- In which Harry is a bit.. inexperienced in the bedroom.
Harry thought he could hide it. He thought he could get away with it. But, when everything came to him so all of a sudden, he realized that he was trapped, and the only way to get out, was by telling the truth.
And so he did.
“What?” you ask breathlessly, your hands at the mid of Harry’s patterned shirt, fingers frozen on the buttons, pulling the colorful fabric away from his tall and lanky form.
An Orisha is a spirit that reflects one of the manifestations of God. Being four hundred and one of them in total, each playing a role within the Yoruba pantheon, twelve of them can be equated to the twelve signs of the Zodiac along with their respective houses. The following is a brief summary of each Zodiac House along with the Orisha that is associated with it.
The first house of the Zodiac is the home of the Ascendant, and symbolises the acting self and how your personality appears to others. The ruling planet of this house is Mars, which is also the Roman God of war, making Ogun the warrior god the Orisha equivalent. Like Aries, Ogun possesses assertive and aggressive characteristics, and is the patron deity of soldiers, police officers, surgeons, railroad workers, welders, body builders, or anyone employed to work with iron and steel. Like the blacksmith who molds his creations to perfection, the first house deals with molding the inner and outward Self and realizing your highest potential.
Taurus is the ruling sign of the second house, which is said to be the house of possessions. This should not only be understood as material possessions but also as traits and characteristics that we value about ourselves. The ruling planet Venus is also the Roman goddess of love, whose Orisha equivalent is Oshun. Oshun is the goddess of fresh water (as opposed to the salty, ocean waters of the goddess Yemoja), sensuality, prosperity, love, and fertility. Oshun is presented as a beautiful young woman who is widely loved for providing protection and needs for the poor and healing the sick.
The third house is ruled by the cosmic twins Ibeji, the Orisha equivalent of Gemini. This house deals with communication and the way you think and operate mentally. An emphasis is put on siblings within this house which is properly represented by the twins, along with short journeys and writings. Ibeji also represents duality and balance; the yin and the yang found within all life. Though presented as twins, Ibeji is actually one Orisha. To the Yoruba people, twins are considered sacred and are said to be one soul inhabiting two bodies, linked together by destiny for life.
The fourth house of the Zodiac is ruled by Cancer and deals with issues surrounding the home life. Cancer is known for being maternal, protective, nurturing, and instinctive, qualities shared by the Orisha Yemoja, the goddess of the ocean and mother of all the Orisha. She is the patron spirit of women, especially pregnant women, whose name is a contraction of the Yoruba words “Yeye omo eja” which means “Mother whose children are like fish”, representing the vastness of her motherhood. Her ebb and flow of the tides of the ocean are a result of the moon which is the ruling “planet” of the fourth house.
The fifth house of the Zodiac is the house of creativity and pleasure, ruled by the sign Leo. This house deals with gaining pleasure through acts of creation, artistically and even procreation i.e. the creation of offspring. The Sun, the ruling “planet” of the fifth house, is a symbol of creative energy, illumination, and knowledge, all of which the Orisha of wisdom, knowledge, and divination Orunmila reflects. It is Orunmila’s duty to record the destiny of individuals at the moment the breath of life is given to them by Yoruba creator Olodumare, who creates because it brings Them pleasure to do so.
The Orisha Eshu is the ruler of the sixth house, the equivalent to the sign Virgo. Health, work, and service are central to the sixth house, which is ruled by the planet Mercury, the messenger of the gods within the Roman pantheon. Eshu is the Orisha that stands at the crossroads between the physical world and the spirit world, whose duty is to be the intermediary between man and the Orisha. Therefore, when one wishes to call upon the Orisha, he or she first gets permission from Eshu. This is symbolic of clearing and preparing the mind to receive whatever message the Orisha have for you.
Oba is the Orisha of marriage and personal transformation, making her fit to be the ruler of the seventh house, the house of partnership. Oba was the first wife of Shango who tended to his castle and everything that he requested, making her the ideal wife before being tricked by her sister Oya into trying to ensnare Shango with witchcraft. After this betrayal she fled to the cemetery in which she went through a transformational journey into her true power. This house is about expediating our life’s purpose through partnerships, whether that partnership be marriage, business relations, contracts, and/or treaties. Through these partnerships we learn a great deal about ourselves, transforming and enhancing our lives, making them fuller and bringing us balance on the scales of Libra.
Oya, the goddess of winds and storms, is the equivalent to Scorpio and is the ruler of the eighth house which is the house of transformation, regeneration, death, sex, and rebirth. She is the powerful force in nature that can change the face of the Earth, embodying the tornadoes and twisters that uproot trees and houses with her destructive winds. This powerful Orisha is also responsible for carrying the spirits of the newly departed to the spirit world.
