Her skin was smooth, the finest of foreign silk. A scent–her scent– attacked his nostrils, fine and musky. Earthy, but undoubtedly feminine. Her thin fingers caressed his back, steadily tracing the scars that marred the skin. Long legs were hooked loosely around his own, small feet rubbing gently against his calves.
She assaulted his senses. She was the air around him, surrounding him with her touch, her taste. He couldn’t escape, didn’t want to.
“Claire…” He moaned into her ear, lips brushing the soft shell.
She rolled her hips against his in response– an entirely new sensation for Jamie. A quiet giggle whispered from her lips, much like the one from earlier that evening. “Yes, love?”
Love? Surely, he must be dreaming. Only in dreams did wishes come true so thoroughly.
“I… I want ye, Claire.”
Her legs rose, and hooked around his thighs. She pushed her hips again until their centers were flush. They groaned in unison. “I’m here, Jamie. Have me.”
“I… I don't… I think…”
“Don’t think. Just do. Please?” Her heels dug into his arse, urging…
So he did, pressing into her slowly… slowly… until all he could feel was warm slickness. He crushed himself to her, the hardness of her nipples poking into his chest.
He began to move without thought, a motion as old as time itself.
“Jamie… Jamie, please…” Her voice rasped, the shallow breaths interrupting her words. “Oh, God…”
She seemed to glow, as if lit from within by a candle. The world around them darkened; she was the only light.
“Claire, I canna…”
Jamie woke, surrounded by hay and shit, cock in hand. Of course it was just a dream…
Jamie kept watch of Claire from afar. Perhaps it was the embarrassment after his dream that caused him to keep his distance. For weeks, he could not speak to her, could not look her in the eye without flashes of pale legs and full breasts filling his vision.
She didn’t seem to notice, though. She kept herself busy, surrounding her in the greenery that was the Leoch gardens. He saw her mind work as she contemplated each plant, each herb. Her lips moved quickly, whispering secrets to herself.
Sometimes she was joined by Geillis Duncan, wife of the local fiscal. Most times, though, she was alone. In those times, he felt compelled to join her, reach out to her. But her never did. His excuses came readily: he did not want to interrupt her, he was embarrassed by his dream.
Deep within his mind, a subconscious part, though, he knew the truth. He felt strongly about this woman, an emotion pulsed through him that he had never felt before.
He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t know it fully himself. But it frightened him.
The stream bubbled softly, lulling Jamie into a gentle daze. Thoughts escaped him– dreaming without falling asleep.
This was his place, a place he came to be alone. It was far enough from the castle grounds that others didn’t stumble upon it. It was truly nothing special, just a clearing beside a brook. But Jamie held it in high regard; he told his secrets to this earth.
“Jamie.” He started at his name. He knew that voice, but he turned anyway. Claire stood amongst the trees, halfway hidden between two trunks. A faerie, she seemed to be, comfortable and glowing in the nature surrounding her.
“Mistress Beauchamp, hello. How did ye find me out here?”
She walked over to him as she spoke. “Well, I saw you, and I called your name. But I suppose you didn’t hear me. So, I followed the red hair.” She motioned to the mop in question.
“Oh, aye? Did ye need anything, then? Please, sit.” Jamie moved over, giving her enough room to perch on the rock beside him.
“Actually, yes. I wanted to speak with you.”
“What is it, Mistress?”
“You’ve been avoiding me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.
“Avoiding ye? No, no, that’s no…”
She continues as if he hadn’t spoke. “I was just curious as to why. I mean… I hope I haven’t offended you in any way.”
“No, Sassenach, ye haven’t.”
“Is it your… umm… your lady? Did you not want her to get the wrong… idea about us? I would hate to get in the way of two people in love.”
He had no idea what she was speaking of. Love? “Wait. I’m sorry, Claire. My lady?”
“Oh… umm… yes. The pretty girl with the yellow hair?”
“You mean Laoghaire?”
“I suppose. I saw the two of you in the alcove by the kitchens.”
Jamie would have been grateful to disappear. He could feel his cheeks burn red. She saw that? “Oh… ummmm… no, no. That's… that isn’t my lady. That didn't… that wasn't… anything.”
He couldn’t look Claire in the eye. “So, you just kiss girls without meaning it?”
“N-no! It’s just… she kissed me! And then… I just… I didn't…”
“You didn’t stop her?”
