ma writing

A Forgotten Wish

It was lying in the bottom of the box, after all the other baubles and detritus of a former life were cleared away. Some binned, some carefully repackaged and placed in places of honor around Baker Street, and some hidden away under carefully indexed socks never to again see the light of day.

It took Sherlock a moment to recognize the non-descript paper. After all there was nothing really outstanding about it: folded three times, slightly yellowed around the edges with time, crumpled like the owner had held it tightly in their fist before giving it up. When he did realize what it was he was seeing, it was with a slight tremor that he reached into the box to retrieve it, lifting it with a care usually reserved for handling dangerous corrosive chemicals. Unfurling the paper he slowly scanned the contents, taking note of the sloppy scrawl, a child’s writing only later maturing into the slightly-less sloppy block printing that would be used to comment on everything from tobacco ash to shopping lists. Backward S’s making him smile, he traced each one carefully as he remembered the events that led him to write this letter.


Another fight. Could one really call it a fight if It were one-sided? But another split lip, skinned knees, ripped hem. Other children it seemed would never understand him. He always vowed to try to be more like those he spied running and playing and jumping, but something always gave him away. Some trace of “wrongness” that either came from his manner, or most often, his mouth.

It was Mycroft who found him that time. Home from School for Winter Holiday, he dusted him off and asked him why he cared so about what they thought.

“I’m lonely,” Sherlock remarked.  “I want a friend. Just one friend who will never leave. Even you left.”

Mycroft looked stricken for one moment before gathering Sherlock to him in an awkward hug, “I’m sorry Little Bee.”

“Myc, do you think if I ask Father Christmas for a friend, he’ll bring me one?”

Mycroft hid his watery smile behind his hand, “It’s worth a try, William. I’ll help you write a letter.”

And so Sherlock had sat down at his writing desk and with Mycroft’s help composed a letter to Father Christmas asking for someone to watch over him, a friend to play pirates with, who would listen to his stories and never leave. He folded it three times and grasping it tightly to his chest, asked if Mycroft would please post it the next day.

Sherlock had no doubt Mycroft had held his word, for there on Christmas morning was a beautiful Irish Setter puppy, whom Sherlock promptly named Redbeard. And when Mycroft left again for school, Sherlock had Redbeard to whisper his secrets to, and cuddle during storms. And it didn’t matter that no one else wanted to play pirates with him because Redbeard was his first mate.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. The day Sherlock lost his only friend, he decided that friends were silly anyway, and no one would ever hold his heart again. Friends were for stupid boys named William, and Sherlock was going to face the world alone.


Sherlock looked down again at the letter in his hands. Mycroft had kept it all these years, tucked away with his important files and papers, the only box that contained any family information. Why this letter? He’d dearly love to ask him. It seemed now he’d give anything for Mycroft to sweep into 221 with his arrogant manner when for so long it was a annoying imposition. But that was as unlikely to happen as Redbeard to come bounding in the flat so best to stop that train of thought immediately.

“Sherlock, you finish that last box - what’s wrong?”

“Just old ghosts, John, something I’d forgotten.”

“Sherlock?” John kneeled down by Sherlock’s side, hands reaching out to rest on Sherlock’s knee. Strong hands, used to defend, to protect, to treat, and to love. Sherlock smiled as he watched the firelight play off the band on John’s hand, the same glint that matched his own.  

“Something you want to talk about, love?”

“It’s nothing John,” Sherlock replied as he leant down to brush their lips together tenderly. Once twice, a kiss for his husband, his lover, his friend. “It’s just that I realize Father Christmas really does exist.”

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part final (lol sorry xD)
part 1

sorry sorry sorry!!!! (not sorry ewe)
but the final of the comic i have it ready from the beginning…..
so yeah xD ….no but the true sorry,….is for the wait…..i’m really sorry
for that…..i had a art block….and other things …so yeah ….but is done xD

Some Wodehousian forms of address

If you’re lacking ideas how to call your family and friends, you may try these:

  • “old thing”,
  • “old egg”,
  • “old fruit”,
  • “my little chickadee”,
  • “you old ass”,
  • “my fluttering old aspen”,
  • “my dear old mysterious hinter”,
  • “old fever patient”,
  • “old ancestor”,
  • “old thicker than water”,
  • “old flesh and blood”,
  • “(my dear) old relative”,
  • “my dear old faulty reasoner”,
  • “you poor chump”,
  • “my poor lamb”,
  • “my misguided old object”,
  • “you ghastly goggle-eyed piece of gorgonzola”,
  • “face”,
  • “ugly”,
  • “aged relative”,
  • “you young blot”,
  • “my beamish boy”,
  • “old blood relation”,
  • “you abysmal chump”,
  • “Lord Spodecup” (instead of “Lord Sidcup”),
  • “my (beautiful) bounding Bertie”,
  • “you young hellhound”,
  • “you revolting object”,
  • “you young muttonhead”,
  • “my dear old police sergeant”,
  • “poor ditherer”,
  • “Attila”,
  • “Watson”.

Here’s my offering for the 12 days of Fic Mas 2016! Bit late, I know.  This will be one large story broken down by prompt.  It’s an AU, surprise!

**The complete work will most likely be PG-13 at the worst, but it does involve mentions of characters who have been abused in the past (residents of a women’s shelter, mostly).  No actual scenes involving abuse will be detailed, and no graphic descriptions of any abuse will be included.  There will be brief allusions to past abuse only, if anything.