The ninth house is the house of philosophy and is ruled by the philosopher Sagittarius and the planet Jupiter, the king of the gods within the Roman pantheon. Obatala, the father of all the Orisha, would therefore be the Orisha ruler of this house. Obatala is said to be the Orisha of purity and was sent by the Supreme Being Olodumare at the beginning of time to form the Earth along with construct the bodies of humans. Obatala completed his construction of the bodies he created by adding heads to them, therefore becoming known as the owner of heads. The head is symbolic of intelligence, higher education, and deeper understanding, all which the ninth house represents.
The tenth house is the house of public life and social status, being ruled by Capricorn and the planet Saturn. The aspects within this house deal with how you manifest your individual role within society and your work place, along with the energies and challenges you’ll face meeting your career goals. The Yoruba associate the planet Saturn with Babalú-Ayé, the Orisha of disease and healing. Also known as the “Wrath of the supreme god”, Babalú-Ayé’s job is to punish individuals for their transgressions, but also to heal epidemics like small pox.
The house of friends and membership, the eleventh house of the Zodiac is ruled by the planet Uranus and the sign Aquarius. Aquarius is associated with rapid social change, upheaval, and rebellion, traits that all reflect Shango, the warrior Orisha of thunder, lightning, and fire. Once a living king on Earth, Shango is known for working miracles after his death, elevating him to the status of Orisha. Shango is also the brother of Babalú-Ayé, the Orisha ruler of the tenth house. The work in society represented within the tenth house is expressed through the individual in the activities associated with the eleventh house, the planets and energies indicating how group associations and friendships will operate in your life.
The twelfth house of the Zodiac is ruled by Pisces whose Orisha equivalent is Olokun, the god of the ocean floor. This house is associated with self undoing and confinement, which is reflected in Olokun being chained to the ocean floor by seven chains. As this house deals with the unconscious and things beyond the physical plane, Olokun’s aspects are expressed within the astral, the subconscious, and altered states of consciousness that is experienced during meditation, initiation, and spirit possession. Deep and mysterious is this house of the Zodiac, just like the bottom of the ocean; an old Yoruba proverb says that nobody knows what lies on the ocean floor. Olokun is said to be the owner of the Mysteries, and sparks within our being the genius that activates our super subconscious.
I finally finished this fic of Malec’s night together after leaving the party!! Hope you all enjoy :) it’s very domestic aka my weakness :-)
word count: 2000+
The newly reunited duo looked just like any other couple returning home from date night in NYC. However, Alec was sure that he was definitely the happiest boyfriend, or person, in New York for that matter. He relished in the feeling of Magnus’ hand in his again, the soft skin and the cold metal of his rings. Secretly glad that Magnus was too drained to conjure a portal, they made their way back to the apartment on foot.
“Are all the warlocks still here? I’d like to thank them for their help,” Alec said as they approached the door.
“No, they left once they heard about the victory. But I’ll be sure to pass on the message.” Magnus’ eyes were warm as he looked at Alec before shouldering open the door and pulling him inside.
Alec let out a sigh of relief at finally being home again. Sure, he had a room at the Institute, decorated with a few pictures and personal things. But Magnus’ had become his safe place, and the loss of it had been heavy over the past few days. The familiarity of the red and orange tones warmed Alec to the core, and he felt the tension of everything that had happened drain out of him. It made him smile to see some of his things still around, like his spare jacket on the coat rack, and his favorite blanket on the couch.
He wandered around a bit, Magnus following close behind, unwilling to let go of his hand. He thumbed over the photo booth pictures with a smile, remembering the matching ones he kept tucked into the pocket of wallet.
“I didn’t know you kept this,” Alec smiled as the memories of the night began to swirl through his mind. Flashes of the bright city lights, the warmth of Magnus’ lips replacing the chilly night air, the hotel at the end of the evening.
“Of course I did. That was one of the best nights of my life,” Magnus replied, letting go of Alec’s hand and instead wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him closer to his side.
“Better than your night in the palace with Casanova?” Alec teased, turning on his heel so he was facing his boyfriend.
I made a video about slime molds! I was in the process of making a video on some slime molds I encountered on a hike, when I realized that it might be better to make a video on what slime molds are first. Let me know what you think!
I’ve been thinking really hard on it the past few days, and I think I’ve determined my interpretation of Prompto’s sexuality.
Prompto is Demisexual, but not aware of it. However, if someone were to read off the hallmark traits of said sexuality he’d kind of laugh with the familiar (if you’re any sort of not-straight) ‘ha ha, shit, wow….okay, that does sound like me’.
Prompto also considers himself Straight. Well.. mostly. Heteroflexible His eye is always going to be drawn to a pretty girl before it is to a pretty guy, and the standard for ‘pretty’ can widely vary– generally he’s attracted to folks who would fit the conventional ‘beauty’ mold, going first for aesthetics over actual attraction.