God, what did she think of him now? A man with no morals? A man that takes advantage of women? He chanced a peek at her. A glint sparkled in her eyes, one side of her mouth turned up.
She was teasing him. Oh, Jesus.
“Yer mocking me.”
She didn’t deny it. “A bit,” she said through a chuckle.
He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs. “Oh, come on. Just a bit of teasing. I was serious about you avoiding me, though.”
He couldn’t tell her the truth. “It’s just been… a hectic couple of weeks, is all. I’m sorry.”
“No, no! You’re fine! I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t upset you in anyway.”
“No,” he reassured with a smile. “Ye hadn’t.”
She grinned back before turning back to the stream. They both watched the water in silence. What was she thinking?
He watched her from the corner of his eyes. She sat as a statue, except for her hands. He watched her fingers twirl the gold band on her left hand, a hypnotizing steady rhythm.
“Ye miss him, don’t ye?”
“Hmm?” She followed his line of sight. “Oh, yes. Very much.”
“I’ll listen, if ye want to talk of him. I ken it helps sometimes.”
She turned, staring straight at him. A deep sadness clouded her face, her eyes a sunset disappearing into a starless night.
The NHS is under fiscally challenging times. The hospital is in turmoil. AAU is a sinking ship with not one competent Senior Consultant at the helm. The trauma bay has been cruelly destroyed, just one more casualty in the ever growing politics of ego and power at the top of the castle, with no one actually having the patients’ best interests at heart.
There is a shot of a corridor. An opening of doors. (Remember Jemma Redgrave’s introduction trailer?)
Enter: Everyone’s favourite lesbian power couple.
Faces determined (and fairly tanned) and hands locked together.
One of them a Major in the army, ex-Iraq, ex-Afghanistan, one of them with a Harvard MBA in cut-throat manipulation and making grown men weep.
Lose The Poop For Good - Get Help Volition A Encyclical
As a personal farrier I am constantly inundated with questions about salt-free diet and losing weight. When you begin to mug at these topics, and specifically at mastication, character thing pdq comes to light. There are to the skies many diet plans out there that wading through them metagalaxy (and choosing one that works) bust be extremely severe. With that, let’s slim cover what a compelling party plan is and what superego is not.
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To evaluate each diet plan we tested them eclipsing a six fiscal year period of time. Earlier anyone squandered the top, I primary evaluated the program for safety, and then with the programs deemed uninjurious by me I had five of my clients use each diet plan. To ensure that the evaluations were foreseeable 3 of those who tested one and all impanel had more save 100 pounds to lose and 2 had 50 pounds or less till take substandard. Each century our try subjects were weighed, and they shared their thoughts about their progress (and the national assembly plan) thus asunder.
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OUR TOP CONTRACT FOR LOSING WEIGHT Fat Disablement 4 Idiots
Fat Loss 4 Idiots Rating9.9\10 Weight Loss Taste Safety
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#1 Rated Situs for Losing Weight 2011 The clear subjugator from our evaluations was Fat Attrition 4 Idiots. This individual program helped more people lose precedence than monistic other program toward our commandeer, and those who used it also lost more foul up than those who were evaluating the other programs we tested.
This one is mostly a diet program and doesn’t leave a lot into exercise. The upper crust part about Fat Loss 4 Idiots though is that i works very well. This one isn’t a rage diet. It won’t have you eating high-carb or low-carb foods, and her won’t put your health at risk.
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Those who used this program forfeited a lot of weight. In fact, ALTER had one tester who took jobless 150lbs in just four months, and ethical self done up looking and feeling better over against she had in years.
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Mod second place we tell a program called Burn the Fat. This coadunate was written by one of the world’s top fitness experts, and as such, it’s couplet a diet and exercise hatch. In our testing this one worked near how kindheartedly as Quintessence Loss 4 Idiots, except that since there was a bigger exercise factor and the diet plan was slightly distant we have put it in stand behind place.
Burn the Fat is touted so be the program that burns plethora and feeds endeavor. In our tests this turned out in consideration of occur true. In reference to the five house who tested this total her all hands lost weight and if you stick with this list you should keep it off so as to good.
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East Stop Eat
Abuse 6.9\10 Weight Loss Diet Safety
Tasty Foods In extenso Rating
Also Recommended 4. Eat Dying down Eat
Taking fourth side we have a frame called Eat Stop Nibble away. This one actually performed in all well for weight loss, and as the enjoyment factor forasmuch as well. The reason this one is in fourth is because it lost points on the health\safety factor.
