if the only thing that didn’t annoy me today was getting a free dessert with my dinner, but i only got that free dessert because my dinner took way longer to make than it was supposed to, do i still consider that a win or should that just cancel out the annoying dinner mishap, so i’m still sitting at “literally everything and everyone annoyed me today”???
anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Molly and Sherlock get stranded on a deserted island and must survive together until help arrives. They drive each other crazy at first but eventually grow close and whoops look at that, they’re in love now.
Stranded (Rated a very light T, tops)
When the plane went down, Molly Hooper was fully prepared to die. She was so prepared that she turned to Sherlock, sitting next to her, and told him she loved him, that she’d always loved him, had never stopped loving him, and never would. Then she’d kissed him, holding tightly to his face, eyes screwed shut, heart pounding with terror.
The problem wasn’t that he’d kissed her back with just as much passion and fervor, his hands gripping her face just as tightly as hers had his. The problem wasn’t even that she thought she heard him murmuring that he loved her, too, although it was hard to tell over the screaming of the engines as their small plan dove oceanward.
The problem was, they didn’t die. Oh, everyone else on the plane died - the pilot, the co-pilot, the three other passengers, the two members of the cabin crew - but she and Sherlock didn’t.
Not that Molly would be unhappy about surviving a plane crash under normal circumstances - and certainly her first reaction upon regaining consciousness was relief that she had, indeed, woken up alive and relatively uninjured. She was even pleased that Sherlock had survived, even if she had to set his broken arm for him and improvise a sling out of her skirt.
But what sort of cruel fate would make them the only survivors after she’d done something so foolish as to openly declare her love for him?
Those were her thoughts on the worst of the days that followed, when she allowed despair and self-pity to overwhelm her. When Sherlock was bitingly sarcastic bordering on cruel to her. She knew it was the pain of his arm, his rage at the situation itself and nothing to do with her personally, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was deliberately making sure she harbored no illusions about that desperate kiss and her equally desperate declaration of love…and also ensuring that she never had the time or the inclination to ask him about the words she’d thought he’d spoken.
As the days turned into weeks and weeks into a month, she managed to put all of that behind her. In truth, she knew it had been easier to focus on her emotional turmoil rather than the grim facts that the two of them were the only survivors after their plane had been blown off-course by a storm, and that no one was likely to find them anytime soon, and that they’d had to bury - well, she’d had to since Sherlock’s arm made it impossible for him to help - the seven who hadn’t been so lucky, who’d been killed on impact.
She was sitting in front of those seven graves with their pathetic hand-made crosses, having laid new garlands of tropical blooms on each one just as she did every day since covering the last body with soil. Her hands were still a mass of calluses and open sores, and she was grateful for the tube of ointment she always carried in her handbag. The last thing she needed was for infection to set in.
Speaking of which…with a sigh she rose to her knees in preparation for standing and trudging back to the small camp she and Sherlock had made out of pieces of the plane combined with small saplings and an experimental matting of palm fronds. They’d dragged all the personal belongings, food, water, and anything else useful that they could to the edges of the jungle that infringed on the beach, found a source of fresh water not too far off, and done their best to explore their new (hopefully, please God, temporary) home…and spent the rest of the time waiting.
Waiting and bickering. They’d had a proper row earlier in the day; Sherlock had stomped off to the stream to refill their plastic bottles, and she’d gone to the gravesite after gathering armfuls of white flowers - Plumeria, she thought, although she was hazy about most tropical blooms except orchids and hibiscus - to try and meditate her way to a semblance of calm.
However, just as she’d brought her feet under her, she heard an unexpected sound and turned to see Sherlock standing awkwardly under the shade of a palm tree. In one hand he held two water bottles by their capped tops, and resting atop his broken arm was…a pile of flowers? “I, er, thought I might make a contribution to the memorial,” he said as she just stared at him.
