he was willing to completely drag his reputation through the mud for them

You leaned back against the bar, sipping your martini and gathering yourself.  Weeks of work, of careful planning and observing.  All of it was finally going to pay off tonight.  It wasn’t nerves you needed to battle, no.  It was excitement.  The prospect of a plan coming together, of a big score finally landing in your hands always made you like this.

A man took the seat next to him, and you barely spared him a glance.  A gaunt face, with shrewd blue eyes.  Expensive clothes, fashionable.  Not the sort of choice anyone from old money would make.  He would be an easy mark, if you were feeling up to it.  Respectability.  That was what a man like him wanted.  A taste of what it was like to be old blood, to be important.  A daughter of a Duke, or something along similar lines.  New money would always be kept on the outside.   All he wanted was a glimpse of the inside.

“I have to say,” the man drawled in a thick brummie accent, “I’m impressed.”

Such an easy mark.  Really, he would be.  But there was no time for that now.  Not with the money about to change hands.

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Miracles Take Time part two

John sat and stared blankly at the computer screen, completely at a lost as to what to do. It had been almost two weeks since he had found the note on his refrigerator, two nightmarish weeks.

At first he had been overflowing with elation knowing that somewhere Sherlock was alive. The flat that so recently seemed to be a tomb was again full of light and promise now that Sherlock was not gone forever.  For almost a day he had been so filled with relief and joy that he couldn’t help but burst into fits of giggles, he knew it had worried Mrs Hudson no end. She had been up twice with tea despite it being a bad day for her hip, fussing and assuring him that everyone grieved in their own way and their own time. Only knowing that she would likely think he had gone completely around the bend  had stopped him from hugging the smaller woman and whispering in her ear that Sherlock would be back.

But as the first rush of happiness faded uncomfortable questions began to grow in his mind. When would Sherlock be back? Where was he now? What was he doing that required him to be dead? Knowing the man as he did John was sure that whatever he was doing it was likely very clever and stupidly dangerous. He would be out there all alone too, without John’s gun to back him up or John to remind him that however boring eating was still necessary or even to play Cludeo with him on danger nights. Sure Sherlock had been alive to write him that note but would he stay that way through whatever he was doing? And if he did really die would John ever know or would he just be left to forever wait for a friend who would never come back. Was Sherlock even now in trouble somewhere? Was he dead?

Slowly the uncertainty ate away at any joy he had found in the knowledge of Sherlock’s continued life.

He couldn’t sleep, had no interest in food, and took to pacing the floor of the sitting room as agitated as Sherlock had ever been in one of his strops imagining all the horrors his friend could be facing and all the fates he could meet and feeling his own powerlessness.

In a very real way it was worse than when he had thought Sherlock dead. For all his guilt over his failure to stop Sherlock from committing suicide and his despair at the empty life that stretched out all around him at least it had been over. The tragedy had happened and left John with the ability to pick up the pieces or not as he chose. Now though the game was on somewhere and all John could do was sit on his hands here at home unable to help. It was maddening.

That is why he sat now, his laptop at the ready, determined to find his friend where ever he was and go save the bloody git from himself. Unfortunately he had no idea how to get started.

He had thought about asking Mycroft point-blank but in the end he had reasoned that if Mycroft had known all along that Sherlock wasn’t dead he would continue to lie to John about it. If he didn’t know and could use his power and place to find Sherlock he probably wouldn’t share any information with John. Besides John wasn’t at all sure he would help his brother, not after the way he had been willing to sell Sherlock out to Moriarty.

The cursor blinking away in his browser bar seemed to be mocking his lack of technical proficiency. Tentatively he typed, “Sherlock Holmes death,” pulling up untold pages of results. Most were news articles, some reputable some from tabloid rags, about the death and the scandal leading up to it. In the weeks after his death John had positively avoided the news, unable to  listen to them dragging Sherlock’s name so gleefully through the mud. Now he wondered if somewhere in all that shite there would be a hint to lead him to where his friend had gone but the number of articles was overwhelming.

The sound of his phone receiving a text broke his concentration. Quietly he cursed whatever well-meaning person who was just checking in on him the text would surely be from, as if it was their fault he didn’t know where to start. Expecting to see Harry or even Ella’s name he was surprised to find the text was from an unknown number. Sliding his finger across the screen to unlock the phone he pulled up the message:

Stop looking for me, it will only make other people look as well.