ETHICAL SELF wouldn’t naturally call this one unsafe. For most commonalty it is perfectly safe, exclusively since it is a program that requires number one to eat for a while, then dead stand eating, en plus swallow up again - this diet may not be appropriate for some people. Definitely those who suffer from diabetes, or some contributory illness that requires them to keep their body in balance, may find this head unsafe.
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The Diet Solution Rating6.9\10 Upper hand Death Diet Safety valve Delightful Foods Overall Objurgation
Also Recommended 5. The Diet Liquescence
The defeat time product on our list is called the Diet Solution. Again this one performed visibly certainly for weight deprivation. Where subliminal self lost points was into safety and by enjoyment.
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-Logan keeps saying he is ‘socially liberal, fiscally conservative” so many times, you almost start to forget the portrait of Ronald Reagan he has over his fireplace mantel
-Jess says his only regret in life is that he can’t go back in time and reread Naked Lunch as if he’s never read it before
-Dean’s favorite television show isn’t exactly Big Bang Theory, but yeah, he’ll keep it on if it’s marathoning
-Logan and his friends see Zoolander 2 and keep quoting it to each other, high fives and all
-Dean slowly eats a ham sandwich he made himself
-Jess keeps popping in, asking if anybody noticed his tattered DVD copy of The Royal Tenembaums. He leaves it in the bathroom so people can read the back.
-Somebody asks Dean a question and he goes “what?”
-Jess isn’t Banksy, perse, but he does keep a glass jar of pennies on his kitchen table that says BREAK THIS IF THE BANKS HAVE WON, and he breaks it with a hammer every time guests come over
-Logan knows Martin Shkreli well enough to have been invited to his Big Pharma Toga Party last year, but in his defense he didn’t even RSVP
-Dean slowly stares at his hands
-Jess turns off the television after a few minutes. “This shit will rot our mind,” he says. A few minutes later: “Although I do stream Mr. Robot.”
-Logan, unprompted, reminds us of his ethnic friends
-Dean shares a story: last year, he couldn’t find his socks. But later on, he did. They were IN his boots.
-Jess rolls his eyes. He didn’t have to watch Making A Murderer to learn about how deeply fucked up the system is. He takes out a match. “Today,” he announces, “will be the last time I ever let the government speak my name.” He burns a checkbook. It isn’t his.
-”No, I don’t have a checkbook. Why do you ask?” Jess, not so unprompted.
-Luke comes in, looking for his checkbook.
-Logan goes, “no problem, sport”, and gives Luke his checkbook.
-Dean, four days later, understands what just happened.
It is not the President’s primary job to look after the stock market. But it is still interesting to look back on how certain policies may have impacted markets and how people invested during that time.
Below, you will find a chart of the S&P 500 $SPY ETF since Barack Obama became President of the United States. Some pretty crazy things happened over the last 8 years. That included the Financial Crisis, the rise of ISIS, Russia taking Crimea and the Fiscal Cliff.
At times, it really did feel like the world was going to come to a standstill.
Okay, so I wanna see if anyone’s interested in this. Also, Bernie being Bernie, manages somehow to turn a sheep.
Serena throws her bags into the passenger seat of her car and slams the door. She eyes the pair of heels poking out of a carrier bag. Leopard print and murder for her feet. What was it that they said when it came to fashion? No pain, no gain. Not true.
She is halfway to selling her soul to this hospital. She keeps AAU firing on all cylinders, day in, day out, despite the pitiful lack of adequate trauma or any adequate facilities, come to think of it. There was the NHS living under fiscally challenging times and then there was just taking the piss.
How many fundraisers had she attended? How many times had she dressed up and flirted and smooth-talked her way around a party? Serena Campbell, Deputy CEO, currently unbeaten by any other member of staff in the number of donations she’d wooed from Holby’s elite – and her department hardly saw a penny of it.
She thought it would pay off, every mountain of paperwork she’d trudged through after her shift ended, every hour spent in the boardroom listening to men – who looked like they were just out of nappies and probably had never held a scalpel in their life – tell her what to do.
She thought this was it. She brought a new shirt. Horribly expensive. New shoes. Likewise. This morning, she even shimmied her way into a pencil skirt – a rarer than Hayley’s comet occurrence simply due to its sheer impracticality. Try wheeling patient into theatre in a pencil skirt. Try doing anything in a pencil skirt.
But she had wanted to look the part for when she was appointed. Holby’s City’s new CEO.
