i think she more than made up for the lack of biscuits anyway

Business Casual - Part 8 (Final)

Hey everyone! Here’s part eight, the final chapter of this saga. I have another multi chapter I’m going to start putting out maybe next week. That one is actually the longest fic I’ve ever written so yay!! But anyway, I hope you like this last part! You guys have been great and I’ve loved ALL your comments! Really truly you guys’s responses are why I keep posting. 

This last part has a good deal of sap so just gear up for it :D Thanks for reading!


Part 8:

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Son of a Patriotic Biscuit (Part 1)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader (Not a ton yet - there will be more, I promise!)

Word Count: 1760

Warnings: None

A/N: Alright y’all, my friend and I finally had time to go through and edit the story enough for me to put this piece up. Credits to her for putting up with my writing as well as my bemoaning of my inability to write this as quickly as I wanted (I’d tag her, but she doesn’t have a tumblr). Anyways, it’s my first series guys!! Hopefully you like it! If anyone wants to be tagged in the next parts or other fics as they come, just let me know - I swear I don’t bite. Reader is an Avenger who has wings - if you’ve read Maximum Ride, that’s where I got it from (and I claim no credit for the idea). Gif is not mine.

Your name: submit What is this?

Every. Single. Time. Why?! He just couldn’t seem to stop. Yet again, he had denied me going on a mission. He had said that I wasn’t ready to be out in the field like he didn’t even realize that I had already gone out a few times with Nat and Clint! I tried to explain this as calmly as possible, but he hadn’t heard a word of it. Naturally, I stormed down to the training room to take out my anger where it was more acceptable, rather than on a fellow Avenger. In the others’ defense, they had tried to talk Steve down, but he was completely in charge of the mission and who went on it.

“Fricken fracken, mother truckin’, son of a biscuit eater, chivalrous little overprotective man-baby!” Each word was punctuated with either a jab or kick to the punching bag in front of me. With the final words, I threw myself into a spinning kick that sent the already splitting bag flying across the room, sand trailing in its wake. After half an hour, my frustration had finally come to a head.

“What’d the bag ever do to you?” I tore my eyes away from the carnage with a huff and saw Nat in the doorway

“It’s not the bag I’m mad at,” I muttered, but I knew she heard me. She gave a miniscule nod of acknowledgement, both of my statement and my obvious desire to change topics.

“That’s quite the insult I heard. Where’d you come up with it, Feathers?” The ex-assassin moved to stand in front of me, putting my back to the door.

“Honestly? I dunno. The best ones are those that just come out in the moment, y’know?” Shrugging, I sheepishly turned back to the wreckage. “I’m gonna have to clean that up, aren’t I?”

“Nah. Not right this minute, at least.” She closed her mouth abruptly after the sentence, staring at something over my shoulder. I turned, freezing in my tracks when I saw who stood in the doorway. “I’m just going to give the two of you a minute.”

Thanks for that, I thought, glaring a little at her retreating form. Switching my focus to the hulking captain (pun intended), I allowed my face to settle into stiff lines. We stood there for a long moment, sizing each other up as though any second we were going to lunge at each other. Quirking my eyebrow up and crossing my arms, I resolved not to be the first of us to speak. As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait before he uncomfortably broke the silence.

“This is for your own good,” he finally said. I threw my hands up indignantly before turning and looking for something to hit, though I desperately wanted to sock him in the jaw right then. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t help me get out in the field. “No, don’t you start giving me that look.” His blue eyes hardened, and I could tell he had no intention of being swayed on this when his forehead creased. “You may not realize that you aren’t ready, but I’m just keeping you from being killed out there. There aren’t any practice fights, no one out there is going to go easy on you.”

“You seem to have somehow gotten it into your head that I don’t realize that!” I burst out, utterly exasperated with him. “Steve, I’ve already gone on missions with Clint and Natasha, and I’ve even gone out with just Thor! I’m not the damsel in distress that you seem to think I am!”

“You’re not going and that’s final.”
“Fricken fracken, mother truckin’, son of a biscuit eating… Little patriotic old fart with a hero complex!”

“Lang–” He stopped in his tracks, confusion marring his features. “Wait, what? Did you actually say what I think you said?”