And so, I present: Some Fluffy Gay Hallmark Channel Nonsense for Your Holiday Reading Pleasure!

Day 1: Letters to Santa

“-And I would also please like a puppy and you had better make it the sort that grows up big and looks really scary and that makes a good guard dog to help me protect Mummy and Rupi.

Thank you very much from Ravi age 8.”

John finishes reading and lets the final letter (complete with a wax crayon rendition of what looked like a horse but must be a dog) flutter back down onto the desk in front of him.  "Brilliant,“ he says.  "So, that makes… three new flats, four new dads, two pit bull terriers, and one ‘Dear Father Christmas, please make sure my father goes to prison.’  Easy enough.”  He doesn’t even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  He watches the back of Sherlock Holmes’ curly head across the room where he’s got his head bowed over whatever it is he’s fiddling with.  The air smells like burning solder.  “Listen,” he begins, voice low.  “How the hell are you going to make these kids happy? You’d have to be cruel, or a naive bloody idiot to promise a bunch of children spending their holiday at a women’s shelter that they’re getting just what they want for Chr-”

“The father’s already going to prison.”

John stops and raises his eyebrows.  "Is he?“ he asks, wandering over to watch Sherlock work.  He steadfastly ignores the ridiculous fluttering that starts up in his stomach when Sherlock straightens up, tugs his safety glasses away from his eyes and onto his forehead, and faces him.

It’s too much.  The graceful cheekbones and the absurd plastic goggles and the somehow-lovely duck’s egg blue eyes… It’s honestly too much.  John decides to spare himself the painful kick of longing in his chest and instead fixes his gaze resolutely on the mess of gears and wiring Sherlock was just fiddling with.

He tries not to think about the large, fine-boned hands that had been doing the fiddling.

"I’ve called in a favour at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock continues.  "He’ll do time, and the restraining order will be duly enforced.  On that you have my word, as well as Detective Inspector Lestrade’s, who despite being generally incompetent, is a firm believer in keeping promises.“

John blinks, taking in what was just said.  "Is there anyone who doesn’t owe you a favour?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up, and John just catches the movement from the corner of his eye.  

“How’s our young Ravi’s spelling?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“Um.”  John drags himself away from Sherlock’s side and looks over the last letter again.  “Huh.  Flawless, actually.  Well done, Ravi.”

“Well done, indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, jumping up from his chair and striding to the other end of the workshop.  He stops in front of a bookshelf and begins pulling the beautiful, leather-bound books from their homes and sorting through them.

John wonders what he’s doing, but doesn’t ask.  Sherlock never answers that question.  Instead, he remarks “Not really an easy bunch of presents these kids are asking for, is it?”

“Hm? Oh, these are nothing; last week I had a pediatric cancer ward, try cheering them… hah!”

A book hits an empty bit of workbench.  John sidles up closer to try and catch the title of it.  “White Fang?”

Sherlock pays him no mind whatsoever, only giving a brief “hm” of acknowledgment.  He flips the book open, pages through it a moment, and then reaches into a drawer and withdraws what looks like a straight razor.  John watches curiously over Sherlock’s shoulder.



Sherlock clears his throat and stops.  “People don’t generally watch me work.”

It’s then that John realises he can clearly smell Sherlock’s aftershave, he’s leaning so closely to his shoulder, and he steps back abruptly, trying to be casual about it.  He nearly trips over his own cane.  “Sorry, yeah.  I’m hovering.  I’ll just, uh, be going, then.”

“It’s… fine.”  Sherlock gives him an appraising look, brows furrowed as though he’s deeply confused about something.

“Yeah, no, I don’t want to bother you,” John says, looking off to the side, up at the ceiling, and everywhere else that is not Sherlock’s face.  “I’ll, uh.  Right.  When should I come back, then? Next week? I can probably be here Monday around the same time again…”

He chances a glance back at Sherlock and sees he now just looks plain-old amused.  “Tomorrow will do, John.”

“Tomorrow,” John repeats dumbly.  He thinks about the ten sheets of A4 with ten letters written in childish scrawl sitting on the desk in the corner.  Ten, supposedly hand-picked and handcrafted, gifts, finished by tomorrow.  Ten donated gifts, at that, free of charge.  Overnight.

“Oh, for god’s sake, stop it,” Sherlock snaps.

“Stop what?”

“I know what you’re thinking.  Yes, of course I do; you’re being loud enough about it.”  He stands up, strides over to the chair in front of the desk, picks up John’s coat from where it was hanging draped over the backrest, and strides back again, talking quickly all the while.  “Yes, I make toys for needy children; yes, I work incredibly quickly; no, I am not Father bloody Christmas.”  He swings John’s jacket over John’s shoulders without stopping to offer him the sleeves and puts a none-too-gentle hand flat to the center of John’s back, steering him towards the door.

“Hey, hang on! I never said–”

Sherlock continues sharply.  “Father Christmas is not real.  Beyond that, Father Christmas is an altruist; he works for biscuits and to make all the ridiculous little children smile.”  John can’t see his face as he’s currently being shuttled across the room at a pace just a little too fast for him to comfortably keep up with using his cane, but he suspects from his tone that Sherlock has just given a large, false grin.  “I am selfish.  I make toys because I’m very clever and very skilled and because it is my life’s work, and any happy, ridiculous children are simply a coincidental by-product, needy or terminally ill as they may be.”

