katherine writes things





SUMMARY: Race may have lost a bet, but Davey is pretty sure he just won at life. (Y/N is sort of thinking the same.)

A/N: welcome to my version of inktober aka i’m going to write something every day of this month!! i feel bad bc i haven’t posted anything in a while, so i’m going to try my best to do this. don’t hate me if i miss a day or post it late, pls !! this is super long but kinda bad ??? but it’s okay bc it’s a coffee shop au with my boy davey, and that pretty much makes up for everything


The chill in the air brought an easy smile to Y/N’s face. She loved the feeling of autumn more than any other season. It’s wasn’t nearly as cheerful as Christmas, but the promise of sweaters, cold days with blankets and hot chocolate, and the brilliant colors of the leaves made it even better, in her opinion. She particularly loved the way the atmosphere of the coffee shop she worked in changed as October began. There were decorations that matched the color scheme of the season scattered around the small building and more customers stopped by, staying to study or to chat with friends. Plus, there was always the added bonus of her workplace being warm and cozy as could be.

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driving all nature

for my bae @totheverybestoftimesjohn <3 (also, sorry)

The moon shines like a spotlight on the ripples. The end of the game. The final act.

John knows what’s coming. He’s already shivering.

He clutches at the jagged rock wall. He knows it’s useless. It’s fifty feet high, and his hands scrabble at the sharp pebbles, slashing feeling into his frozen skin. The water’s up to his waist, and only rising.

John looks up, but the moonlight blinds him. He thinks he hears a shout, maybe a gunshot, but the well makes sound echo into something indiscriminate. Sherlock’s up there somewhere, but he can’t see him.

He can hear him though.

He can still hear him.

“I love you.”

Those three words. That’s it. Three words, not even spoken to him but to his reflection, though there was no doubt in John’s mind who they were for. Three words he’d spent days and nights imagining in that voice, and still been unprepared. Still couldn’t have imagined how he would breathe them out like the most blessed of prayers and the most sacred of confessions.

“I love you.”

Everything after that had been a blur – a gunshot, a shattering of glass, a frantic attempt at escape scrambling over the rocks, and before he knew it a searing blow to the back of his skull, then darkness. Then the water, and the moon.

It’s up to his chest now, sparkling silver, and John can feel his breath coming in deep sharp blasts, trying to push out his stone-cold lungs.

“Oh God,” escapes from his lips of its own free will. “Oh God, oh God oh God oh God…”

His hand shakes on the rock.

He’s going to die here.

The realization doesn’t make his heart pound, or scream at him out of his rattling mind. It just makes the water cut deeper under his skin, a tiny little knives of ice burrowing into his every pore and all remaining air squeezing itself from him.


He’d tried to shout, but the stone barely echoes back the whisper that comes out of him. His face is wet now too – warmer though, tears – and his throat is closing up.

The patterns of moonlight on the water flicker and waver as they rise up to his shoulders. John hates the way his eyes are drawn to them, the way they morph themselves into hearth fires and gentle warmth, the way the ripples pattern out the familiar walls of Baker Street, the way the swish and slosh of the rising tide creeps into John’s ears as soft violin strings and a low, reverent whisper, three words, over and over and over again…

An ear-splitting crack shoots its way down the well, and John raises his eyes to the heavens.


He’s not even sure if he makes any sound.

The water’s up to his neck.

Two cups of tea melt away from the sitting room table.

Up to his chin.

The sun streaming in through the windows switches off.

John takes a deep breath.

The smiling blue eyes vanish into the darkness.

The water paralyzes John. It’s so cold. His skin sings with a thousand needles of pain but he has to fight through it, he has to try, he has to stay afloat ….

“I love you.”

He pushes himself off the ground, arms flailing for air.

He can’t reach it.

“I love you.”

Panic seizes him at last, making him scream.

“I love you.”

John’s lungs fill with water.

Sherlock drops his gun and his breath explodes out of him.

That’s it. It’s over. Moriarty’s body tumbled off the cliff, the ghost of a laugh still on his upturned lips. Again. Sherlock didn’t stay to see it fall.

Moriarty gone, Smith gone, the woman known as Mary Morstan gone. Sherlock spares no thought for any of them


They’d hit him over the head, one of his men, the burly one, and Sherlock only just had time to see him fall before he was wrenched back to Moriarty, hadn’t seen what they’d done with him –

“John!” He screams again into the dark. He climbs over the rocks, and the moon answers only with a sickening white light.

Sherlock’s eyes dart over the landscape, shadows, all shadows, no light, no sound, just the dim ripple of waves reflecting the silence –

Ripples. Moonlight. The well.


