After Hasbro discontinued their successful run of classic My Little Pony toys in 1991,Tyco, under their Playtime Products affiliate, tried to fill the void left on the shelves in ‘92 with the very briefly lived Little Miss Dinosaur. I can find very little information about them and it is possible they were only available in Europe. It is a shame they were so unpopular, and that I have only very recently learned of their brief existence because they are nearly impossible to find. The price I’d pay to have that grotesque blue brontosaurus with her dead-eyed gaze and garish makeup on my shelf. If anyone has one of these toys, please share photos!
Hi everybody. Last Friday, September 1st, 2017, my son lost his bear. I believe this happened aboard Bus 586 from University of Washington to Tacoma, but could have happened before or after.
If you happen across this bear, I have a 4-year-old who would love you forever. Thank you.
WHAT: A small, stuffed bear. The bear itself is a dingy white and he has a blue blanket attached to him. WHERE: Potentially: Bus 586 from UW to Tacoma. Other possibilities: University of Washington, around Denny Hall; Tacoma Dome Station; 6th Ave Tacoma, near Goodwill. WHEN: Early to mid afternoon. We boarded the BUS at 2:40 PM.
If you have any information, please message me here. I know it’s just a toy, but he’s had it since he was born and calls him his best friend, so we’re trying every avenue we can think of. Please signal boost.
It’s early yet, very early. The light has just barely moved into the steel grey of dawn, shadows still casting long around the room. It’s cold; John automatically slides toward the middle of the bed.
Yes, Sherlock says. John’s arm comes over the dip of his waist to pull him closer, and John blinks harder against the sleep at the edges of his eyes. Brow furrows; heartbeat jumps. Sherlock is trembling.
What’s wrong? Sherlock’s fingers find the hem of John’s sleep shirt and twist into it. Sherlock? What’s the matter?
Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his face toward the pillows, shaking his head with a rickety, unhappy smile. It’s nothing. I’m just - cold.
John reaches out to brush the hair away from his forehead; he’s sweating. You wouldn’t wake me up for nothing. John’s hands slide over his ribs, his arms. The clenched line of his jaw. Soothing, sweeping, softening the tremors in his wake. Bad dream, was it?
I wasn’t asleep, Sherlock says, and John hums. Not the same as a nightmare, no, but not exactly different, either. He leaves his hand in Sherlock’s hair.
It’s quiet, for a moment. All the things there are to be said about it have already been said, and John knows when to keep his reassurances to himself. This isn’t about talking, he doesn’t think. This is about not being alone. This is about keeping watch.
Then Sherlock says, Tell me what you were dreaming.
There was a dog, John says automatically, even though there wasn’t. Or, there might have been: he doesn’t remember. But what Sherlock is really saying is, tell me about something else, and whether he dreamed it really isn’t the point. You, and me, and a dog, out in Regent’s Park. Must’ve been spring, because it was sunny but you still had your coat on.
Sherlock shifts, shuffles a bit closer. Playing fetch, were we?
John smoothes his hair back, again and again, soothing, catching his fingertips on the ends of the curls. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple because it is in reach. We were on a case, of course.
So he invents: a case about a missing dog toy, a caricatured villain, a run through London. He takes the time to talk about all their favourite places, like the bistro that makes the best tiramisu, and the pub where John first kissed Sherlock in front of all the Yarders, and the shop that carries the lavender honey, and the view from the bridge out over the Thames. He talks about the people and the bustle, the busyness and the synchronicity of millions moving together. He talks about the way the city lights up with fairy lights in the winter, and how it blooms with flowers in the spring, the crisp glow of it in autumn. He talks about the rain, and the way the whole city smells green. He talks about the stars.
John talks, and he talks, and he talks, and slowly, something in Sherlock begins to soften. He scoots closer, and closer again, and grows heavy against John’s chest. His fingers loosen; his shoulders relax.
Are you asleep, bumble, John finally whispers, when the dawn has become more light than darkness. Sherlock, still and warm against him, doesn’t respond.