Relationships are… a struggle. He had a few girlfriends when he was in school, but didn’t actually go far with most of them. While he’s quite keen on kissing and otherwise exploring a partner’s body with his hands, laying close, and doing otherwise romantic stuff, but when it comes to the receiving end he has some severe hangups.
He has severe anxiety about the barcode on his wrist, and generally people want their partners to be fully undressed when engaging in more sexual activities. He cannot comply with this, and actually left a date’s house in the middle of the night because it was better than having the ‘what is that’ conversation.
Teen-to-young adult Prompto knows he’s attractive. He worked for it. However, he still feels best with his clothes on– his stomach to thighs bear evidence of just how hard he worked to become fit, and he finds them embarrassing. They’re not poetic scars of lightning engraved in the skin, they’re just gross. He’d much rather keep his shirt on, honestly.
TL;DR : Prompto is an incorrigible flirt with too much baggage to carry through beyond that.
“When I first started molding, I was amazed how a new shape appeared every time I folded the clay. Every bend takes on a new form. It’s something about the material and its plasticity—I never know what will come up when I start working.” This Athens-based architect-turned-jewelry-designer approaches both disciplines with the same appreciation for clean lines and irreducible ideas. Meet Eri
Finished up holster for a .44 magnum with an 8" barrel. This project had a lot of firsts for me. First holster, first attempt at lacing, and first wet mold. When you spend so much time on a piece, you can’t help falling in love with it. It was little bittersweet watching it head out the door.
The bottom picture shows my holster next to the one that the guy brought in for me to copy the pattern of. I had to modify my pattern because the original holster was too short for the gun.
you do know the people that track/regularly check the manfred von karma tag aren't too appreciative about having a detailed post on his abusiveness put there right
Manfred von Karma was abusive. This is canon, and central to his character and storyline. He murdered Gregory Edgeworth over a petty slight, then adopted Gregory’s son for the express purpose of first molding the boy into the kind of lawyer that Gregory would despise, and then framing him for not one but two murders - one of which is achieved through a concerted, deliberate campaign of gaslighting and psychological torment. He is verbally abusive toward Miles when they interact in “Turnabout Reminiscence,” and evidence suggests that this was not a rare occurrence. It is strongly implied that Miles was taught to think of his PTSD symptoms as a personal failing.
In his professional life, he was staggeringly unethical. He forged and manipulated evidence, coerced and intimidated witnesses, and had zero compunctions about physically assaulting Phoenix and Maya. It is unclear exactly how many innocent people he had jailed and/or put to death, but given a forty-year career of attaining victory at all costs, it is likely there were many - such as in “The Inherited Turnabout,” where he extracts a false confession through means such as sleep deprivation (a form of torture) and threatening the suspect’s teenage daughter.
…Look. If you like him, fine. If you sympathize with him, fine. If you admire his good points, fine - because hey, he does have quite a few of them. He’s strong-willed, competent, extremely intelligent, absolutely aces at networking, and you can’t help but admire someone who can pull off wearing that coat. He is an awesome villain, and say what you will about his professional ethics, but it’s a lot of fun watching him work. Hell, I can even sympathize with his obsessive perfectionism, up to a point - because it’s not a drive for perfection so much as a fear of being seen as even remotely imperfect. I do pity him, a bit.
This does not alter the fact that he was a petty, arrogant, violently narcissistic, and yes, abusive horror of a man who caused a massive amount of suffering out of selfishness and fear. Pointing out these things - these canonical, well-documented, and absolutely plot-essential things - is not character-bashing.
I agree with you that it´s really horrible that Bellamy made a joke about 0ctavia being Prometheus... but the worst part is that i feel like the writers don´t even realize that the person making this joke was litterally chained to a rock. I´m just so over 0ctavia and her whole story.
I talked to @forgivenessishardforus about this joke last night and basically we speculated that the Prometheus joke is a tie in to a larger plot device involving Greek mythology.
Sam specced that it’s actually a callback to 3x09 (entitled, Stealing Fire), when Clarke steals the Flame (just as Prometheus stole the Flame from Zeus). This is also the episode where Octavia chains Bellamy to the rock (the beating takes place in 3x10), this would make Clarke and Bellamy Prometheus, not Octavia.
In this situation Octavia would serve as the eagle, who was responsible for pecking out and eating Prometheus’ liver every night. Apt when you consider that a large part of Octavia’s story line this season was about punishing Bellamy for his perceived slights against her. Prometheus is eventually freed from his chains.
Interestingly enough, this myth is also tied into the myth of Pandora’s box. Because Zeus couldn’t take fire back from the humans, he commanded Pandora (the first woman) to be molded from the Earth and endowed with a gift from each of the gods. Pandora comes bringing gifts, including “sickness that brings death to men”. Prometheus warns against Pandora, but his brother accepts her anyway and we all know what happens next. Pandora opens her box and out come all the evils in the world.