John finds himself being pushed gently through the doorway and directed towards the stairs.  Sherlock retreats back into the workshop immediately.

“Do not mistake me for some sort of philanthropist, John. You’ll be deeply disappointed.”

John stands there on the landing for a long moment, trying to process what just happened.  He leans his cane against the wall, shrugs his arms through his coat sleeves, and turns up his collar against the weather waiting outside.  As he’s getting ready to negotiate the staircase, he hears Sherlock speak up again, far more gently than before.

“See you tomorrow.”

John’s lips tweak up unconsciously into a smile at that, and he carries it with him all the way home to his bedsit, not half because he spends most of the trip trying to picture Sherlock Holmes in a fuzzy, red suit.

A Step Too Far

He had seriously contemplated not responding. Not looking up from his phone. Pretending he hadn’t heard. It’d be so easy. After all, that had been his escape these past few months, always on his phone. “Case”, “research”, “email” or some other excuse to keep from having to actually interact with the world around him. It had even been made into a joke a while back. Sherlock didn’t help as he’s always on his phone.

But this time John was wise to his avoidance. “Sherlock?” John knocked on the back of the phone case, his fingers tapping loudly against the metal. “Can you please put that down?”

Sherlock looked up into a pair of questioning blue eyes, a jolt traveling down his spine at how close they were. Straightening up to put some space between he and John, he worked to regain some control. “What is it, John?”

“I was talking about dinner.”

“Dinner?” Sherlock swallowed. What had he missed? Was John wanting to have dinner with him? They had just solved a case but it’d been months since John had celebrated with him. But if John wanted dinner, Sherlock could be amenable. Maybe Angelo’s? Or maybe John would want take away. Maybe they could sit on the sofa like the old days and Sherlock could pretend even for a night that things hadn’t changed.

“Yes Christmas Eve dinner, at the house. We want you to come. Greg and Molly are going to be there and Mrs. Hudson too. And you’ve barely spent any time with Rosie.”

Ah. That kind of dinner. Not a night for the two of them, not a night for Sherlock to sink into the comfort of forgetfulness, to ignore the fact that John was no longer living at Baker Street. No he had a family now. And Sherlock’s role was that of friend, best pal, invited over to the cheerful family gathering to play homage to the couple and their offspring. Sherlock could think of several places he’d rather be, including back in the dungeon in Serbia. At least there the torture was mainly physical.  “Actually-” Sherlock began.

“Please, Sherlock,” John cut him off before he could think of a suitable excuse. “It would mean a lot…to me, if you would come.” John looked at him with those eyes, the brow scrunched up with concern, and Sherlock was lost. In the seven years he’d known John, he’d never been able to deny him anything when asked in that manner.

“What should I bring?”


When the day arrived, Sherlock was sure there was no chemical solution on earth strong enough to make it through the ordeal he was facing. He’d stood by John at the wedding, laid his heart on the table and gave him away to a woman who would later prove to be a lie. But he forgave her, for John, always for John. And after Magnussen, John had stayed by her side to raise their child. Rosie. Again, Sherlock had stood by at the birth, the christening, trying not to show how much he was crumbling inside. For while he dearly loved any part of John, how could he not, Rosie was just another reminder of something he’d never have. John would never be his. Not the way he wanted. All he could have was this, the role of godfather, “Uncle”, best friend. Forever sidelined. Sherlock was willing to take it, but it was still a painful pill to swallow.

Some days he railed, how could John keep asking so much of him? Would he never be satisfied until Sherlock was nothing more than a lifeless husk? How could he not know that Sherlock would give anything, do anything for him? How could he not know how much he loved him? Other times Sherlock reminded himself it was for the best. This is what John wanted. The life he desired. And Sherlock had broken himself to help give it to him, and there was no going back.

With a sigh, Sherlock gathered his presents for John: A lovely cashmere jumper in blue that would complement his eyes, and Rosie: a bee plushie and blanket, and stepped into the cab. He’d chosen just a bottle of wine for Mary, red and sweet though he knew she preferred white. He couldn’t resist just a little defiance.

As the cab swept through the city streets, he glanced at his phone, praying to whatever gods that were listening that someone would commit some gruesome crime that forced him away. Or maybe Mycroft could start a war. Perhaps he should have asked for that for Christmas this year. Perhaps he should reconsider the secret offer that Lady Smallwood had slipped him under Mycroft’s nose. Anything to get out of London, and quickly.

All too soon the cab pulled up to John and Mary’s flat. Sherlock stepped out, holding his packages like a talisman against the colorful tableau he could see through the window. Molly and Greg, no longer dancing around each other, sharing heated whispers near the buffet.

“Good on you, Molly,” Sherlock whispered, smiling. It was beyond time she found someone who would treat her properly.

Sherlock stepped up to the door, hand poised to knock, when something new caught his eye. John and Rosie, swaying lightly to the Christmas music. John was lit aglow by the fairy lights hung over the hearth, and he and the baby created a gorgeous image of joy. Sherlock closed his eyes and for one shining moment could imagine himself there, stepping into that dance, wrapping his arms around the pair of them and holding tight. It was a vision so visceral his bones ached with the want of it. John, family, a place to belong. In his mind’s eye he could see it clearly, John turning to him, a smile on his lips, his eyes shining and bright. Sherlock would kiss him, taste his laughter, steal it and make it his own. Rosie, warm, and so alive against him.