Except she wasn’t.
Bernie Wolfe is sure she’s one second away from embodying her surname. She is going to strangle that sheep. She is going to drop her walking stick and clamber over the fence – her stupid, broken body be damned – and strangle that fucking sheep.
You would think that she’s gotten used to it, wouldn’t you? But no. The screeching of roosters, the clucking of chickens, the shrieking of piglets and the God damn bleating of sheep still grated on her every nerve. Not that she can tell her cousin Kate that – the owner of the farm – who’s given Bernie a roof over her head and a supposedly ‘quiet, relaxing place to rehabilitate’ after Bernie’s marriage – and life – fell to pieces. Playing happy families with Marcus was no longer an option. Not that Bernie had any skill in that department. Emergency surgery with limited supplies in the heat and dust of the Afghan desert, she can do. Marriage, evidently not. As for motherhood … she found out yesterday that Marcus has got the kids to sign statements supporting his case for the divorce. Chapter and verse on her failings as a wife and mother.
Bernie is seething at the thought. How dare he! How dare he turn this into a battle and manipulate her children onto his side! Bernie digs her walking stick into the ground. She glares at the sheep next to her. It won’t stop staring at her, face pressed up against the gate. It won’t stop baaing. Deep, guttural, constant baas.
Aimed at Bernie.
Forget about the stupid sheep, Bernie tells herself. Breathe. She’s nearly at the house. Has nearly finished her walk. As pathetic as the length was, but it is all she can manage right now. Small steps, her therapist advised. Not just literally, but figuratively as well. Recovery was a journey, physically and mentally. It takes time.
Well, it’s taken too much time for Bernie’s liking.
She’s losing her mind trapped on this farm. The endless days and nights give her too much time to think. Think about Alex. Think about Marcus. Think about her children. Think about all she’s fucked all. Think about all she’s run from. Thinking is the last thing she needs. She needs to do. Anything. Something. She needs something to concentrate her mind on. Her physical therapist refuses to give her the green light for work. It’s probably a good thing. She can’t flee back to the army. She must face up to things. Pick up the pieces. She must try. She owes her children that.
Bernie trudges on, unware that the sheep – Daffodil, if one cares to knows – has snuck under the gate, stopped baaing and is now quietly, but determinedly, following Bernie back to the house.
Before she pulls of the car pack, Serena checks her phone. Still no reply off Elinor. What is her daughter playing at? She thinks of calling her again, but knows it will just go to voicemail. She can’t just give her radio silence after summoning her like that.
No, it can’t wait. Please come as soon as you can. Nothing to worry about. Just need to talk to you.
Serena, despite Elinor’s insistence, is worried. Very.
Her daughter texts her the address of a random pub in Holby and tells her that she needs to talk to her. Immediately. Her and Elinor haven’t talked – the kind of talk Elinor’s suggesting – since Elinor hit the terrible teens.
Drink is the first thing that comes to Serena’s mind. Drink or drugs. Memories of her daughter’s house party flash before her.
Oh God. Serena thinks. Whatever this it can’t be good.
Bernie eases herself into her car. She shouldn’t really be driving. But she’s a doctor – that gives her a free pass to take whatever advice other doctors offer her as guidelines.
Besides, Cam needs her. He’s asked her to see him, as soon as possible. He must not hate her after all. To text her out the blue. They’ve hardly talked since she returned home, weeks comprised of stifled family dinners like the kind when Bernie cooked her special Spaghetti Bolognese that Charlotte and Cameron had always wolfed down as kids, to discover that Charlotte was now a vegetarian and Cam, on Wednesday nights, eats with the lads after their weekly kick around.
It was difficult trying to fit back into the family fold, to try and find a space after so many years spent serving in the forces, to try and play catch up. Any progress she’d made with Charlotte or Cameron was no more. Not after ‘oh by way the mummy’s a lesbian and cheated on your dad with her female colleague’. Not after Marcus started the divorce.
But, this, Cameron’s text, feels like an olive branch. A shift in the sea. And, Bernie smiles at this, proof that, despite his growth into adulthood and all the years of it Bernie has missed, he still needs her. Still needs his mum.
Grinning, Bernie reverses out the driveway.
Bernie nearly jumps out her skin, but manages to stop the car in time. Manages to stop committing road kill. When she looks behind, she sees that bloody sheep. It comes up to the driver’s window. Gapes at her.
