Get ready for the #ClexaWeek2017! From February 27th to March 5th each day will have a different theme to celebrate Clexa.
How can I join?
You can write fanfics, make fanart, edits, aesthetics, gifsets, music, games and whatever the hell you want. If you don’t have any artistic skill, you can even make fic rec lists for each day! You just have to post on the right day and tag it with #ClexaWeek2017, or you can send submissions to @clexaweek2017
For any other info, guidelines, suggestions and to keep up with #ClexaWeek2017, follow @clexaweek2017
Now go and share it!
Tell your favorite writers and artists about it, start the preparations. And let’s celebrate everything we love about this ship. One year ago the 3.07 may have happened, but they’ll never take Clexa from us.
On February 1st John wakes up to find that Sherlock’s half of the bed is empty, and on his pillow is a single lavender rose. He smiles softly, picks it up, and presses his nose into the petals.
The following day John finds two of the same flower, their stems cut quite short, waiting for him in his favorite mug when he goes to make tea. He doesn’t ask Sherlock about it yet, and Sherlock acts as if nothing is different.
On February 3rd there are three lavender roses waiting for John. One is resting in his left shoe; another is tucked inside his jacket pocket; the third he finds on the doorknob when he’s on his way out. He puts them on his desk at work and thinks about texting Sherlock for an explanation. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Four roses find their way onto the mantlepiece.
Five are found nestled in John’s chair late in the evening on February 5th.
Six are discovered the following morning, wrapped neatly together with ribbon, in the refrigerator. Still, neither of them say a word.
It isn’t until the 7th of February–when John finds seven lavender roses, cut from their stems, floating in a bowl of water on the kitchen table–that John’s curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not much for computers, but he knows how to use google at least. The results make his head feel light.
Eight roses decorate the sitting room in various spots.
Nine are placed into various beakers and tubes.
Ten litter the surface of the sofa all day on February 10th. They avoid sitting there all day, but neither of them mentions it.
On February 11th there are eleven roses lining the doorframe of Baker Street.
The 12th brings a bouquet to John’s office where he switches them out for the three that have begun to wilt but that he was unwilling to remove.
Thirteen roses hang from the ceiling of their bedroom the following day. John isn’t quite sure how Sherlock managed that without waking him, but he lays there for almost half an hour, just watching them sway back and forth.
John comes home from work on the 14th of February and finds lavender rose petals scattered up and down the seventeen steps of 221B. If he had to guess he would say there were enough petals for fourteen roses. His chest constricts, and he takes the steps slowly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He expects to find Sherlock waiting for him, but when he reaches the top he finds the door to the sitting room closed, a note taped to it. Sherlock’s untidy scrawl reads, You know where to find me.
And John does. He’s back down the stairs and out the door in seconds, and for once it seems he’s got Sherlock’s luck on his side as a taxi rolls to a stop when he flings out his hand.
The lab at St. Bart’s hasn’t changed much since the day they met, and it’s a bit like walking into the past when John pushes the door open to find Sherlock waiting for him in the same exact spot he had been when John had first seen him. Only this time John isn’t limping. And this time Sherlock is holding a single lavender rose instead of a pipette, and his gaze is soft and warm as it settles on John.
“Knew you’d get it,” he says, his eyes crinkling with his smile.
John walks toward him, taking his time even though his heart is pounding. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, because they’ve been together for months now. “I’m smarter than I look,” he says, unable to keep from smiling in return. He stops about a foot away, nodding toward the rose in Sherlock’s hand. “Isn’t that cheating?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “You see, but you do not observe,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He steps closer, holding the flower up between them. “There were only thirteen on the steps. This is number fourteen.”
John steps closer and reaches out to touch the petals, letting his hand slip down until his fingers ghost over Sherlock’s. “I looked it up, you know. Lavender rose.”
“I know,” Sherlock says, his smile widening. “On the seventh. I was surprised you held out for so long.”
John can’t help laughing. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew.”
He plucks the rose from Sherlock’s fingers and sets it gingerly on the counter beside them, removing the delicate barrier between them so that he can step into Sherlock’s space and draw him down for a soft, slow kiss. Sherlock’s hands cup his face, his thumbs stroking along the sharp edges of his jaw, and John clings to fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt at his waist.