Mary’s laughter broke through his haze, and he opened his eyes to see the three of them, her occupying the position he had just imagined himself in, laughing together, their arms around one another and the baby. The images in his head shattered like broken ornaments, swept to the winds of regret. His die had been cast. John leaned in to kiss Mary, and Sherlock decided he couldn’t do this, couldn’t stand around and pretend to be happy. Not tonight. This was asking too much.

He turned around to leave, and just then noticed a black town car pulled to the curb. The door opened and out stepped Mycroft, impeccably dressed as usual but missing his umbrella, a fact that gave Sherlock a moment’s pause.


“Some roads are best left unwalked, don’t you agree, little brother?”

Sherlock scoffed, “You would know, have you ever actually walked anywhere?”

Mycroft tilted his head at Sherlock, eying him warily.  “Have you made a-”


“Good. Now are you joining the fracas or could I interest you in a more private celebration?”

Sherlock turned back, surveying the party through the open curtains. Rosie was now propped on Molly’s lap, John and Mary standing close by entwined in one another. That way lay madness. He bent down and deposited the gifts on the front step, arranging them so they might be seen before someone accidentally trampled them underfoot.

“I’m sorry John. Happy Christmas,” he whispered, before straightening up and moving towards the waiting car.

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A Better Meat Dagger?

“Candy cane.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Lestrade sputtered, looking at Sherlock like he’d gained three heads. “You’re saying-”

“Yes, that it was a candy cane. Do keep up.” Sherlock straightened away from the body removing his latex gloves and tossing them behind him.

“You are seriously telling me the gaping wound in his neck was caused by a candy cane. For God’s sake, if you’re just making this up!” Lestrade yelled, moving around to Sherlock’s side. “You can’t stab someone with a candy cane.”

“You can if it had been sharpened, sucked down to form a point, which this one clearly had.”

“This is as bollocks a theory as that ‘meat dagger’ idea that bloke of Molly’s came up with at the wedding.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a second, confusion written across his features. John pushed off from the wall, where he had been thoroughly enjoying watching the exchange. He hated to be reminded of that awful time in his life.  “Tom. Remember? The Bloody Guardsman case when you asked for theories?”

“Oh right,” Sherlock said, spinning around, his Belstaff swirling in the air. “However this one is accurate. Now we need to find the dog.”

“What dog? John, a little help here?” Lestrade pleaded, tilting his head towards where Sherlock was stalking off.

Ever since they had gotten together, Lestrade had been relying on John more as a sort of Sherlock-whisperer. Reign him in, bring him round, interpret what he was trying to say. Normally John was on board. However, this was Christmas morning, and John was tired, and this call from Lestrade had pulled both he and Sherlock out of a very warm bed where he was sure the exchange of presents was about to occur. “Sorry mate, you’re on your own.”

Lestrade threw up his hands “Yeah but a candy cane? As a murder weapon. Did he hit his head harder than normal on the headboard?”

John laughed even as his cheeks burned a bright crimson. He crouched down, peering closer at the wound in the side of the dead man’s neck. It was quite a large hole, directly to the jugular, and obviously a puncture wound, rather than a slash. Leaning in, he could see white flakes on the man’s pajama top and, was that a whiff of peppermint?

“You know, Greg -” What he had been about to say was cut off by the sounds of a loud crash and a vicious growl followed by a muttered curse. John looked up at Lestrade, eyebrow raised and they both raced to find the source of the sound. John was cursing his lack of gun as he flew up the stairs, Lestrade on his heels. Bounding up on the top landing, both men came up short staring at the sight before them. John had to lean on the wall for support as he was in danger of collapsing.

Sherlock was on his back, a gigantic sheepdog sprawled on top of him, engaged in an elaborate game of tug of war with a small object. A slightly curved small object. One that had faint remnants of red and white coloring. John laughed until there were tears pouring from his eyes. Sherlock looked…disgruntled. There was no other word for it, and John had never seen anything so unbelievably precious. Lestrade was in much the same state, his booming laughter could be heard over the intermittent growls from the tableau on the floor.

“If you both are quite finished,” Sherlock panted, stretching his arm even higher away from the dog’s reach, “you could help retrieve the murder weapon before this beast completely ingests it.”

At that John and Lestrade sprung into action, John grabbing the dog by his scruffy collar, and Lestrade extracting the sodden candy cane from Sherlock’s grip. Finally freed from his canine prison, Sherlock bound to his feet, attempting to brush off the fur that was clinging to his jacket and clothes to little avail.  “We may still be able to get prints off that, Lestrade. The assailant is most likely a Santa’s helper, an elf if you will, at one of the major stores. In the bedroom closet I found a costume and there are wrapping ribbons in the trash.”

Still laughing, John let go of the animal, stepping close to Sherlock and running his fingers through his curls, dislodging some more of the dog’s fur. “Amazing. Insane. But amazing.”

“It really was a candy cane. You were serious.” Lestrade was holding the half eaten candy carefully, turning to examine it from all angles.

“Of course, Lestrade. I’m always serious. Now I don’t believe she intended -”

“She?” Lestrade cut in.

“Yes, she, obviously. I don’t believe she intended for it to kill our man there, but her aim was true. As far as weapons go, it was actually a rather solid choice.”

“Mmm, yes solid choice. Short and sweet.” John huffed, biting his lip at the look of utter contempt Sherlock threw at him.

Lestrade laughed. “Well I best get this to the lab, you two coming?”