“Next time,” Bernie mutters under her breathe, “I won’t stop.” She drives off, leaving Daffodil standing and watching the silver of her car disappear.
Maybe, Bernie reflects later, it was some sort of omen. Some sort of warning or symbol. Sheep. Lambs. Pictures of spring. Pictures of birth.
Cameron raises a glass of coke to his lips. Downs what remains of it in one go. “That’s your third one,” Elinor reminds him. “You better not flee to the loo when our mothers arrive.”
“I won’t. I promise. I told you. We’re in this together and when our mothers arrive –“
Elinor groans. Brings her head down to the table. “Our mothers. Oh God, why did we call them?”
“Because we decided that – as responsible adults – we couldn’t logically hide this forever and now was a good a time as any to involve them.”
“Mum’s going to lose it.”
“My mother is a Major. In the Army. If I survive tonight, well, let’s consider it a miracle.”
“Mine is Deputy CEO of Holby City. Charms all of the Junior doctors like ducks from a pond and then devours them for dinner.”
Cameron grows increasingly pale. “What have we done?”
“That is indeed the million-dollar question,” Elinor murmurs, face still buried in her arms.
"Sherlock Holmes: Discovering the Border Burghs and, by deduction, the Brig Bazaar"
Courtesy of the Telegraph, here’s the first newly-discovered Sherlock Holmes story in 80 years! Conan Doyle wrote the story apparently in an effort to save his favorite bridge in Selkirk and it was unearthed last week in a man’s attic.
‘We’ve had enough of old romancists and the men of travel, said the Editor, as he blue-pencilled his copy, and made arrangements for the great Saturday edition of the Bazaar Book. 'We want something up-to-date. Why not have a word from “Sherlock Holmes”?’
Editors have only to speak and it is done, at least, they think so. 'Sherlock Holmes!’ As well talk of interviewing the Man in the Moon. But it does not do to tell Editors all that you think. I had no objections whatever, I assured the Editor, to buttonhole 'Sherlock Holmes,’ but to do so I should have to go to London.
'London!’ scornfully sniffed the Great Man. 'And you profess to be a journalist? Have you never heard of the telegraph, the telephone, or the phonograh? Go to London! And are you not aware that all journalists are supposed to be qualified members of the Institute of Fiction, and to be qualified to make use of the Faculty of Imagination? By the use of the latter men have been interviewed, who were hundreds of miles away; some have been “interviewed” without either knowledge or consent. See that you have a topical article ready for the press for Saturday. Good day’.’
I was dismissed and had to find copy by hook or by crook. Well, the Faculty of Imagination might be worth a trial.
The familiar house in Sloan Street met my bewildered gaze. The door was shut, the blinds drawn. I entered; doors are no barrier to one who uses the Faculty of Imagination. The soft light from an electric bulb flooded the room. 'Sherlock Holmes’ sits by the side of the table; Dr Watson is on his feet about to leave for the night. Sherlock Holmes, as has lately been shown by a prominent journal, is a pronounced Free Trader. Dr Watson is a mild Protectionist, who would take his gruelling behind a Martello tower, as Lord Goschen wittily put it, but not 'lying down!’ The twain had just finished a stiff argument on Fiscal policy. Holmes loq,-
'And when shall I see you again, Watson? The inquiry into the “Mysteries of the Secret Cabinet” will be continued in Edinburgh on Saturday. Do you mind a run down to Scotland? You would get some capital data which you might turn to good account later.’
'I am very sorry,’ replied Dr Watson, 'I should have liked to have gone with you, but a prior engagement prevents me. I will, however, have the pleasure of being in kindly Scottish company that day. I, also, am going to Scotland.’
'Ah! Then you are going to the Border country at that time?’
'How do you know that?’
'My dear Watson, it’s all a matter of deduction.’
'Will you explain?’
'Well, when a man becomes absorbed in a certain theme, the murder will out some day. In many discussions you and I have on the fiscal question from time to time I have not failed to notice that you have taken up an attitude antagonistic to a certain school of thought, and on several occasions you have commented on the passing of “so-called’ reforms, as you describe them, which you say were not the result of a spontaneous movement from or by the people, but solely due to the pressure of the Manchester School of politicians appealing to the mob. One of these allusions you made a peculiar reference to "Huz an’ Mainchester” who had “turned the world upside down.” The word “Huz” stuck to me, but after consulting many authors without learning anything as to the source of the word, I one day in reading a provincial paper noticed the same expression, which the writer said was descriptive of the way Hawick people looked at the progress of Reform. “Huz an’ Mainchester’ led the way. So, thought I, Watson has a knowledge of Hawick. I was still further confirmed in this idea by hearing you in several absent moments crooning a weird song of the Norwegian God Thor. Again I made enquires, and writing to a friend in the South country I procured a copy of "Teribus.” So, I reasoned, so - there’s something in the air! What attraction has Hawick for Watson?’