It’s possible Clarke could serves as Pandora in our story, as technically her shutting down the COL could be a different way of opening Pandora’s box. Almost immediately after she does so, sickness (ARS), pestilence (animals dying) and the actual end of the world begin.
However, we also know that hope stays in the box. And what has been a large part of Bellamy and Clarke’s story this Season? Hope.
“You still have hope?”/”We’re still breathing.” and even after the nuclear apocalypse, we find Clarke who says “Anyway, I still have hope.”
Even after the world has released it’s worst (the death wave and all that entails), Clarke (Pandora) is still holding on to hope.
So while it’s a shitty joke, it’s possible that the writer’s were going for something deeper.
It was my first time makibg silicone molds and resin figures, im still shaky at it, but these guys came out allmight i suppose. Lots of damage control tho before i paint them. Bless resin for being carvable, sandable and able to handle hot glue and clay hole-filling without melting.
(literally one person asked for this but I needed a stress reliever so I blew the dust off this draft and finished it so here ya go)
He doesn’t remember being young. Sometimes it’s almost like he didn’t exist before that first time on the ice, in front of the cameras.
His name had been Vitya then, not Victor Nikiforov, living legend, and he hadn’t yet discovered his fondness for the icy air in the rink, the crisp scrape of blades on ice, the way it hurt to smile. He was just Vitya. Friendless, parentless, alone but for the grumpy old man that took him in.
Yakov was the first. The first to take Vitya and chip away at him, little by little, to reveal the person on the inside. Then, to chip away at that too.
Smile, Yakov says, time and again, during practice. Apparently, skating without smiling is akin to a mortal sin in the junior skating world.
I’m trying, he wanted to say. It hurts.
The thing about smiling when you’re made of stone is that if you manage it, you crack. And yet, he did it. The first time, he marvelled at the cold, the emptiness that smile brought. What is it about smiles, he wondered, that makes you feel like there should be a reason for them?
Victor! Victor! Victor!
The applause sands down the cracks. The compliments and medals and praise buff out the imperfections formed by false smiles. He gets used to the cold. To the emptiness. To the voice chipping away at who he is, bit by microscopic bit. Of course, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t find ways to stave it off a bit, to find ways to go back to being Vitya: alone, yes, but whole. At the very least, he wants to be whole.
So he thinks. And he dreams.
He didn’t think he was capable of dreaming. But he dreams up a faceless nobody, someone who loves him for Vitya, not for Victor Nikiforov.
As time passes, and the applause gets louder (but also much, much quieter, as he ceases to amaze one person after the next), and more and more of him chips away, his faceless nobody is the only thing keeping his heart from truly becoming stone, just like the rest of him.
There are some people that help warm him for a time, but even as they soften up his rougher edges, they’re taking something. They all want Victor, even those like Yakov who know and remember (probably even better than he does himself) who Vitya once was. It’s not their fault, he knows. He’s become Victor to them now, because as much as he hates the constant chip, chip, chipping at his very being, he can’t bring himself to fight it. So he gives up what little warmth he manages to gain from this thing that he loves, and trades it for friends, for fame, for medals.
He doesn’t know how not to be cold, how to keep himself from drawing warmth from the ice and giving it away. The echo of that warmth rings in his smile, the smile that cracks his face and shatters him.
His faceless nobody, the shadow that he’s dreamed up to stave off the loneliness, helps for a moment every once in awhile. Then it’s gone, flickering away like a dream, like the shadow it is. The cold crashes down on him like an avalanche of loneliness every time he lets himself dream, lets himself wonder what it might be like to not have to be made of stone all the time.
He’s so used to being cold that when it gets worse, when it begins to burn, he hardly even notices.
The smiles, those damned things that crack him, ruin him from the inside out, begin to freeze in place. He can no longer find it within himself to fake his warmth, to give any away. There is no more to give. The icy air in the rink, the crisp scrape of blades on ice, everything he loves about skating becomes bitter, dull, hateful. His programs take on a longing, melancholy feel.
He cuts his hair. Perhaps, he thinks as he’s taking a pair of scissors to it in the bathroom, it will show people that Victor Nikiforov is dead. He can no longer surprise people with his skating, with the exceedingly crazy stunts he pulls on the ice in a desperate attempt to regain some of the warmth, some of the softness that he once had, even just for a moment. That would be enough.
No one is surprised. In fact, they are ecstatic.
It’s a very masculine look, Victor.
You were getting too old for that hairstyle anyway.
This time, when it begins to burn, he feels it. He smiles that same shattered smile, frozen in time. There is nothing else for him to do.