“In a minute,” John called after him. He couldn’t resist teasing Sherlock a bit more. He reached up and pulled Sherlock’s head down to his, brushing their lips together gently.  “At least it was a murder with a twist.”

Sherlock pulled back and fixed John with his I can’t believe I’m in love with an idiot stare. John had come to know it well in the past few months. “John.”

“Funny thing is, I never cared much for candy canes. Always get stuck in your throat.”  With that John turned to follow Lestrade, Sherlock’s reluctant laughter trailing behind him.

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Modern Day University AU Fic

Okay so I’ve just started working on a modern day au fic based mainly around Trixie, Patsy, Barbara and Delia’s friendship and university life. It’s my first time writing fic so probably isn’t great but I thought I may as well post the first little bit, and if people like it i’ll continue posting it if I continue writing it?

(Shelagh and Patrick make regular appearances but are not the focus of the story.
Trixie, Patsy, Barbara and Jenny are all second year students- Trixie, Patsy and Jenny are 20, Barbara is 19.
Delia is a first year student, she’s 19 also.
Shelagh is 24, and works as a medical receptionist, which is where she meets Patrick, who is probably mid to late 30s.
Tim is 14, Angela is 3 months, they’ve only been together for a year and a half and Angela was unplanned, but they make it work and they have a very strong relationship (so don’t worry Turnadette fans!))


“Patsy…” Trixie growled as she reached out to turn off the alarm
“Is it entirely necessary to get up at this ungodly hour on a Saturday?” She rolled over to face the unoccupied bed on the other side of the room, pulling the duvet further over her head.
“That’s the third time it’s gone off, the other two you slept through!” Patsy laughed from where she stood infront of the mirror, french plaiting her bright red hair. Trixie dragged herself out of bed, still cocooned in the duvet, and made her way towards the wardrobe they shared in their tiny room of their student flat.

“Don’t you have that gallery trip today anyways?” Patsy asked as trixie stared aimlessly at the large array of clothing options that definitely infiltrated into patsy’s side of the wardrobe,
“Supposed to, but it doesnt count towards our grades and I have that painting that I need to finish by tomorrow-” Trixie was in her second year of studying Fine Art, almost the polar opposite to the Chemistry degree Patsy was working towards, “-I’m also thinking of visiting Shelagh later, if you want to join? I’m definitely in need of some Angela love!” Shelagh had been Trixie’s ‘buddy’ at high school, she was 4 years older than Trixie but they had remained good friends even after school. Shelagh was involved with an older man, a doctor, who had a 12 year old son, and they had a 3 month old daughter called Angela together.

“That sounds dreamy, but I’m meeting Deels for brunch and probably won’t be back till later on…”
“Why? Because you’ll be having too much post avocado on toast sex?” Trixie joked as Patsy rolled her eyes, but blushed deeply.
“If you must know, we’re planning our weekend in Paris over the easter break!”
“Gosh how romantic!” Delia was Patsy’s girlfriend. She was a first year Sports Science student, and they had met around 2 months ago, when Patsy had to take Trixie to A&E after she had fallen down the escalators of the tube station on the way home from a particularly messy night out- in typical Trixie fashion! Delia had been there with a dislocated shoulder following a rugby match, she was one of the clumsiest people Patsy had ever met, but that just made her love her even more!

Trixie finally decided on a black denim skirt, a lilac turtle necked jumper and black heeled chelsea boots, quite the contrast to Patsy’s loose fitting jeans, oversized sweatshirt and Dr Martens with stripey socks that most definitely didn’t match. Trixie sat down next to Patsy in front of the mirror, tying her long blonde hair into a messy ponytail she started to apply her makeup while Patsy watched her intently
“You seem down, what’s up?” Patsy asked
“Nothing! I guess it’s just that you and Deels are so happy, and I suppose i’m just a bit jealous, which I shouldn’t be and I’m so happy that you guys are happy but…” Trixie trailed off as Patsy took her hand and squeezed it affectionately
“I’m sorry, i’m being such a downer! I’m super excited for you guys, I promise.” Trixie smiled at her friend. She was just getting over an awful breakup with a boy she’d been with since she was 16, Tom. Trixie liked to put on a brave face and pretend that everything was perfectly fine, but Patsy was the only one who could really see through that and knew that most of the time Trixie was far from okay.
“I’ll see if Babs wants to come with me and I’ll get cuddles from Angela and it’ll be like Tom never even existed!”

Just then the door cracked open and Barbara appeared
“Is everyone decent? Can I come in?” She asked, hands over her eyes. Barbara was their flatmate and shared a room with Jenny. Both were English Literature students, and both were quite conservative compared to Trixie and Patsy, however the four of them got on famously.
“Of course you can come in, don’t be such a prude!” Trixie laughed as Barbara stepped inside the room and plonked herself onto Patsy’s bed.
“I have an essay to write and I’m looking for any excuse to not have to do it, what are you both up to today that I can intrude on?” She asked, pulling her knees up to her chest and sitting her chin on them
“Cheer up pal, Trixie was just saying she was going to ask you to go and visit Shelagh to see Angela with her-” Barbara’s eyes lit up
“Can I come? Anything would be better than analysing the same Poe poem that we’ve been studying for months!” She sighed exasperatedly causing the others to laugh
“Of course you can! I have a painting to finish off first but that should only take me an hour or so” Barbara’s face sank, she could get plenty of her essay written within an hour, and not doing it without an excuse would weigh on her mind all day
“You’re welcome to help me mix paints-” Trixie winked, reading Barbara’s mind as her eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically.
“Right, I’m off!” Patsy jumped up from her seat infront of the mirror and took her phone from the bedside table, heading towards the door,
“Don’t have too much fun!” Trixie chimed, redoing her ponytail so that her fringe fell down and shaped her face effortlessly, as Patsy stuck her tongue out in response and left, shutting the door behind her.