Finally she realized he was waiting for something, and nodded as she finished her aborted movements and stood up. “Um, yes, of course, please,” she said, gesturing toward the seven low mounds. “Oh! Let me help!” she added as he moved toward her. She reached for the flowers, then changed her mind and grabbed for the water bottles, causing everything to drop to the ground. “Sorry!” she exclaimed in chagrin, once again falling to her knees in order to rescue the scattered - and now slightly squashed - blossoms.
“No, it’s fine,” he replied, also getting on his knees. As they both reached for the same water bottle, their hands touched, and Molly felt a blush forming on her cheeks that had nothing to do with either the heat of the day or the embarrassment she felt at her clumsiness. She started to pull away, only to feel Sherlock’s fingers tightening on hers. “Molly,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Please. Look at me.”
She slowly raised her eyes to meet his, and was shocked to see a red flush spreading across his elegant cheekbones. “Oh, Sherlock! Are you feverish?” she demanded, reaching up and placing a hand on his forehead. “Oh God, I should have checked you out sooner, you should be resting, not running around…”
“I don’t have a fever,” he snapped, reaching up and pulling her hand down. But he didn’t let it go, kept it trapped in his hold. He was so close that she could practically count the amber flecks in his eyes as he stared at her. “I’m not feverish, the arm is healing well, I am trying very hard to make amends for my poor behavior since we crashed. That’s all.”
“Oh,” she whispered, then blushed even harder at the layers of misunderstanding she’d placed on his actions. “It’s fine, we’ve both been on edge. Hard not to be. It’s all…it’s fine,” she repeated somewhat desperately, wishing he’d let her hand go, wishing he wasn’t so close that all she would have to do would be to lean forward just the smallest bit in order to kiss him.
That would never do. He’d be angry and upset all over again, and this was the first truly civil conversation they’d had since regaining consciousness in the wreckage of the plane and she absolutely didn’t want to spoil it.
As she started to pull away, however, he scowled harder. “Not finished,” he said in a growl. “I didn’t mean ‘that’s all’ as in, I was done explaining. I just meant the flowers.” He glanced down briefly at the wilting blooms jumbled around them in a white heap. “That was to make amends. I also want to kiss you, if you’ll just stay still long enough for me to do so.”
“If this is about what happened on the plane, what I said…”
“What we both said,” he corrected her. Confirming that impossible memory. Molly sucked in a deep breath at the revelation that she had actually heard what she thought she’d heard, but before she could say anything, Sherlock rushed on. “I meant it, Molly, and I know you did, so can we please stop fighting and just…admit it?”
“Admit what?” she asked quietly. Needing to hear the words, spoken aloud by him, in the proper order, with no threat of immediate death looming over them.
“Fine,” he said impatiently. “I love you. You love me. Now will you for God’s sake kiss me?”
“Yeah, kiss him, Molly, so we can get the two of you back to London!”
They turned at the sound of that unexpected and oh-so-welcome voice to see John Watson and Greg Lestrade beaming at them. It was John who had spoken, and Molly would have rushed over to hug their rescuers except for one thing: Sherlock was still holding tightly to her wrist.
When she gave him an inquiring look, he pulled her closer. “You heard the man, Molly. Kiss me.” Then he leaned down and she tilted her head and their lips met while John and Greg clapped and whistled their approval.
Can you write a zayn blurb? I don't care about the topic I just need one THANK YOU XXXXX
You were sat under the covers of the bed in your apartment, glancing around the room and wondering when your phone would ring. Zayn said he would, at the very latest, give you a ring by eleven but there you were at 11:45, biting your nails and not paying any attention to the episode of Law & Order playing in the background.
Like most girls, you had yourself thinking of any possible scenario that could happen at a bar filled with girls in miniskirts and halter tops; he could get wasted, break up with you, and call you in the morning like nothing happened; he could meet a girl and fall in love; he could meet boy and fall in love.