His new hair goes unnoticed, his cry for warmth unanswered. His feet, his body, are marble, perfect. His skating has stagnated, and he seems to be the only one noticing it because no one notices when perfection plateaus. The world, the reporters, the competitors, the medals continue to chip, chip, chip away at him piece by piece. Soon, he worries, there may not be anything left for them to take.
When he’s twenty seven, the marble wears thin. His shadow, his dream is gone; lost in the absence of hope and the fear of that avalanche one day consuming him. He hasn’t thought about it in years, not until this season. Until the whispers in the corridors and the more public speculations of sports reporters.
His last season.
Still so perfect.
Try as he might, he can’t help that the only word that comes to mind when he choreographs Stammi Vicino is cold.
He’s always been vaguely aware of the fact that he can’t be on the ice forever. The reality of that coming to fruition, though, is much, much more bone-chilling than he expected it to be.
He knows how they are going to see Stammi Vicino, if they see any meaning in a at all. A cry for true love, they’ll think. A final call for attention and companionship before he retires. That’s even what Yakov seems to think it is; he’s started calling him Vitya again, in a misguided attempt to make him feel better about his loneliness. It’s far too late for something as simple as a name change to give him the softness, the warmth he so desperately longs for after spending so long being carved out of marble.
Because that’s what Stammi Vicino is– not a cry for attention or love. He doesn’t know what love is, not really. But he does remember warmth, and softness. The program is a cry for those, the things that would make him more human than marble. He longs to know what it would be like to be alive, to be made of something more than stone.
He doesn’t expect that prayer to be answered so soon, and especially not by a drunk Japanese skater with a tie– a godawful tie, at that –wrapped around his forehead. The man clings to him, and begs him to become a coach, of all things, before dragging him out onto a dance floor.
For a first time in his life, he thinks that maybe his faceless shadow, the one that he’s been dreaming of and wishing for for years, may have a face. It may even have a name: Yuuri Katsuki. So he lets himself be whisked away onto the dance floor.
Just for tonight, the marble gives way to flesh. Blood pumps through his veins, warming him for the first time in… he can’t even remember how long. He’s always been cold. But his smile stretches around his teeth, for the first time bending and molding itself into shape instead of shattering his face and soul into jagged pieces. Yuuri is the first person to shape the marble instead of chipping away at it. He discovers that he far prefers the former to the latter.
And just for tonight, dancing obnoxiously in a room full of businessmen and professionals, Vitya lives.
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“We were worried when you didn’t come in this morning.” Lestrade said to you.
“Bit of a weird night.” You said, following Lestrade into his office where Donovan was waiting.
“Oh, look who decided to show up. What’d you do? Bang your head against the headboard to hard?” Donovan said, smirking and pointing to your bruised temple.
“Good morning to you too Sally.” You fake smiled, she was only jealous because Lestrade liked you more.
“You like the funny cases don’t you, the surprising ones.” Lestrade said to Sherlock, changing the subject.
“Obviously.” Sherlock said.
“Then you’ll love this.” Lestrade said. “That explosion.”
“Gas leak, yes.” Sherlock said.
“No.” Lestrade returned.
“No?” Sherlock asked surprised.
“No, made to look like one,” Lestrade explained, “Nothing left of the place, except a strong box. A very strong box, and inside it was this.” Lestrade said pointing to an envelope on his desk.
“You haven’t opened it.” Sherlock observed.
“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?” Lestrade said. “We’ve X-rayed it. It’s not booby-trapped.”
“How reassuring.” Sherlock said. He examined the thick envelope under a desk lamp. “Nice stationary, Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, iridium nib.” Sherlock deduced. He began to open it and dumped its contents out onto his hand. It was an iPhone in a pink case.
“But that… that’s the phone. The pink phone.” John stammered.
“What, from The Study in Pink?” Lestrade asked.
“Well obviously it’s not the same phone but it’s supposed to look like… A Study in Pink? You read his blog?” Sherlock asked annoyed.
“Of course I read his blog. We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?” Lestrade asked, and Donovan snickered as she walked out of the room.
“It isn’t the same phone. This one’s brand-new. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means your blog has a far wider readership.” Sherlock said as he clicked the phone on. He went to the voicemail but all it was was 5 pips.
“Was that it?” Lestrade asked.
“No that’s not it.” Sherlock said, and he was right. After the message was over the phone received a text. It was a picture of a disheveled flat.
“What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips.” Lestrade said.
“It’s a warning. Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again.” Sherlock said.
“Hang on. I’ve seen that place before.” You said, taking the phone out of Sherlock’s hand.
“What’s gonna happen again?” John asked.
“Boom!” Sherlock replied.
The three men followed you out to the street to fetch a cab.
“I looked at this flat when I first moved here. We could have been flatmates.” You said to Sherlock.
“How do you mean?” Sherlock asked.