“Ooh, stepping into dangerous territory there, Captain. Thinking on your own? Don’t you need supervision for that?” I shoved past him, holding myself stiffly upright until I reached the elevator that took me to the floor with my room on it.

Finally in the safety of solitude, I made sure the door was locked before sliding down the wall until I was sitting, knees pulled up to my chest. I was upset enough that I unfurled my wings and wrapped them around myself, providing an extra shield between me and the outside world as a choked sob rose in my throat. Funny, how the feathers that used to be (and still sometimes were) a reminder of a nightmarish warehouse - full of needles, electric shocks, white lab coats, and pain above all else - while they were now the very things protecting me from more pain.

I stayed there for a long time, wallowing in the feelings of self-doubt that had sprung up once I was left alone in my thoughts. You see, despite being a kickbutt, flying, ninja-assassin-Avenger, I actually cared a lot what Steve thought of me. Having a crush on the star-spangled captain will do that to a person. As an unfortunate side effect, his apparent lack of confidence in my abilities in the field was doing wonders for knocking my self-esteem into the dust. To top it all off, I was almost positive that he only saw me as a younger sister, due to the overprotective big brother act.

Steve’s POV

After she pushed past me with a final jab about my thinking, I pushed a hand through my hair in frustration. Why couldn’t she see that I was so afraid of losing someone close to me again, that my fear was the reason I tried to protect her. Bucky was gone, and Peggy had grown up and left me behind. I couldn’t stand it if this brave, stubborn, kind woman died after somehow managing to worm her way into my heart no matter how desperately I had tried to keep her out. If she got hurt or killed when I could have kept her safe, I wasn’t sure if I could forgive myself.

I didn’t even realize that my feet were moving, tracing her light-footed path, until I was standing in front of her door. My hand was poised to knock, though it stopped when a small sound caught my attention. I wasn’t even completely sure I had heard anything until it came again. The muffled sob barely came through the door, sounding more like an agonized gasp of air that tore my heart out to know I was its cause.

To my knowledge, she hadn’t cried the whole time she lived at the Tower with us. What she had been like before Nick Fury brought her to us, I could only imagine. Strength and an iron will like hers were rarely forged through any but the most painful of fires. Still, she never said anything about her past, whether how she had gotten her wings or otherwise.

It had taken a lot of time, and a fair amount of prodding from the team, before I realized that I was in love with this spunky woman. Once I knew, however, no other beautiful woman in the room could turn my head from Y/N’s radiance. The only problem was that I still was no good with women and I knew it. I didn’t want my inability to put words to the feelings (thanks to my lack of experience) to drive her away, so I tried to protect her instead. Sinking down by her door with a disheartened sigh, I realized that to her it must seem like I didn’t believe in her abilities.

“You’ll have to tell her, Steve.” Natasha’s voice was quiet in my ear. Turning my head toward her, I saw her gaze soften even more as she opened her mouth to continue. “She thinks you have no confidence in her.”
“I do, I swear,” I protested vehemently under my breath, knowing the spy would hear me where the woman on the other side of the door would not. “I just… I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

“You’re going to have to get over that. This world leaves scars on people like us. Even her. Especially her. You can’t keep her from being hurt, but you could be there to help her heal.” This was the longest string of heartfelt advice I had heard from her, and I took it to heart.

“I’ll tell her after this mission, then.” I nodded, satisfied in my resolve.

“You’d better. Now come on. We’ve got a briefing to get through.”

Reader’s POV

It wasn’t until several hours later that I was bold enough to leave my room. Mostly because it was two in the morning and everyone going on the mission (read as: everyone but me - Thor was up in Asgard until after the team got back) would be asleep. Also because I was hungry, but y’know. Of course, I still stuck to the shadows and treaded silently through the halls and rooms. Entering the main room was when inspiration hit - likely a mix of exhaustion, desperation, and hunger, but it was too good a chance to pass up.

