa would bring and he finds his dad lying in the couch asleep with a bow stuck to his shirt cause he wanted to be awake to surprise him but he couldn’t because he was so exhausted after the flight :’-)

   The TIME OF SNOWDOWN is arguably the most significant Runeterran holiday
since it’s the only occasion wherein citizens of Valoran have historically
agreed to put aside their differences for a short time.

in the spirit of Snowdown, reblog this post before December 13th to receive an ask with a URL on, or some time just before, that date. You will become the Secret Santa for the blog you receive, and it’s up to you to send them a nice message or two… or twelve.

For example, send the blog you receive some nice anons for the 12 Days of Snowdown, or have your muse anonymously write letters to their muse. It’s up to you how you conduct your Secret Santa-ing, whether IC or OOC. The only rule is to make sure you spread some Snowdown cheer, and that you reveal yourself on Christmas Day!

If you have any questions don’t hesitate shoot secret-snowdown a message. or check out the FAQ page for some help. Follow this blog too for any updates concerning the event in real time~