“This picture, it’s of 221C Baker Street.” You explained and the four of you caught a cab back to Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock hopped out first and went to unlock the door. The other two men followed, leaving you to pay.
“I’ll just pay then.” You said annoyingly as you handed the cabbie the fare.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled as we entered the flat.
“I knew you looked familiar dear. You came to see about this flat around the same time Sherlock moved in here.” Mrs. Hudson said to you as she handed Sherlock the key.
“This door has been opened, recently.” He said.
“No, can’t be. That’s the only key. I can’t get anyone interested in this flat. It’s the damp, I expect. That’s the curse of basements. I’d a place once when I was first married. Black mold all up the wall…” Mrs. Hudson said, as the three men ignored her and walked down the stairs.
“Men…” you shrugged and smiled at her before following the guys down the stairs. When you made it to the bottom you saw that the only thing in the empty room were a pair of tennis shoes in the center. Sherlock began to walk towards them.
“He’s a bomber, remember.” John said, Sherlock continued on carefully. He knelt down next to the shoes slowly. Suddenly the pink phone rang, nearly making you jump. He stood up and answered it.
“Hello?” He asked.
“H…Hello… sexy.” the voice began, she was crying.
“Who is this?” Sherlock asked.
“I’ve…sent you… a little puzzle, just to say hi.”
“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock asked.
“I’m not crying. I’m typing and this study bitch is reading it out.”
“The curtain rises.” Sherlock mumbles to himself.
“What?” John asked, having heard him.
“Nothing.” Sherlock said.
“No, what did you mean?” John said.
“I’ve been expecting this for some time.” Sherlock replied.
“Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock or I’m going to be so naughty.” The call ended.
Lestrade caught a cab back to Scotland Yard to start working things out back there, look for this poor kidnapped lady. He instructed you to stay with Sherlock. This case was clearly all about him. Sherlock, John, and you went to Bart’s so you could start examining the shoes. Thank God Sherlock is a graduate Chemist.
When you walked in the lab you hung up your blazer on the coat rack. Now you were just in heels, tight slacks, and a brown strappy blouse.
“Who do you think it was?” John asked, you weren’t sure if he was talking to Sherlock or you.
“The woman on the phone… the crying woman.” John said again.
“She’s just a hostage.” You said.
“She doesn’t matter, no lead there.” Sherlock said.
“For god sake I wasn’t thinking about leads.” John said.
“You’re not going to be much use to her.” Sherlock said to John.
You walked behind Sherlock and examined all his equipment out on the lab table. On his computer he was trying to find a match for the dirt lodged in the bottom of the shoes.
“Are you trying to trace it, trace the call?” John asked you.
“No, whoever is doing this, planning all these intricate puzzles out for him,” you said pointing to Sherlock, “is not dumb enough to let his whole scheme crumple because of one traced call, he’ll have either re routed it through proxy servers or blocked the trace completely. This man is completely organized, I don’t plan on him making any mistakes.”
“Can you pass me my phone?” Sherlock asked you.
“Where is it?” You asked, standing behind him.
“My jacket.” He said. You rolled your eyes and reached into his jacket, your hand running against his chest and reaching into the breast pocket to pull out his phone.
“It’s a text from Mycroft.” You said, looking at his phone.
“Delete it.” He instructed, never looking up from the microscope.
“Delete it?” You asked, not sure why he wouldn’t even read it.
“Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” Sherlock said.
“Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you eight times. Must be important.” You said.
“Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment? Mycroft never texts if he can talk.” Sherlock said.
“That’s not true, he texts me all the time.” You said.
“That’s because he’s infatuated with you. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this, why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?” Sherlock said.
“Hold up… Did you say Mycroft was infatuated with me?” You laughed.
“Well he did take you to lunch yesterday didn’t he?” Sherlock said.
“Well so? He also offered me a job, that doesn’t mean he’s infatuated with me.” You argued.
“You’re probably the first woman he’s ever met that’s his intellectual equal… or at least mine.” Sherlock said. You were astounded, firstly by the fact that Sherlock believed you were his intellectual equal, which was saying something, and secondly by the fact that he thought Mycroft was basically in love with you.
“Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die.” John said, disappointed in our banter.
“What for? There’s hospitals full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does then.” Sherlock replied insensitively. John got a little upset and walked out the door. He probably just went to the loo, he’d be back in five minutes. He does love to be dramatic though.
Suddenly Sherlock’s computer beeped, indicating its found a match for the dirt on the shoes. As Molly walked in the door your phone rang, Lestrade was checking in.
“Any luck?” Molly asked.
“Oh yes!” Sherlock said excitedly. You turned to take the call.
‘Hey, any luck with the missing persons reports?” You asked Lestrade, who was looking if any women had been reported missing within the last few days. You heard the door open again and another voice was heard in the room.