Steve had apparently been the last person awake, and had made the mistake of leaving the mission’s file on the table in plain sight. Performing a quick scan of the room, I crept up to the table, holding my wings up and out a little to ensure that they didn’t drag on the floor and make noise. A wolfish grin spread over my face as I read the details of the two week long mission. It was in an area I knew well - the place where I’d grown up as an experiment, constantly pushed to my limits and tormented for the scientists who wanted to see what a girl with wings could do. Coincidentally, it was that same group that the team was now going after.

Now knowing that I could get to the spot easily, the only thing left was to figure out when the whole thing was going to go down. The file really only had the details of the surveillance they would have to undertake to find the base. Fortunately for me, I was quite the hacker, so I made sure that the comms that were sitting out were synced to my laptop so that I would be able to hear everything that was going on out there. Satisfied with my little recon mission, I went my way into the kitchen and made a quick sandwich before returning to my room.

Part Two HERE

Series Masterlist

Wishful thinking - Fluff fic

Several people have asked for fluff, me included, after Episode 79. So who am I to ignore that? Here have some tooth rotting fluff, that will be smashed to pieces by canon this week:

(Or: Sasha is alive, Jonathan is at a breaking point, Tim is about to break something and Martin has tea. Also cuddling. And a tiny bit of yelling. But mostly cuddling)

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Random Prompt

“I know we’ve never talked before but there’s a friggin huge spider in my apartment can you kill it for me?”



It had been a ridiculously long day. Well, three days. Q hadn’t actually left his branch until he had received confirmation that 006 was safely back on British soil. One could never know what could go wrong with a double-oh, even in transport home, and especially when it came to Trevelyan. He enjoyed making Q’s life a special from of stressed out hell, despite all the treats he brought back from missions in an effort to make amends.

He was almost home though, only a few more feet down the corridor and he would be behind his flat door, no longer the Quartermaster of MI6. (At least until he went in the next morning or they called him up with another bloody emergency).

Honestly, he had never been woken up for the sake of Queen and Country with MI5 at quite the frequency that MI6 had a penchant for. He blamed the double-ohs and their need for dramatic flare. He’d had eight years as the second in command at MI5’s Q-branch under his belt when Vauxhall had blown up. They’d lost their Q and their R as well as countless others and needed someone who had experience taking charge as the new head of the tech division. It was the first of countless times that Tanner had called him up in the middle of the night, not that he had been complaining at the time. There had been new rules to learn, and he’d started off shaky at first, but by now he had the respect of his entire department (Eve even went so far as to call them his “minions”) and acceptance from all of the double-ohs that taking his advice at least once in a while tended to be a not half bad idea. Some times it even saved their lives.

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Dan and Phil versus the World

Well, here goes. This marks a lot of firsts in my internet life. How do people post fics on Tumblr? I don’t even know.

Artist: Sadly, none, but if you send me a link to art for this fic, I will promo it!
Beta: Sam (@phantropolis)
Word count: 12k
Rating: PG
Warnings: Some coarse/inappropriate language and one description of a panic attack
Summary: In an alternate universe (where Poe the cactus survived), Dan and Phil revisited Japan after TATINOF. Now they’re back in London, but something’s changed, leaving Dan tense and restless. Maybe they’ve been so busy selling Dan and Phil™ all these years that they’ve forgotten how to be themselves. Storytelling has a way of seeping into real life, but it only confounds things when you start to believe it.
Author’s Note: I signed up for the PBB in May on an impulse, having never before worked with either a beta or an artist. Thanks to Sam for her top-notch beta reading and bants. This story is dedicated to you, without whom it would probably still be half finished and abandoned. I hope it’s not (too) crap for a first phanfic. The themes are friendship, understanding, growth and dreams, and there is a lot of introspection, analysis and flashbacks. Really, the whole story is one long existential crisis on Dan’s part. And procrastination station.

Read on AO3 here!


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The Greatest Gifts

Huge thanks go to the amazing and lovely @moghraidhjamie for organizing the Secret Santa! My identity was never anything of a secret to you, and I don’t much resemble Santa, but I hope you enjoy this little piece of fluff. I hope you don’t mind that it can fit in my Small Blessings universe, but each story stands alone, so you don’t need to read those to be oriented to this one. 

All my fic can be found here.