'Wonderful,’ Watson said, 'and – ’
'Yes, and when you characterised the action of the German Government in seeking to hamper Canadian trade by raising her tariff wall against her, as a case of “Sour Plums,” and again in a drawing room asked a mutual lady friend to sing you that fine old song, “Braw, braw lads,” I was curious enough to look up the old ballad, and finding it had reference to a small town near to Hawick, I began to see a ray of daylight. Hawick had a place in your mind; likewise so had Galashiels - so much was apparent. The question to be decided was why?’
'So far so good. And – ’
'Later still the plot deepened. Why, when I was retailing to you the steps that led up to the arrest of the Norwood builder by the impression of his thumb, I found a very great surprise that you were not listening at all to my reasoning, but were lilting a very sweet - a very sweet tune, Watson - “The Flowers of the Forest;” then I in turn consulted an authority on the subject, and found that that lovely if tragic song had a special reference to Selkirk. And you remember, Watson, how very enthusiastic you grew all of a sudden on the subject of Common-Ridings, and how much you studied the history of James IV., with special reference to Flodden Field. All these things speak, Watson, to the orderly brain of a thinker. Hawick, Galashiels, and Selkirk. What did the combination mean? I felt I must solve the problem, Watson; so that night when you left me, after we had discussed the “Tragedy of a Divided House,” I ordered in a ton of tobacco, wrapped my cloak about me, and spent the night in thought. When you came round in the morning the problem was solved. I could not on the accumulative evidence but come to the conclusion that you contemplated another Parliamentary contest. Watson, you have the Border Burghs in your eye!’
'In my heart, Holmes,’ said Watson.
'And where do you travel to on Saturday, Watson?’
'I am going to Selkirk; I have an engagement there to open a Bazaar.’
'Is it in aide of a Bridge, Watson?’
'Yes,’ replied Watson in surprise; 'but how do you know? I have never mentioned the matter to you.’
'By word, no; but by your action you have revealed the bent of your mind.’
'Let me explain. A week ago you came round to my rooms and asked for a look at “Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome.” (You know I admire Macaulay’s works, and have a full set.) That volume, after a casual look at, you took with you. When you returned it a day or two later I noticed it was marked with a slip of paper at the “Lay of Horatius,” and I detected a faint pencil mark on the slip noting that the closing stanza was very appropriate. As you know, Watson, the lay is all descriptive of the keeping of a bridge. Let me remind you how nicely you would perorate -
When the goodman mends his armour
And trims his helmet’s plume,
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom,
With weeping and with laughter.
Still the story told -
How well Horatius kept the bridge,
In the brave days of old.
Could I, being mortal, help thinking you were bent on some such exploit yourself?’
'Well, goodbye, Watson; shall be glad of your company after Saturday. Remember Horatius’ words when you go to Border Burghs :- “How can man die better than facing fearful odds.” But there, these words are only illustrations. Safe journey, and success to the Brig!’
The good people of
Storybrooke aren’t as excited by coffee as Emma had thought they would be and
she and her business partner (yes business
partner and nothing else) Killian Jones are worried they’ll have to close
up. But Killian has some confessions that might soften the blow of their
failure just a little bit.
Rating: T (swearing)
don’t you worry there
my honey we might not have any
money but we’ve got our love to pay the bills
“Howdy, Swan! How
goes it?” Killian called, his voice booming over the tinkling bell of the front
door and the soft 90s rock playing in the background of their anything-but-busy
Grounds for Change coffee shop.
His tone was excited
and warm – as it always was – and
that shouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact it wouldn’t
be if Emma didn’t feel so damn guilty she was about to shatter his chipper mood
for probably the fifteenth time that fiscal year.
Ugh. Money. Who knew it would be this fucking
hard to make some. Everyone needs coffee, she reasoned. Everyone wants a nice place to hang out.
Everyone likes me and Killian – the
dream team since high school soccer (or football,
as the clinging-too-tightly-to-his-British-roots idiot would say) – so of course they’re going to support us.