Molly was introducing the man to Sherlock, she then turned to you
“And this is Sergeant Gregson.” Molly said, you turned around at the sound of your name and quickly shook the man’s hand, clearly more interested in your phone call.
“No none reported recently. What about on your end?” Lestrade asked.
“Hang on let me ask… Sherlock Lestrade wants to know the progress.” you said. You turned to Sherlock, your phone still pressed against your ear. You rested the other hand on the lab table next to him.
“Tell him to meet us at our flat in an hour.” Sherlock said, still looking into the microscope.
“So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you, are you on one of your cases?” The man said, clearly no one was going to reply.
“Did you hear that?” You asked Lestrade.
“Jim works in IT, upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.” Molly giggled.
“Yup, I’ll see you guys then.” Lestrade said.
“Gay. I mean, hey.” Sherlock said, after one glance at the man.
“Alright, bye.” You said, ending the call.
“Well, I better be off. I’ll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?” The man said, turning and walking towards the door. You never got a clear look at his face but the fact that his underwear was hanging off was good enough to prove to you that this man was indeed gay.
“What do you mean gay? We’re together.” Molly said.
“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.” Sherlock said rudely.
“Two and a half.” she tried to defend herself.
“No, three.” Sherlock stated again.
“Sherlock.” you said, warning him.
“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil… He’s not!” Molly yelled.
“Please, with that level of personal grooming? Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.” Sherlock scoffed.
“His underwear?” Molly asked, appalled.
“Visible above the waistline. Very visible, very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.” Sherlock said, picking up the piece of paper.
“Maybe the number was for her, I mean her tits are practically hanging out.” Molly said pointing to you.
“Hey! Even if the number was for me, do you really want to continue dating someone who was trying to pick up another chick right in front of his current girlfriend. I’d say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” You said. Molly rushed out the door angrily.
You immediately looked down at your chest. Contrary to Molly’s statement, your breasts weren’t hanging out that much. You couldn’t help it you had them, they were just there. You pulled the straps up on your blouse to see if they’d go in any more but you had no such luck. Sherlock noticed what you were doing.
“What she said bothered you didn’t it?” He asked. You looked up awkwardly, your hands practically on your boobs.
“Well, yeah.” You said, moving your hands to your waist.
“Leave them alone, they look great.” Sherlock said. You blushed.
“Sherlock!” You giggled, punching him lightly on the arm.
“What?” Sherlock smirked.
“I don’t know, it’s just not like you to say something like that.” You laughed.
“I guess I’ve just never had anyone make me feel like you do.” He said, your eyes widened as you looked into his blue orbs. All you wanted to do right now was run your hands through those curls and let him take you on this table. The computer beeping broke your thoughts.
Sherlock pushed one of the shoes towards you, asking you to take it. You raised an eyebrow at him.
“You know what I do, go on.” Sherlock said.
“You want me to do what you do?” you asked and he nodded. You smirked and picked up the shoe.
“They’re very clean, but the sole of well worn, suggesting they’re old. Cleaned properly, the owner must have loved them. They’re quite large, suggesting a man, but there’s faint traces of marker inside where a name would have been written.” You said, in an arrogant way with your best British accent.
“You’re on sparkling form, what else?” Sherlock said, smiling at the accent.
“Adults don’t write their names in their shoes so these belonged to a child. Very ‘80s. Could be retro, or could be originals. If he loved them, kept this good care of them, then why did he lose them or give them up?” You added. “How did I do?”
“Well, Y/N, really well. I mean you missed almost everything of importance, but.” Sherlock said in an American accent. You laughed.
“That’s my line.” You said, smirking.
“Well, you know. I thought we were just doing impressions now,” Sherlock laughed, “You said that to me the day we met. God, I was so excited to find someone like me.” You smirked. You liked this Sherlock, this flirty, cocky, but still sweet. And always sexy.
“Your turn.” you smiled, handing him the shoe.
“Well you haven’t left me much left. He changed the laces three… No, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them so he suffered from eczema. Weak arches. Analysis shows the mud is from Sussex with London mud overlaying it. So the kid who owned these trainers, came to London from Sussex 20 years ago and left them behind.”
“So what happened to him?” You asked.
“Something bad. So a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock began and then he stopped. His eyes grew wide and you could tell he was thinking or remembering something.
“What?” you asked.
“Carl Powers.” He whispered.
“Who is that?” You asked.
“It’s where I began, Y/N. Go find John, we need to get back to Baker Street.” Sherlock instructed and you nodded.
When the three of you returned to Baker street, Lestrade was there waiting for you.
“Who is Carl Powers?” You asked Sherlock.
“1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?”
“But you remember?” You asked him.
“Yes.” He answered.
“Something fishy about it?” You asked again.
“Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” Sherlock continued.