“Oof.” I lowered myself heavily into the chair. I was eight months pregnant, though thanks to Jamie’s genetics, the baby was enormous, so I felt at least twelve or fourteen months along. “That’s much better.”

Faith slid her hands between the slats on the back of the chair and pressed them against my lower back. “Mam owee?” For weeks she had been watching me attempt to relieve my discomfort by digging my fingers into the musculature along my lumbar spine, and now she did it for me. Her tiny hands were completely ineffectual at massage, but the sweet gesture made me feel a thousand times better, though the pain in my back was unrelenting, as it had been all day.

Fergus placed a cup of steaming hot tea in front of me, and I squeezed his hand in thanks. “Did you get to sit down at all today, Maman?” I took a sip of the honeyed liquid and sighed in contentment, for Fergus brewed the very best cup of tea.

“Once. We only had two cases today, but they both ran long, obviously. I had about half an hour between them, so I planted myself in the only available chair in the PACU. My back wouldn’t be so bad if I could reach across the OR table, but Lump is in the way.” Faith had taken to referring to her sibling-to-be by this name, and the moniker stuck.

Our little girl was endlessly fascinated by my rapid growth, and she wedged herself between me and the table and lay her cheek along my belly. “‘Lo, Lump!” The baby responded to the greeting by kicking me squarely in the ribs.

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Crossroads

(here you go, lovely Sherlollians. One-shot after the fateful “I love you” scene)

When Euros is finally taken away and Greg has asked all his questions, Sherlock and John are once more in a car together in silence. Blissful silence. After all that happened, he needs time to think, to process, to examine. What he needs is peace but as soon as John speaks, he knows he won’t get it.

“So are we really not going to talk about this?” asks John.

He continues to stare out the window into the darkness. “Talk about what?”

“Molly,” John says.

He realizes that he should have guessed John wouldn’t forget about what he said - what they both said. “Molly’s safe, John,” he says, sending only a brief glance in his direction. “She was never in any true danger. You know that. Is it necessary for me to remind you that you were there?”

“No. It’s not.”

He returns to staring out the window. “Good. Then please give me the courtesy of silence.”

“No,” John says. “We still need to talk about it.”

“About what, John?” he says. His patience is wearing dangerously thin, and he knows it is an inevitable result of all the stress they experienced.

“The ‘I love you.’”

He sighs impatiently. “I had to say it, because it was the only way Molly would say the release words. Again, you know this. You were there.”

“And it was necessary to say it twice?”

He swallows but he doesn’t answer. Of course it wasn’t necessary for him to say it twice. He said it once because he had to, or Molly wouldn’t say it to him.  But before he even finished the sentence, he realized he meant it, that it was true. So he said it again. It was almost like he couldn’t help saying it. His heart realized it the first time, but his mind didn’t register the truth until he repeated it. Is that something John can understand? Maybe.

His silence gives John all the response that he needs. “You said it twice because you actually meant it. You love her, and you’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You love Molly Hooper.” John lets out a halting laugh. “And here I thought you loved Irene Adler. But it was never her, was it? It was Molly. It was always Molly. That’s why you asked her to help you fake your death, wasn’t it? You couldn’t bear to have her grieve over you.”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” he says flatly.

He can’t see John’s face in the darkness, but he can feel the incredulous look on his face. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“Nothing?” John practically yells the word. “Listen, you cock, Molly loves you and apparently you love her too, and you’re going to do nothing? Molly is in London right now, and you could be with her and be happy, and you’re willing to throw that away? Do you realize how lucky you are?”

He examines all responses that he might be able to give, and none of them will be acceptable to John. “So what should I do, John?” he says sarcastically.

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” says John firmly. “After this cab takes me home, it’s going to take you to wherever Molly’s flat is. You will explain all about Euros, and then you’re going to tell her that you truly meant it that you love her. You’ll say that you’re sorry that she had to hear it from you that way so you’ll say it again. And since Molly is one of the kindest women in the world, she’ll forgive you. Whatever happens next is between the two of you, I don’t even care what it is.” John looks at him seriously. “You are at a crossroads, Sherlock. You can’t reverse time or take that 'I love you’ back. Even Euros in all her insanity knew that. You have a choice to make, and so help me, Sherlock, you will do right by Molly. ”

“John-…..”