He stumbles on his way to the edge of it, tearing the knees of his trousers and letting the rocks bite into his palms as he clutches the edge, and he can barely see past the blinding mirror of moonlight but the water is spilling calmly over the sides and there’s a shock of ghostly pale among the blackness that no waves could ever obscure.

Oh God, no.

In an instant Sherlock is tearing off his coat and jacket and diving in headfirst.

The cold knocks all sense of direction from him for a moment and his mind whirls to remember which way John was – he can’t see anything, can’t hear, can only feel, and that’s fading fast. His heart is still in his chest. Maybe its stopped. Sherlock doesn’t care. He tears and claws at the water until his hands land on fabric, on skin, and then he’s wrapping his arms around a strong chest and hauling up, up, up.

He’s heavy. Waterlogged. Limp. Sherlock is dimly surprised at his own strength for a split second. His head breaks the surface and he sucks in air and with every ounce of anything left in him he pushes John up onto the rocks and crawls up after him.


He cups John’s face in his hand. Skin too cold.


Lips blue. Not breathing.


And now Sherlock’s heart explodes in panic.

He strips John’s jacket open and presses down on his chest, hard.

“Come on, John…”

He counts the compressions with each of his own gasping breaths. One, two, three, up to thirty, and John’s still not breathing.

“No, no, John, no no no no no no…”

Sherlock touches his lips to John’s for the first time.

“Please, John, please…” he whimpers.

Chest compressions again, thirty beats, with steady hands, and another breath into his lungs that feels like a dagger in Sherlock’s heart because this is all wrong, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed when they were safe, when they were finally home, when they were warm and together and John had had a chance to say it back…

“John, John, no, don’t do this, please don’t do this, please please oh God please…”

He can’t feel the crack in his voice or the tears dripping down onto John’s already-soaked skin, but he can feel the chill creeping up in his throat, ready to strangle him.

“Don’t go,” he whispers between John’s lips. “Please, don’t go, don’t leave me here.” His hands pound frantically on John’s chest. He can’t feel his heartbeat. “Please don’t die, please please don’t die, I love you, I love you, John, I love you, I love you, don’t go, please don’t go, I love you…”

Sherlock’s hands cradle John’s face, and he bends to kiss him properly.

“I love you.”

Three words, bursting in a sob from his frail lungs into John’s.

Suddenly he seizes under Sherlock’s hands. Spine arching. Pale skin stretching and furrowing.

Water splashes Sherlock’s lips.

John coughs and shudders, and Sherlock breaks himself out of his frozen shock and pulls him to roll over. He gasps and moans, nearly retches, empties his lungs, and breathes.

Tears spill afresh from Sherlock’s eyes.

“John?” he barely gasps, a hand on his shaking shoulders.

John convulses once more, then steadies, pulling in deep, uneven breaths.

“This isn’t…” John wheezes, and his hands are still trembling, but his eyes find Sherlock’s in the darkness, and somehow they still manage to shine. “This isn’t how I imagined you kissing me.”

And there’s a joy in his half-drowned face that makes Sherlock stop shivering as a half-laugh, half-sob bursts from his throat.

He can’t tell who moves first, because all that matters is that the next moment he’s holding John against his chest, gripping desperately at his soaked jacket as John buries his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers again, because he’s said it now and he’s said it finally and he never wants to stop. “I’ve always loved you.”

It’s all he can hear, whispered back to him against his trembling lips, a chorus of I love you I love you I love you as John kisses him like he was always meant to.  

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Whoniverse: Class Appreciation Week – Day 5 – Favorite Relationship: Quill and Charlie

They are both victims of circumstance.  She is more of a victim than he.  He has the power–a power that he has no qualms about abusing.  He doesn’t see her or acknowledge her as a person.  But he never asked for this.  They are bound together against both their wishes.  The arn forced them together.

But it runs much deeper than the arn.  The minute the Shadow Kin attacked Rhodia–when both their worlds were destroyed–a new bond was forged between them.  The histories of their people and the nature of her enslavement prevented either of them from recognizing it on a conscious level, but it was there: an inextricable link–a bond stronger and deeper than the arn.  The bond of survivors.  The bond of two people with no choice but to live with the sacrifice.

I saved you. And I saved you. 

“A writer is a world trapped inside a person.” - Victor Hugo

anonymous asked:

Sherlock isn't too sure how to kiss so John teaches him. John is a very good teacher.

“Can I…”

He hovers centimeters from John’s lips; they’re close enough to breathe each other’s air, close enough that Sherlock can feel John’s heartbeat along his own skin.

“Yes.” John’s eyes are hooded, his pupils blown wide. His hands are warm against Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock blinks heavily, once, twice. He’s trying to keep his breathing even.