“You started young, didn’t you.” John commented.
“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong somewhere. I couldn’t get it out of my head.” sherlock said.
“What?” Lestrade asked.
“His shoes. They weren’t there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in the locker. But there was no sign of his shoes. Unit now.” Sherlock said, holding up the evidence bag with the shoes inside. You looked at your watch, there was only 6 hours left to solve the puzzle.
Sherlock sat down in the kitchen at his laptop researching. You sat opposite of him with Lestrade sifting through newspaper clippings. John was pacing in the living room, you knew he was concerned with the time and the kidnapped woman.
Sometimes, as an investigator it can be hard to remove yourself from the consequences. Just focus on the solution and stop stressing about what would happen if you didn’t solve the puzzle. In time sensitive cases like these it can be increasingly hard. Sherlock obviously has no problem with this. He wouldn’t even blink an eye if this woman died, all he cared about was solving it. Playing the game. Winning.
“Can I help? I want to help there’s only five hours left.” John said through the door, breaking you all out of your train of thought. You heard your phone ding in the other room.
“John would you mind getting that for me? It’s on the coffee table, thanks.” You said as he walked off to fetch it.
“It’s your brother. He’s texting her now about his case.” John said to Sherlock.
“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock said. John placed your phone on the table in front of you as you continued looking through the clippings.
“Look, he did say National importance.” John said.
“Hmph, how quaint.” Sherlock scoffed.
“What is?” John asked.
“You are. Queen and country.” Sherlock mocked, paying more attention to his investigation.
“You can’t just ignore it.” John chastised.
“I’m not ignoring it. I’m putting my best man onto it right now.” Sherlock said.
“Right good. Who’s that?” John asked, naively. You smirked, Sherlock looked up to him and raised his eyebrow.
“Well you better get going. Like you said… National importance.” Sherlock said.
The next time you looked at your watch there were only 3 hours left. Sherlock had moved to his microscope and Lestrade had gone out for coffee. Sherlock was analyzing the shoelaces from Carl Power’s trainers.
“Poison!” Sherlock yelled suddenly.
“What you going on about?” Mrs. Hudson asked, you hadn’t realized she’d entered the room to bring you all food.
“Clostridium botulinum! It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” Sherlock said.
“Are you saying he was murdered?” Lestrade asked from the doorway. He handed you your coffee and you thanked him.
“Remember the shoelaces. The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect paralyses the muscles and he drowns.” Sherlock further explained.
“How come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?” Lestrade asked.
“It’s virtually undetectable. I’m sure no one would have been looking for it. It would have only taken about 75 nanograms to do it. One kg would be enough to kill the entire human population.” You answered.
Sherlock began typing furiously into his computer and you saw it was on his blog. Smart. This whole case was centered around him. The perp probably had text alerts for his blog.
“FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.” Sherlock typed.
“The killer kept the shoes all these years.” Lestrade said.
“Yes… Meaning?” Sherlock asked.
“He’s our bomber…” You answered. Suddenly the pink phone rang, again it was a blocked number.
“Well done, you. Come and get me.” The voice sobbed.
“Where are you? Tell us where you are.” Sherlock spoke into the phone. The woman answered and Lestrade looked to you, wide eyed.
“Let’s go!” He said to you. The two of you rushed down to his squad car and sped off to the location. You called for bomb squad once you got in the car.
“She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house.” You explained to Sherlock once he met up with you guys back in Lestrade’s office at the Yard.
“She had to read off from this pager.” Lestrade said, placing the pager on the table.
“If she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off.” Sherlock observed.
“Or if you hadn’t solved the case.” You pointed out.
“Oh… Elegant.” Sherlock said softly.
“What was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asked.
“No, I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored.” Sherlock said. Suddenly the pink phone buzzed again, indicating there was a voicemail. He played it and this time there were only four pips.
“First test passed, it would seem.” Sherlock said. “Here’s the second.” He held up the phone so Lestrade and you could see it. It was of a car, black, sporty.
“It’s abandoned, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock observed.
“Go check if it’s been reported.” Lestrade instructed you, pointing outside to the phone and monitors. You nodded and glanced at the picture one last time, memorizing the make and license number. As you left the room Donovan entered, letting the ‘freak’ know he had a phone call. He stepped out of the room and stood near you, tapping away on the computer, holding the landline against your ear.
“Who is this? Is this you again?” you heard Sherlock ask. A moment passed before he spoke again.
“You’ve stolen another voice I presume.”
“Who are you? What’s that noise?”
The voice on your end spoke, killing your train of thought. You listened to the words they said, alerting you they found the car.
“Great.” you spoke, placing the phone back on the receiver.
“Found it.” you told Lestrade, passing by Sherlock who slowly lowered the phone from his ear. He turned to follow you and Lestrade out the door.