Hope y'all enjoyed, let me know if you want me to continue, also constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, i’m aware my writing is pretty shit!

sometimes it takes a lifetime

chapter 3: age 15

The voices are cacophonous.

Mummy and Father, Mycroft, Aunt Violet, Samantha, Uncle Rudy, Grandmere, several family friends, and a couple of the more distant relations–there are more than two dozen people crammed into the house, swirling through the rooms in a riot of good cheer that Sherlock finds difficult to tune out. They gather in the kitchen and around the Christmas tree, in front of the fireplace and out in the garden, laughing and screeching and shouting in turns.

He can’t remember the last time there were this many people gathered here for Christmas–or for any other reason at all really–and it’s almost more noise than he can bear. All because Mycroft managed to sneak his way into some stupid government job. We have to celebrate, Mummy had said, and now here they all are, boisterous and happy. Tedious.

Sherlock leaves them to their conversations and settles himself onto the sofa instead, pulling out an old chemistry text and losing himself in the comforting whispers of polyatomic ions and oxidation numbers, molar masses and balanced equations.

Around him the day spins on, and the clash of voices fade blessedly into the background.


“Sherlock Holmes.”

Mummy’s voice cuts sharply through a paragraph about salt crystallization in aqueous solutions, and Sherlock looks up from his book. “You are being rude to our guests. Put that book away. Now.”

She glares at him until he closes the book with a snap and pushes himself to his feet, barely managing not to huff a sigh in irritation. “Stop being unsociable.”

She gives him a shove toward the garden, where Mr Pearson is talking to Father, and Sherlock takes the unsubtle hint and joins them, only half-listening to old Mr Pearson’s complaints about his hip. And the weather. And the Labour Party. And Mrs Cunningham’s dogs.

When he’s lingered long enough to be polite and escape Mummy’s ire, he moves to the next group, stands there silently rubbing at the worn edges of the cuffs of his jumper to try to hide his fidgety discomfort. He moves to the next and the next, hovering around the fringes of conversations he couldn’t care less about.

It goes on for hours, no end anywhere in sight. Samantha whinges ceaselessly about missing out on a holiday to Saint-Tropez with her schoolmates. Mrs Cunningham’s daughter, Sarah, spins into a long diatribe about John Major. Mrs Cunningham herself needles him about being too thin, too peaky, too quiet, too bookish.

On and on and on. The noise. The people.

Sherlock makes sounds of agreement or concern as is expected of him and moves on when the one-sided conversations grow too stilted, his interest too obviously ingenuine.

He hates this. He hates the volume. He hates the awkwardness of small talk with people he doesn’t really know and doesn’t really care to find out more about. He hates the idiotic opinions and the winking, nudging jokes at his expense. He hates the Isn’t it wonderful about Mycroft’s new position? and the He’s really making something of himself, you know and the You could stand to learn a thing or two from his example.

Frustration tugs at him, pulling at the corners of his mouth, digging at his spine. He knows these things. He knows that Mycroft is the better of them, the one everyone can be proud of. He knows he’s a disappointment. He knows he’s odd. He knows he’s not good at any of this kind of interaction–that’s why he doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t need the reminders. He knows. He’s always known.

But it’s Christmas, and isn’t Christmas supposed to be happy? Isn’t someone supposed to care about what he wants, about what would make him content? He knows that it’s childish to think that way, but he can’t help the part of him that wants to hold onto Christmas as something special, as a day away from the freaks and the remonstrations, as a single moment of respite from feeling like the butt of every joke and the target of every barb. Christmas isn’t supposed to be about everyone fawning over his ridiculous, self-important prat of a brother. It’s not supposed to be about everyone pointing out all of his flaws. It’s not supposed to be about all these hateful people and their hateful opinions and the hateful noise they make.

All of it echoes, resonates, bounces violently off the inside of his skull. Giggling. Barking. Drawling. Whistling. Buzzing. Yelling. Babbling. Humming. Arguing. Talking. Talking. Talking. He just wants it all to stop.


His grandmother’s face swims into view as Sherlock peels open his eyes, unable to remember squeezing them closed in the first place. Her hands wrap around his where he’s balled them into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms.

“Chere,” she says again, softly, cradling his nickname on her tongue the way she has since he was a child. “Why don’t we go inside, no?”

He thinks he manages to nod, and either way she understands, leading him into the house and pressing him down gently into a chair in the kitchen. The wooden seat is cold through the thin wool of Sherlock’s trousers, and he focuses on it, on the way it leaches through the fabric and seeps into his skin, letting it soothe some of the irritation still shifting in his veins like sand.

Grandmere turns on the tap, not too much, not too loud, and returns to swipe a cool, wet flannel across his palms, clearing away the thin trickles of blood from the half-moon craters he’d dug there.

She speaks to him in hushed tones, like some wild thing she wants to tame. “You’re okay, Chere. You’re fine.” Sherlock would hate it if anyone else spoke to him like that, but Grandmere has always known just how to do this. How to be quiet but not condescending. How to be gentle without treating him like glass. “See,” she tells him. “Good as new.”