John ignores him. Instead he leans forward and tells the driver not to leave them both to his flat, but to take Sherlock to Molly’s flat instead. He looks at Sherlock expectantly and he mumbles out her address.

Neither he nor John say anything else the rest of the drive. When they reach John’s flat, John gives him a pointed look before he says goodbye.

And now he is alone - alone with his thoughts and worries that he may have finally pushed Molly just one step too far.


The ride to Molly’s flat passes by far too fast. He still doesn’t even know what he’s going to do or say when he reaches her door. He doesn’t need to knock; she’s given him a key a long time ago. Besides, she’s probably asleep anyway. It is the middle of the night, after all. But before he can even find the key, Molly opens the door herself wearing kitten pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and her dressing gown. He’s never seen a more welcome sight in his life. Her eyes widen when she sees him and almost immediately they fill up with tears. “Sherlock? What-….”

According to John, he’s supposed to explain about Euros first. But he doesn’t. Instead he reaches out and pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her shoulder. She wraps her own arms around him. “What is it, Sherlock?” she says with far more sympathy than he deserves. “What’s the matter?”

“I have a sister,” he mumbles.

She stills in his arms and pulls away to look at him. “You have a what?”

“I have a sister,” he repeats. “She’s mentally ill.”

Molly slowly blinks at him, processing the new information. “Sherlock, why don’t you come in and tell me about it?”

Her encouragement is all the invitation he needs. They both sit on Molly’s couch and the story pours out of him: Euros, Redbeard, Victor Trevor, Sherrinford, the torture games Euros put them through, Mycroft, Moriarty. All of it. But he isn’t able to address the “I love you.” Not yet. He only glosses over it when he mentions the coffin.

Molly sits patiently through the whole story. After he finishes, she stays silent for a long time. “Molly?” he says. “Did you-….”

“When’s the last time you ate, Sherlock?” she asks him. “I think you need a good cup of tea and biscuits. Maybe a sandwich?”

He blinks at her stupidly and frowns. He doesn’t understand her reaction - or rather, the lack of one. “Molly, did you hear what I just told you?”

“Of course I did,” she says calmly. “I heard all about what Euros did to you, John, and Mycroft. But these sorts of things are always better to talk about with tea. At least, that’s what my dad always said.” She smiles despite the horror she’s just heard, and he thinks that while John is the one who has fought in a war, Molly Hooper has fought her own set of battles. She’s a different kind of brave soldier, but a true solider nonetheless.  "So what kind do you want?“

"What kind of what?”

“What kind of sandwich and tea do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he says blankly. “Whatever you make is fine.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back then,” she says before she walks to her kitchen. He sits on the couch alone, wondering how she can possibly be so kind to him right now. He certainly doesn’t deserve it. As he waits, unbidden memories of Molly come to the forefront of his mind:

I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.

Black, two sugars. I’ll be upstairs.

I’d say break it off and spare yourself the pain.

You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always.

I am sorry. Forgive me.

But you can see me.

I don’t count.

If there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all….you can have me.

You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.

What do you need?

You.

Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most.

I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper.

I can’t say it. Not to you. Because it’s true. It’s always been true.

You say it first….say it like you mean it.

I love you.

I love you….

As he thinks through his past with Molly, he realizes everything that has happened, everything that he’s done, everything she’s done….they’ve all led the two of them to this point, the point of no return. John was right. They’ve both reached a crossroads, and neither of them can go backward. They can’t rewind the clock or take back what they said. All they can do is continue to walk forward and he has the choice of how: together or separately.

And he knows which way he wants it. With new resolution, he rises from the couch and walks into the kitchen. Molly stands at the counter, humming softly to herself as she prepares two sandwiches. Without fully thinking about it, he comes behind her and slips his arms around her waist. Immediately her hands stop and her breath hitches.

“I love you,” he whispers.

A strangled sound comes from Molly - a mixture of a choke and a sob. “Euros isn’t here, Sherlock. You don’t have to say it.”