“Just…” He lets his eyes flicker downward. “I’m not sure…”

He expects John to laugh at him. He doesn’t expect the hitch in John’s breath as his pulse quickens under Sherlock’s fingers.

“Um…” It’s barely a sound, coming out in a low breath as he licks his lips. “However you want, really.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Just…whatever feels right.”

Sherlock nods. He tilts his head inward. He’s sure John can hear just how much his mind is whirling.

“Like this?” he breathes, and brushes their lips together. A bit more pressure, a tiny sigh, and John’s lower lip slots between Sherlock’s, and its quiet, and its soft, and Sherlock can taste the slightest bit of wetness, and it feels…it feels…

He breaks it off with the slightest gasp, his eyes coming up to find John’s, searching for everything he’s feeling in the lines of his face.

It’s there. His eyes are closed, he hasn’t moved, he’s still savouring it, and it’s all there.

“Yeah.” He whispers. The word billows across Sherlock’s face like an ocean wind. He blinks his eyes open for a second; the black has almost entirely swallowed the blue. “Or…if you want…like this…”

He leans back in – they meet halfway this time. John’s lips are warm, solid, and oh, softer than Sherlock could have ever believed. And they’re opening, just a little, and his tongue is sweeping slowly over the seam of Sherlock’s, and Sherlock lets him in, and he tastes like London rain and quiet firelight all at the same time.

Sherlock copies his movements, tentatively pushing his tongue along John’s own, and there’s so much texture and taste and intimacy in the action that Sherlock has to pull back, to breathe.

John’s hands slide up toward Sherlock’s nape, and his touch is as gentle as his gaze, and he’s looking at Sherlock like he’s a miracle, like he’s everything John can see, like he wants.

And Sherlock stares back, hoping John sees that he wants to give it to him.

“Maybe something like this?” The words leave him in a rush and he’s kissing John again, and he’s pushing in a bit harder but still taking his time. John’s mouth opens under Sherlock’s and he takes the invitation, dipping in, exploring, discovering. And it feels new and familiar, strange and comforting, like something he’s always known but never realized that he did, and he wants to feel everything, he thinks, as he pulls John’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks.

It’s John who breaks it off this time, almost panting, and Sherlock holds him, holds them together as they tremble. Their foreheads rest against each other, and John’s heart races, matching itself beat by beat with Sherlock’s.

“Yeah,” John gasps. The air flows between him and Sherlock and back again. “That’d be alright.”

Dear friend,

Take a break today.

Here are 20 little things for your day.

1. Indulge in your favorite snack. Mmm, cookies.

2. Smile at a stranger. In a genuine, not sympathetic way.

3. Watch the sun glisten off the snow. Or admire a sunset/sunrise.

4. Allow yourself to sleep in. Even just a half hour past your normal alarm.

5. CALL a friend, and just talk. I am not a phone talker, but we need this interaction over just texting.

6. Write a handwritten letter.

7. Help a stranger. Hold the door open, carry their bags, give them encouragement.

8. Buy a book you have been dying to read. Try Love & Misadventure.

9. Try a new recipe. I recommend these.

10. Reach out to someone you lost touch with. A family member, childhood friend, old teacher…

11. Cross something off your “to-do” list. Which may require actually organizing all those thoughts and tasks into a list.

12. Put your favorite song on repeat. Try “Where Feet May Fail” by Oceans.

13. Write a poem. Even if doesn’t rhyme. Just get those thoughts out.

14. Make your bed. Tighten the sheets, fluff your pillows, pretty it up. Guys, do your best.

15. Sit outside and marvel at God’s creation. Unless there is a -20 windchill. Then just look outside

16. Bake a sweet treat for someone else. If you are lucky, they might just share.

17. Make a surprise visit to your family. Even if they live just down the block.

18. Look through your old pictures. Maybe post a few #TBT.

19. Star gaze. Lay in the grass, fill a truck bed with blankets and pillows, or sit on a rooftop. Or, sit in front of a fire (real or fake) and let your mind wander.

20. Make a list off all you are grateful for. From the shoes on your feet, to the sun in the sky. People you know, and people you have yet to meet. Gratitude for what you have and do not have can change your entire perspective for today and every day to come.

We all need these things.
We need simple things in our day-to-day lives that bring our hearts joy.
Simple acts and gestures that bring our mind to an ease.
We need more of these.

Lives get chaotic. Lives get messy.
Do not let that craziness get in the way of the little things.
These are good things.
Good things that we all need.

Enjoy these more,




The World-Without-End Hour - tamed_untranslatable - Sherlock (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Injury, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Mollstrade, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

John gets hurt in the field, and Sherlock waits.

40 - tamed_untranslatable - Sherlock (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Additional Tags: Birthday, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

“I was going to wait to give this to you, but with the way you look right now, I think you need to have it.”