A hot flare of guilt churned inside John at the terse words. In his own anxiety he had never stop to consider that people might be watching him, never thought that his need to help Sherlock might actually put him more at risk. He was embarrassed to realize that he had never tried to put himself in Sherlock’s shoes enough to wonder if he had a reason to let John believe that he was dead. If he had wanted John to come along he would had made it happen and if John respected his friend he would have to respect his choices too.

He took a deep steadying breath, then deleted the text and cleared his browser history.

John was a soldier and soldiers knew how to live from day to day, how to block out the uncertainty of a dangerous future. It was a lesson he would have to remember.

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Tales of a burning heart

Hi guys,

So, I wrote the first chapter of my Guy fic. Note that I didn’t see the series fully (God, I get stuck all the time because I can’t handle Guy’s hotness). I’m a bit unsure about it, so please let me know what you think of it! Suggestions are most welcome. 

As always, thank you all for putting up with my ramblings. A special thanks to the sweet @deepestfirefun who proofread it <3. I really appreciate it honey!!


Chapter 1

Summary:  Reader just returned from the holy land. Before she left, she had a fling with Guy of Gisborne.
She didn’t forget him and intends to pick things up right where they left them…. Will Guy still feel the same about her?

Forever tagged: @fizzy-custard @nelswp @bellastellaluna 

If you wish to be on this list, let me know.

Warnings: Not yet…

Originally posted by aennaxbard

You haste your way through the back alleys of Nottingham town, making sure nobody sees you while you do. Your father probably will kill you for slipping away from the house before your trunks even have been unpacked, but you have to see your best friend. You haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her for over two years… You shrug. Father can’t blame you for being excited to see Marian again. The two of you have been thick as thieves since the age of five and being separated has been devastating. You’ve missed her so much…

You giggle as you’re thinking about which tales Marian has to tell you about what went on here while you were away… Oh, and all the things you have to share with her. Your stay in the holy land hasn’t been exactly boring. Between caring for the injured knights and soldiers in the infirmary and learning how to properly fight with a sword (something your father strongly disapproved, but hey- you never listen to him anyway) you succeeded to deny all possible suitors your father proposed. You smile as you think of poor sir Powell, who seemed especially shaken by your rejection.

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anonymous asked:

1 - murphyxreader

“Come over here and make me.”

This is smut.  Not necessarily explicit but still smut, okay.


If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you’d had your eye on one John Murphy for a long time.  There was something about his quick wit, sharp cheekbones and slim waist that had you hooked.  And if you were to be completely honest with yourself, you’d shared flirtatious looks with the rogue rebel 5 or 6 too many times to consider it a coincidence.  It was all fun and games you told yourself, mostly games, and you didn’t really think about it much until you began to see his blue-grey eyes at night. It’d gotten more intense since you both wound up alive at Camp Jaha, maybe it was the impending doom that had settled over the camp since they learnt about the looming fate of the delinquents in Mount Weather.

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Ghosts of Britannia: Chapter 1

AU. Sequel to When in Rome.

For every one of his twelve years of life, Marius Henricus Maximinus had always known exactly who he was. The adored only son of Marius Victorus Maximinus and his wife Rubinia, scion of a noble plebeian family, who lived in a comfortable townhouse near the Forum and attended its business with his father daily, who had his own tutor to teach him Greek, logic, grammar, geometry, music, and other arts of the civilized man, and who was surely destined for a post as legionnaire commander or provincial prefect. Until he was ten, Henricus had been sponsored by Emma Julia Aurelia, the daughter of the praetor urbani, but then her father had been made governor of far Britannia, and she had left Rome for good. Sometimes he missed her; she had taken a personal interest in him that went beyond the usual, and he had always thought of her as a favorite aunt or elder sister. Now in her place, Regina Sabina Milia saw to the maintenance of his interests instead, and Henricus was often reminded of what a fortunate lad he was, to have had two such great women as his patronesses. With the world at his disposal and a future as bright as the midday sun on the sea, he had never had cause to question anything about his life, and greatly doubted that he ever would.

It was the ides of February, the celebration of Lupercalia, in the year of the consulship of Hadrianus and Caesar, when Henricus’ tidy existence fell to pieces.

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