Mummy would try to make him explain what’s wrong, to put into words all the trembling anxiety rattling beneath his ribs. Father would want to have a talk with him about how important it is to not let himself get so distressed to begin with. But Grandmere, she doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to talk about it, doesn’t need to try to fix him somehow, and Sherlock has always loved her for that.

“Come now,” she says instead and waits for him to get to his feet. “Your mother wanted to save this Christmas cake for your brother to take back to London with him, but I think we can find a better use for it, can’t we?”

She shoves two forks into his hand and snatches up the platter, turning for the door. Sherlock follows her out onto the front step, where she settles with a groan and motions for him to join her. Resting the platter carefully across their knees, she plucks a fork from his hand and digs right into the side of the cake. Sherlock can’t help but grin and carves out a bite for himself.

Lifting her fork, she clinks it against Sherlock’s in an approximation of a toast. “Bon appetit!” He echoes the sentiment and shovels far too large a bite of cake into his mouth, swallowing down some of his disappointment, some of his self-loathing along with it.

It’s hard to be unhappy with the taste of Christmas cake on your tongue.

They stay there, sitting in comfortable silence, sharing their secret snack until they’re sick from the sweetness and the sun has dipped too low on the horizon to keep them warm.

When they finally rejoin the party, Mummy casts the pair of them a look that Grandmere shoots down with a glare of her own, and a giggle bubbles in Sherlock’s belly.

To be polite, he completes the circuit again, bouncing from group to group. Samantha compliments him on his jumper. Mr Pearson asks after his violin lessons. The conversations are still seemingly endless, but now Sherlock finds them a little more bearable, the noise a little less loud, the world a little less heavy on his shoulders.

It’s not exactly a Christmas miracle, but for now, it’s enough.

12 days of fic-mas 2016, day 3: family gatherings


Over Easy by @foxberryblue

“You getting up?” A voice calls from behind the couch over the sounds of hissing. It mixes with the low hum of the refrigerator and the rustling of sheets when Mikasa sits upright. She looks about, bewildered and blinking, not quite awake despite the sunlight resting on her face.

Everything around her looks unfamiliar. With the mottled couch and the pale cream walls and the quaint kitchen a few steps away, Mikasa can’t put her finger on where she is, until she spots the face of a man she recognises. “Wha-?” she replies in a groan. Mikasa rubs her eyes, trying to push away the last remnant of sleep but finding smudges of mascara on her fingers instead.

Keep reading

me: i’m a lesbian
my mom: but what does that even MEAN though like cmon it’s a spectrum and you find men attractive and aren’t you kind of enforcing stereotypes by wearing men’s clothes? my older gay friends would disagree with you on that anyone can be butch and anyone can be a lesbian - even men - but not you.

anonymous asked:

If you're still taking writing requests, could we get a cute AU one of Young Ford bringing Fiddleford home for the first time and Ma Pines embarrassing her little Fordsy by showing off baby photos and childhood secrets, then Stan shows up making the embarrassment worse for his twin?

Yes, I am totally all for this. Hope you also don’t mind that I just need little Fidds to be a sass even as a child. And I love the little AU where Fidds grew up with the twins in Jersey. All for the happy AUs.

Not sure how old they are here, maybe like early teens? That’s like the worst time to be embarrassed by moms. Hope you like it!

Word count: 523

“Ma!” Ford shirked, his voice cracking slightly as he dragged two 6-fingered hands down his face. “You don’t need to do this!”

“Oh hush, Stanford,” she patted his head. “I haven’t had anyone to show off these pictures in a long time and your little friend here wanted to see them.”

“You don’t have to do this. We can just go up to my room. I have the books you wanted to look at and all.” He turned to Fiddleford hoping he would just politely decline his mother’s offer and they can leave.

But his new friend was not having that and had what Ford could only think of as a ‘devilish grin.’

“Ah come on, Ford, ya know I just moved here,” he turned to Ma Pines. “I would love to see those photographs, Ms. Pines.”

“Oh, your little friend is such a sweetie, I love him. You can come over to visit whenever you want, hun.” She went to go fetch her albums leaving the boys to wait on the couch.

“You are doing this on purpose,” Ford turned to his friend. “You have betrayed my trust, how could you?”

Fiddleford laughed. “Don’t look like that, Ford! Now when my mom asks about looking at baby photos, you don’t have to say ‘no’ and I really do want to see if there are any little secrets I should know about.”

“THERE ARE NO SECRETS!” Ford yelled a little too loud. His cheeks were bright red and that just made Fidds laugh more.

“Don’t go yelling at your friend, Stanford,” she came back into the room with a small book in her hands. She sat down next to Fidds opening it to the first page. “I’m only showing the first ones so don’t go being a grumpy fish.”

For almost 20 minutes Ford’s ma and Fiddleford were looking at old photos of him and Stanley as babies, but boy, did Ford feel like he was there for days. His face was bright red as he tried his hardest to ignore the giggles coming from their direction. He only feared the worst as the hands on the wall clock click by too slowly for him.

He was about to get up to go hide in the bathroom when the door swung open.

“This is where you went!” Stanley yelled. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you and you were just at home the whole time! You said you’d wait for me.” he looked over to see Fiddleford looking through some of Ma’s photographs. “Ah, I see.”

