It is blurry.
The clinking of heels on tiles,
cackles a little too loud for this atmosphere,
people dragging each other
to the other side of the room -
they all blend together,
a glowing blur of joyous movement.
Why do we feel like the eye of a happy storm?
It is the juxtaposition of us two
to the rest of the room
that makes me all too aware
of every line on your face.
Like a maze I must complete.
gathered in constellations.
Once, you told me
a million miles away
never to fret
for we are under the same sky
looking up at the same stars,
and a million miles seemed like nothing
for we seemed so much nearer
and the room felt less empty.
In this room full of people,
superficial relationships only becoming more of itself,
this space is the emptiest it could get,
and you have never felt so far away from me.
I dare look at you.
You’re miles away.
And you felt it too
so it is forceful when you grab my waist,
holding on for dear life,
as if you wanted this to be anything but the last.
We are not strong; we get tired too.
The tide gets stronger
and we lose balance,
but this time,
we didn’t even try,
didn’t even bother to dig our feet into the sand.
It is the waves and wind that take us away.
(This is what we tell ourselves.)
Blurry becomes focused
and I forget the color of your eyes
the curve of your lips
It is then that you let go.
Molly finds an abandoned puppy and takes it in until she can find a new home for it. The puppy looks exactly like Redbeard and Sherlock falls in love with it.
A hazy day. A humdrum day. The susurration
of drizzle that had ghosted her windows all day now tapped insistently on her
umbrella. Clammy damp crawled its way up her calves, a tideline nearly at the
knee of overlong trousers. Spring had sprung, but winter wasn’t going down
Lists and jobs twirled in an endless cycle
round her mind, food then work then chores, an inexorable whirlpool. Nothing
enough to anchor her in one place, or in the moment, but all insistent niggles
on the edge of her awareness. What would
it be like, she wondered, to be able
to navigate your way easily when the mist sets in?
A little yip, quiet, almost self-conscious,
tugged her rapidly into focus. Looking around, she saw the source of the sound. Huddled in the lee of a bin, a small tumble of
muddy curls and gangly limbs; a canine echo of her husband after a case gone
south. Crouching, letting him come to her, she took in the little cur’s plight
– ribs barely covered with skin, a shiver rippling its way through its whole
body, alone. Right Molls, what next?
The worst of the mud scraped off, russet
tones revealed in the glint of passing headlights, Molly gathered the tiny dot
into her arms. With no lead, shielding the pup in her coat seemed the best
plan, and if the damp snuffle pressed into the crook of her neck as they traversed
the city was anything to go by, her tiny companion agreed.
now, little one, welcome to Baker Street.” Fumbling with her coat and the
cuddle, a laconic drawl from the corner had her wincing.
“Really, Molly, when I asked you to pick up
something for dinner, this wasn’t what I expected.”
“Look at him, I couldn’t leave him out there
in the rain. He’s skin and bone, and only a baby.”
“It’s Wiggins all over again…”
“Feed a stray once, Molly, and they’ll think
they live here.”
“Like I fed you, you mean? Back when I was
just a bolt-hole?
“Precisely. I took full advantage of your
softness, and look where that got you.”
“Fine, if I’m too soft? You look after it! I’m
getting a shower.”
As hot needles of water rained down on her,
prickling life back into frigid limbs, reluctant plans began to form. When you love a man of logic, you agree to
mould yourself into that shape, right? No room for “so cute, can I keep him”
when there are vets to ring and posters to make?
Wrapped in terrycloth, warmer in body but
trying desperately to grow a kernel of ice in her heart, the sight in the
lounge brought her up short. Nose to nose, understanding flowing from sharp
blue eyes into brown, man and puppy lay unmoving on the sofa.
“He says his name is Barbarossa.”
“Oh does he? And how did he come up with
“Just… a memory.”
Some days feel hazy, feel humdrum. A day
shrouded in mist, a slow wade through the tide. But sometimes, just sometimes,
the sun can burn off that fog, the world swims into view. And the things you
thought you knew are changed in that sudden shaft of light. Maybe its sentiment that’s catching, after
For those who wish to read it on tumblr, here you go! THIS IS MAJORLY NSFW! See AO3 or FF.Net for a full list of warnings.
Note: Dress design based off the lovely art of eisschirmchen whose picture can be seen here.
Over the course of eight days Soul had grown exceptionally weary of his family. The four of them together, cramped into a hotel arrangement, was far from the ideal situation. There was little about his family that he actually liked. His idealization of his parents had worn off by the time he’d been old enough to settle down memories and he knew that they did not see the world eye to eye. Money was their greatest joy, followed closely by Soul’s older brother, Wes. Wes was a violin prodigy and his parents soaked up their son’s fame as if they themselves played the very notes that Wes did. His mother lived an exceptionally vicarious life through him and Soul was honestly relieved that she mostly doted upon him. He’d figured out that long ago he would never live up to her standards and that suited him just fine. Wes was the heir to everything and while he was the only one in the family who cared at all about what Soul’s opinion was, he still played the game better than Soul ever had. Meanwhile their father was stuck within the business world of the musical industry, carefully managing the opera houses they owned and all the players that made their financial stability possible. On his downtime, he enjoyed the finest brandy and the most luxurious parties and women. His father loved women and since his mother’s greatest love and devotion went towards Wes, she paid no attention to any of her husband’s sexual exploits.