“Molly, please,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

Slowly she turns around to face him and lifts her eyes to met his. They are brimming over with tears once again and his heart clenches at the sight. Tread carefully, he can hear Mind Palace John say in his head. One bad move and you’ll hurt her even more than you have already.  "I am sorry you had to hear it first like that,“ he continues with a grimace. "Terrible circumstances, I admit. Hardly ideal for a declaration, I concede.” A single tear slips from her eyes and he gentles his voice. “But you also have to know that it’s true and I did mean it. I do mean it. I love you.”

Her gaze falters, but his eyes ask her - beg her - not to look away. Molly is the one who can see him, the one who always sees him. If she looks at him long enough, he has to hope that she’ll see his sincerity. Molly searches his face for a long time and he lets her, hoping desperately that she’ll find what she needs.

Finally her head drops and she nods slowly. “And I love you,” she says, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Something tight in him that he didn’t even know was there loosens, and he pulls her close to him, resting his cheek on her hair. His mind categorizes everything about this moment - the vanilla scent of her hair, the warmness of her arms around him, the faint hint of wetness from her tears on his shirt.

He doesn’t know what the future holds for him or Molly, but he doesn’t have any doubts in his mind that whatever comes they’ll face it like they always have:

Together.

Blackwood Academy - BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

A/N: I know Phil’s birthday was last week haha, but I really needed to put this in as I realized how much it will benefit the storyline. And yay for a bit of birthday fluff. ^__^ Hope you like this!

Summary: Dan has been thrown into a completely new environment as he joins a popular boarding school, Blackwood Academy, as a new student. But what will happen when he accidentally befriends Phil, a ringleader of the meanest group of students in the school? Read on to find out more!

DISCLAIMER: Obviously (and unfortunately) everything I have written is entirely fictional. I am not claiming Phan is real.

♡ LINKS TO PREVIOUS CHAPTERS ♡

Cream the butter and sugar?! What the fuck is that implying?” I muttered angrily to myself, slowly losing patience with the sad excuse of cake mix that I was trying to tackle. I’d already tried making one without the aid of a (not so helpful) recipe book, which ended with a curdled mess in the bin and broken eggshell on the floor. Then again, Nigella Lawson wasn’t exactly a huge improvement when her cake recipes probably contained more hidden innuendos than actual instructions.

After I had whisked the slop enough to make both my arm muscles worn out, I gave up and poured it into the cake tin. However, I soon quickly found out I probably should have listened to this chef pornography a little longer as I’d missed out probably one of the most important steps.

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John stands in front of Sherlock’s grave on a cold January morning, brushing the powdery snow from the top of the headstone. The snow swirls and drifts around him, falling gently from the yawning winter sky. It would be peaceful if it weren’t so melancholy- beautiful even- but the cemetery is empty, blanketed in white and eerily silent. The sight is dismal at best.

It’s January 6; the birthdate of Sherlock Holmes. It’s Sherlock’s birthday and here he is, here they are, but John still can’t believe it. More often than not he fights himself, weaving in and out of denial, back and forth and back again. He wants, he desperately wants to hope- but he’s not quite that naïve. John Watson is a logical, sensible man. A realist. He should know better, shouldn’t he?

He exhales unsteadily, his breath a warm cloud, thick and grey- like cigarette smoke. John’s eyes are fixed on the withered flowers leaning against the polished stone, rigid with ice. He thinks to himself how inadequate this is- as a gravesite, as a place to remember him by. It’s nowhere near large enough to honor who Sherlock was; to encompass even the physical body of such a being.

He shouldn’t be in a coffin buried deep in the earth, John thinks. He’s not just another body in a box six feet under. He doesn’t belong in the dirt- he should have- he deserves a mausoleum; a towering monument, a grand tomb; a bloody pyramid. Sherlock wasn’t a king, a god; a great leader or a messiah, not in his own right- but he was John’s. To John, he was everything- he would never be just a man.

There’s a new bouquet of flowers in his right hand and a letter in his left, trembling even as he struggles to stifle it. John swallows; takes a deep breath, and begins to read. The paper is blowing this way and that in the biting wind, gripped tight in his hand that’s shaking like a leaf:

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock. I wish you were here to spend it with me- us.”

He clears his throat and brings his feet together, straightening his posture, chin up even as his voice falters.