“Sorry, Stan, but Fidds wanted to see some of the books I got from the library and then Ma came in and it just went downhill from there.” Ford rubbed his arm. “We were gonna be back by the time you got out of -”

Stan quickly covered his mouth shushing him. “Quiet. Ma don’t need to know!” Stan whispered before letting him go.

“So, whatcha looking at Fiddlesticks? You get to the pictures of Ford in a little pink bunny suit? That one’s my favorite.”

Ford groaned putting his face in his hands refusing to look up.

Ice skating - Barry Allen

Summary :You get your boyfriend Barry to go out ice-skating with you for the first time and show off some of your skills, which surprises him quite a bit.

Word Count :1055 

warnings : slight smut but not much

pairing : barry allen x reader

A/N : I do not own any of these gifs, credit goes out to original owners. This is the first x-mas / winter writing prompt forthis holiday season. Sorry this is so short, but enjoy it anyways. :)

Originally posted by atravelgirl

Originally posted by alessia1995

Originally posted by bruisette

“Barryy.” You drawl out his name. Turning around in your chair at S.T.A.R. Labs, you look at your boyfriend who was busy with paper work and organizing the meta humans names’. It was the beginning of December and the winter season, so that meant that the skating rinks were re-opened; much to your delight. 

You used to go ice-skating all the time when you were little, you did with all your friends, even some of your boyfriends if the relationship lasted that long. It was kind of a tradition for you, and you wanted to share that tradition with Barry.

“Hmm?” He hums, not even looking up at you. You sigh and get up, walking over to the desk and sitting in front of your boyfriend. He finally looks up at you, eyebrows raised. “May I help you, Y/N?” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I want to go ice-skating, please will you come with me?” You plead using your puppy dog eyes. He sighs and smiles a bit. 

“Babe, I’ve never gone ice-skating before.” Barry chuckles. “I wouldn’t last a second on the ice.” You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re The Flash, can The Flash not handle a little ice?” You tease, grinning like an idiot. He furrows his eyebrows, getting up and grabbing your coats. “Yay!” You squeal, knowing that Barry was going to prove you wrong out on the rink.

When you got to the rink you rented your skates and quickly put them on. You stood easily, Barry needing help already. You giggle and help him out onto the ice, letting him stand near the wall so that he’d have something besides you to put his weight on. You two slowly start to make your way around, and soon enough Barry get’s a hand of it.

“See, it’s not so hard.” You smiled, holding his hand. Barry looked down at you, kissing the top of your head and continuing to glide along the ice. After a few minutes you pulled away from him and made your way into the middle of the rink. You do a few small circles before getting ready to do a big spin in the air. No one has ever seen you out on the rink besides your family members, so you were excited to see Barry’s reaction to this. 

Pushing yourself up off the ice you hold your arms close to you as you do three perfect spins in the air, landing perfectly. You smile and turn your head, seeing a very awestruck and surprised Barry Allen. You skate back over to him, closing his gaping mouth. 

“Don’t want to freeze your lugs, now do you?” You tease, nudging him slightly. 

“How come you never told me you were so good at this!?” He exclaims, starting his way around the rink once more. You shrug, your hands running through your hair.

“I don’t know, I just never thought it was important information.” You shrug.

“Well I’d say that it is pretty fa-nominal that you can do that.” He pulls you close. “My beautiful ice princess.” You blush, giggling at the new nickname. You two skate around, Barry occasionally falling on his ass and you just stand there laughing at him, until he pulls you down with him. When you two get back up he gets the great idea to try and do some tricks. He skates along, looking back at you with a cocky grin on his face. 

“Barry! Babe, watch out there’s a-” You were to late to finish off your sentence because Barry ran into the wall, falling and sitting on the cold flooring. “Wall.” You sigh, going over to him and helping him up. “Let’s get you home Barr, I think all the hot cocoa has gotten to your brain and made you think that you can actually do stuff.” You giggled. He made a look at you, not a bad one, just a playful one. You walk him back to Joe’s and Iris’s. 

“Stay with me tonight, you haven’t stayed over for quite a while and I don’t want you walking home so late in this cold.” He says, dragging you inside without even listening to a word you were trying to say. You and Barry walk upstairs and then you realize that you don’t have any clothes to sleep in for the night. 

“Uh..Barr? I don’t have anything to sleep in.” You mumble. He shrugs and throws a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt at you. The clothing hits your face and you stand there, arms crossed. You could hear Barry chuckle at you.

“Hey,Y/N? You’re supposed to wear the clothes on your body, not your face.” You huff and take the clothing off of your face. You change out of your clothes from the day, going slow because you knew that Barry was watching your every move. “Y/N..” Barry’s voice was low. “Are you trying to tease me?” You turn around, only wearing your undergarments and the t-shirt Barry threw at you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barr.” You smirk, handing him his boxers. He puts them back in his drawer and before you know it you were on your back on his bed. You look up, Barry hovering over you with eyes full of hunger. 

“You know how I feel about you teasing me, baby.” He whispers, ghosting his lips over your neck. You shiver, goosebumps rising along your skin. “I would normally just tease you for teasing me, but I’m far to tired so I think I’m going to go to bed. Good night, baby.” Barry grins, giving you a quick peck on the lips and then he rolls over, turning off his lamp and pulling him close to you. You groan silently but smile, resting your head against Barry’s arm. 

“Good night, Barr.” You mumble, falling asleep right as your eyes closed.