When he pulls away it’s only enough so that he can speak, and his lips brush Sherlock’s with every word. “Love at first sight,” he whispers, and he frees one hand to touch the petals of the lavender rose beside them. “And you always said I was the romantic.”
Sherlock kisses him again, lingering for a long, sweet moment. “I thought you should know the truth. The whole of it. How long I’ve loved you.”
Something in John’s chest aches, and he spends long, drawn-out moments pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, murmuring his I love yous into his mouth, hoping that it will be enough, that Sherlock will understand that he’s been loved since the moment John saw him in this very lab so many years ago.
Later that night–after Sherlock has led them home, after John has pressed him against the sheets, after countless kisses and touches and soft, pleading words–later, they sit together in front of the fire, half-clothed, legs tangled together, and press the single lavender rose in between the pages of a heavy book. And when they’ve finished, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him back to bed.
On this day in 1597, 26 Japanese Catholcs were executed by crucifixtion in Nagasaki. European Christians sent a number of missionaries to Japan throughout the sixteenth century, converting as many as 300,000 Japanese people by the end of the century. However, the Japanese government saw Catholics, an example of foreign influence, as a threat to the nation. Toyotomi Hideyoshi - the highest-ranked official of the emperor - sought to consolidate his power by expelling priests from the country, which began with the arrest of six missionaries and eighteen Japanese Christians in Kyoto and Osaka. They were forced to make the 800km walk to Nagaski, and were joined by two more Catholics along the way. When the 26 arrived at Nishizaka Hill, Nagasaki, they were executed. This marked the beginning of two centuries of Christian persecution in Japan; by 1630, Catholicism had been driven underground. The martyrs were beatified in 1627 and canonised by the Pope in 1862. Japan’s Christian ban was lifted by the Meiji government in 1873, and thousands of Christians came out of hiding. The site of the execution is now a Japanese National Sanctuary and a pilgrim spot for Catholics; Pope John Paul II visited the site in 1981. The story of the martyrdom of early Japanese converts to Christianity has been explored in Shusaku Endo’s novel Silence, which has since been adapted for screen by Martin Scorcese.
Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: 688 Warnings: Minor angst
You’d left the boys a note at the motel saying you were out. They’d get back from a hunt, clean up, and go out. Dean would come back with some bar skank, and you’d have to listen to it. So, here you were. Slamming back shots and hoping that you’d end up with someone else for the night. There were a few bars in town, so you figured they’d wind up somewhere else.
Feeling a hand on your lower back, you turned, ready to lay into someone…when you saw Dean. By now, your tongue was pretty loose. “Dean?”
He gave you that heart stopping grin. “Drinking without us?” He chuckled, motioning for two more shots.
“Might as well.” You muttered, taking the shot.
“What’s that mean?”
Sighing, you leaned on your elbow and looked at him. “It means, I’m tired of hearing some skank in your motel room screaming your name.” He stared at you. “I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.” Your heart was pounding in your chest. “But you don’t seem to notice me. I’m gonna leave you to it.”
Dean stopped you, his eyes full of…what what was? Longing? “I love you, too. You’re just too good for me, Y/N.” He sighed, running his hand through his hair. You were staring at him like you had spaced out. “Y/N/N?” He waved his hand in front of his face.
“I’m sorry.” You blinked. “I could have sworn that you just said that you love me.”
He blushed- which was something you’d never seen- and nodded. “You did. I love you.” He chuckled lightly. “I’m head over heels, stupidly in love with you.”
“I–” You were way too drunk for this. “Tell me that when I’m sober…” You leaned a hand on the bar to steady yourself.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Dean agreed, already regretting the words. There was no way that you’d remember this, and you’d wake up tomorrow with a hangover. Life would go on as if he’d never admitted his feelings for you. “Join me for one more drink before we head back?” He smiled.
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Like I could tell you no!” You laughed.
Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks & D.W. Griffith
The first of the big four to leave, D.W. Griffith around 1924, Douglas Fairbanks passed in 1939, Charlie Chaplin sold his 20% in 1955 for $1.1 million, followed about a year later - Mary Pickford 20% she got 3 million.
United Artists is now a subsidiary company of MGM.