"…I wouldn’t have made you go out, you know. Or hang around anyone you didn’t feel like seeing. It wouldn’t have been much fun anyway, not with you being, well…you, given your lack of concern for the general public.” John bites back a small laugh, but it’s short-lived.

"We could’ve done anything you wanted; been wherever you wanted to be. I um…I know you had a hard time unwinding- that’s okay. I get that way too.” Like right now, he thinks.

“But it would have been just you and me, if you wanted it. I wouldn’t nag you about your messy experiments or body parts in the fridge. Lestrade would have a few cases lined up, hoping to stump you. You’d solve them easily- you always did.”

A chill runs down John’s spine and he shivers, knowing that it isn’t the cold.

“Mrs. Hudson would be there- at the flat. She’d cancel all her plans and make you a cake, even if you told her not to. Maybe even if you begged. She’d probably throw some kind of a shindig to celebrate properly, with drinks and biscuits- I’d have liked that. We would have made it worthwhile just so you wouldn’t forget it in that bloody huge brain of yours, full of your facts and your clever ideas. Would you have kept it in your mind palace? Or would you have deleted it? I think maybe, if we tried very hard, you’d have stored away the memory.”

The letter almost catches in the wind and blows away, but John grabs for it, the paper crinkling in his fist. John curses and grinds his teeth, trying to smooth out the note against his thigh. He already knows the rest, so he lays it in front of the grave instead and places the flowers delicately on top.

He stares solemnly at the gravestone- looks through it, sees his own reflection and the sadness in his eyes. John allows himself to touch the smooth, frigid granite, fingers ghosting along the engraved letters of his best friend’s name. He feels hollow.

“I haven’t seen her in a while- Mrs. Hudson. I think she’s doing okay. I know she misses you.” So do I, he adds- but not out loud.

“I can’t bring myself to go back to the flat yet, but I’m sure it’s just the same. A little emptier. A little quieter. You’d hate it.”

John shakes his head solemnly.
“If you’re listening, Sherlock- if you can hear me, wherever you are, I want you to know something. I believed you. I believed in you. I know you were for real; that nothing you’ve done has ever been just a cheap magic trick. Things are a mess now and I want to fix it; fix this, because I can’t stand what they’re saying about you. I’m sick of the lies. And yes, I know- why should I care what they say about you, right? Because you weren’t a fraud, Sherlock. Because you were my friend, and in your own mad, ridiculous way, you saved me.”

John sniffs, squeezing his left hand hard at his side.

"Anyway, I know the truth will come out. Sooner or later, it has to. I’m sorry I couldn’t…” He can’t bring himself to finish that sentence. He tries another.

“You deserved better- Christ, you deserved to be treated like a bloody martyr- because I know what it means to be a hero, Sherlock. I know what it takes. Afghanistan was full of heroes, but no one like you. There’s only one consulting detective, one Sherlock Holmes. You were the first…and the last, and no one else can ever fill those shoes. You…you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. And if I could, I’d do it all again, you sod.”

John hears the muffled crunch of footsteps in the distance, but he doesn’t care. Sherlock is gone, and so he is alone.

. . .

A familiar shadow looms not far from where John is standing. It reaches out with gloved fingers, grasping at nothing but aching to touch, to comfort. A moment passes, and it withdraws.

The figure quietly retreats with the swish of a long, dark coat.

wondertwinc  asked:

skyparents + abby watching kane comfort clarke???

When Clarke finally comes – Kane can’t say home, because this was never home to her except in the tangential way that the crumbling shell of Alpha station has a passing familiarity to her – to Arkadia to stay, Abby stops sleeping in his quarters. He has caused Clarke’s suffering, borne witness to some of it, and understands in the most cursory way the most recent of her emotional injuries. He respects that Abby will always be Clarke’s mother before she is his lover; her duty to her child far outweighs everything else. 

It’s a devotion he has no party to, cannot tangibly understand, but seeks to support in any way that he can. He loves Abby, and Abby loves Clarke and needs her, in the way a mother needs her child to happy and safe and nurtured. 

He is not Clarke’s father, but he’s made it a rule to make Abby’s goals his goals. 

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