Although that last one seemed pretty unlikely. His ringtone started blaring and you scrambled to pick it up.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Oh my God, what’s taken you so long? Zayn, you can’t do that to me! I sit at home all night vividly imagining what you could be doing with some girl in the bathroom of a club and-
“I’m sorry,” you sighed, “It’s just that Kelsey was talking about how Brandon was cheating on her and they broke up and I couldn’t help but think about how we haven’t seen each other for almost two months and you must have needs. And I…” you trailed off and sighed again.
“Well, yeah, of course I have needs but I take care of them myself like a man. Besides, that Brandon bloke was a prick and I told you that in the beginning, didn’t I?”
“I guess,” you moped.
“Now, let’s start over. Hey, baby girl.”
You felt dejected but did as he said. “Hey. How was the party?”
“Boring; all I could think about was how much greater it would be if you were with me.”
You cracked a little grin and pushed the insecurities to the back of your mind. “There’s that beautiful smile.”
“How do you know I’m smiling?”
“Cos you always smile when I tell you how happy you make me.”
“Tell me more,” you said, scooting down in the bed so that you were lying on your side.
“Oh, so that’s how this call is gonna go,” he laughed.
“I would very much like if it did.”
“Hmm. Well, I quite like when you call me just to tell me you love me.”
“That’s a bit girly, don’t ya think?”
“Would you like it better if I said you’ve got great tits?”
“Noooo. Keep saying girly stuff… but they are pretty great, aren’t they?”
“If I could motorboat them right now, I would.”
You laughed and pulled the blanket over your shoulder.
He took a deep breath and you knew he was lying on his back in the luxury of a hotel bed.
“I like how you complain about your glasses but you’ll never admit that you wouldn’t even touch a book without them; I like how you’ll watch sports with me when you don’t understand it one bit; I like how soft your hair is. And how it smells divine.”
“You wanna know what I like?”
“Is it my charming personality? Great sense of humor? You know, I bet it’s something really weird like the size of my feet or something,” he joked.
“Actually,” you stressed, “I quite like how you practically have a zoo in your house; I never get lonely when I come over during my lunch break and you’re still sleeping.”
“I don’t have a zoo in my house!”
“You say that but I don’t know anybody else crazy enough to own five different species of pets and still ask their girlfriend if it’s okay to buy another.”
“Well then I just won’t ask you, how about that?”
“I said I like the zoo!”
“… Tell me more,” he mocked.
“Alright, smartass,” you snorted. “I guess your eyes are pretty gorgeous… and you can totally pull off the mustache going into the beard and the beard going into the sideburns and wherever else that thing might go.”
He giggled and you told him how adorable it was.
“I miss you,” he then said.
You hated when he did that; reminded you of how long he’d been gone and how much longer until he came home. This is why you quickly changed the subject. “What time is it? I bet it’s late. You should get some rest, God knows you need it.”
“If I don’t say it, how will you ever know? I miss you and then I miss you some more.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s three in the morning and I miss you bunches.” He was hopeful that you would return the words judging by the tone of his voice.
You sighed. “Zayn, please.”
“Baby, you have to get over that. Boyfriends are supposed to tell their girlfriends that they miss them,” he said softly.
“I know but-“
“We’re gonna try this again. I miss you, baby doll.”
You were silent a moment. “I miss you, too.”
“There it is. Ok, I want you to get some sleep and call me tomorrow. Can you do that for me?”
“I guess so.”
“Ok. Sleep well.”
You ended the call and returned your attention to the television. If Zayn were there, he would most likely tell you what happens and you’d smack him for ruining it and then he’d smack you back, maybe say he was joking so you’d sit through the whole thing only to find out he wasn’t joking.
He’d probably wake up before you to go for a run but fall back asleep while you were in the shower because “the time it takes for you to shower is in the same range as it takes to drive to Wembley and back.”
You picked up your phone and tapped on his name.
“What’s wrong?” he answered.
“Just wanted to say that I love you.”
During the moment that he didn’t say anything, you knew there was a smile on his face. “I love you.”