Well they tried.
Storybrooke was sweet and full of people who at least thought they wanted to bolster local business. But after everyone
got through with speculating on when the co-owners would “finally do it,”
business dropped off significantly. Suddenly Emma’s heavenly caramel macchiatos
and Killian’s homemade bear claws just weren’t quite as interesting and, well, profits
sort of… poofed away.
I’ve had the opening of this in my head ALL WEEK so thank god I finally sat down and scourged myself through it.
Title: Bright Eyes (Steve/Tony) Rating: PG Warnings: None. Summary: Steve might have a fixation on Tony’s minor mutation. Notes: This is set in the universe of the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes animated cartoon, where Tony has remarkable gold-brown eyes.
Tony Stark had the strangest eyes Steve had ever seen, and he’d fought vampires, so that was saying something.
Not that they were unpleasant, not at all. They were just such an unusual color – Iron Man’s were blue of course, lit from inside, but Tony’s were anywhere from bright gold, in the right light, to deep burnished copper. Nobody had eyes like Tony, not even Hawkeye.
“get physical?” no, no, you misheard. I said, “get fiscal.” it’s time to smash the private bank consolidations. it’s time to fight monopolies. it’s time to bust some goddamn trusts. Nationalize That Shit, Motherfuckers
Japan is scrambling fighters at near-unprecedented levels in response to foreign aircraft - mainly Russian and Chinese - approaching its airspace. Jets were scrambled 943 times in fiscal year 2014, a 16% increase on 2013.
When Sherlock asks Moriarty "Why did you never feel pain?" inside his mind palace, what kind of pain is he talking about? the fisical or emotional.. I'm confuse because Molly tells him he's going to feel pain after the shoot, and needs to focus. So, when Sherlock is crying I don't know if he's feeling fisical pain or emotional.
Well, tax season is the time for fiscal pain, and I’m sure Moriarty never felt that. Maybe Sherlock was asking Moriarty why he never paid his taxes.
*picks up the mic again*
No? No. Not that funny. I’ll keep my day job.
I think Sherlock means physical pain when he asks that question, because it’s coming off the moment Sherlock begins to feel physical pain in great volumes and is seeking to control it.
I’m not sure why he thinks Moriarty didn’t feel physical pain, though. I’m not sure we’ve seen him endure any in the series, did we? Why would Sherlock think Moriarty doesn’t feel physical pain? Unless Mycroft put him through his paces somehow in prison and Moriarty never broke. I suspect it’s probably true in any case, he probably is very good at not letting pain dictate his response to any situation. He remains single-minded and driven toward his own goals no matter what his physical circumstances. Which is exactly what Sherlock needs to do.
Sherlock can’t think about physical pain without also thinking about his emotional pain, though. Moriarty in his head links the physical pain Sherlock is feeling with his heartbreak and loss specifically, which must be particularly close to the surface just then. That makes sense, of course. Sherlock has been shot close to the heart by John’s pregnant wife. Sherlock has a broken heart. It’s a figurative wound that has become a physical one. It’s the perfect shot Mary took, really, for the narrative. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it.
I always thought Moriarty in Sherlock’s mind palace represented fear, but now that we’re talking about him in terms of pain, I wonder if he actually represents that. Because pain in all its dimensions is what Sherlock has to control, and Moriarty is just barely under control here, taunting him. That’s a rational image of pain, as a thing that’s taunting him.
If we must understand Moriarty here as the representation of Sherlock’s pain, it’s his emotional pain that the harder one for him to control, in the end. That’s all Moriarty talks about. But he’s still chained up. He’s just barely under control, and within inches of reaching him, but never touching him. But in the end of the scene, Sherlock is lying down with his pain. He’s nearly being cuddled by it, it’s his last friend in the world.
What’s interesting to me is that mind palace!Moriarty only glosses over the fact of Sherlock’s pain without illustrating it for us. He doesn’t say Redbeard, he doesn’t mention the agony of the wound itself, and he doesn’t mention the loss of John. There are no ladies in wedding dresses or Irish Setters in here. Keeping a lid on those things, among others, I’m sure, is what the straightjacket is there for. If Moriarty in Sherlock’s mind palace had been let loose, we would have known exactly what hurts Sherlock the most. As it is we only dance around the edge of it, because Sherlock doesn’t lose control.
Man, do I ever love those mind palace sequences. So brilliant. They convey so much that we’d never know otherwise.