overnight post

  • Me: Supergirl has kinda been on this downhill spiral recently... I don't think I'll be as invested in the next season
  • Katie McGrath: *gets promoted to a series regular*
  • Me: ...Well, it looks like I'm going to have to watch every episode now
  • Katie: She said with surprise in her voice for some reason???

“teru is a great character”

hell yeah he is

“he must be protected”

yeah dude I feel ya

“precious kid who’s done nothing wrong”

okay no. not at all

brought to you by me spending midnight to six thirty am in the airport, the obligatory “dregs stuck overnight in an airport” post, written by me on no sleep

  • nina heads immediately for the late-night coffee shop
  • matthias is that friend who’s like “we should probably try and sleep” and insists that sleeping on seats in the departure lounge is manageable, also refuses to admit that nobody can fall asleep on them and lies there for a good three hours just to make a point
  • jesper spends a good amount of time just walking around and exploring, wandering in and out of all the shops, going up and down stairs and corridors just to see what’s there (until an irate security guard pointedly redirects him back into the central departure lounge).  he probably drags wylan with him 
  • there’s a small twenty-four hour restaurant that they both end up at and spend most of the night in.  they order full meals and drinks just because they can, and stay way past the time the staff should have made them leave.  wylan falls asleep sometime after four, lying across one of the benches with his head on jesper’s legs
  • jesper is more than alright with this arrangement.  sitting there absentmindedly running a hand through wylan’s hair and people-watching is more peaceful than you might expect a relatively crowded airport to be in the early hours of the morning
  • after a few hours, matthias finally admits defeat and joins nina at the coffee shop.  she grins and wordlessly slides a mug over to him.  they have a makeshift date in the early hours of the morning (matthias tells nina about the book he’s reading.  she makes him listen to an entire album of obnoxious pop music she stole from jesper.) and it’s actually matthias’ favourite part of the whole trip
  • kuwei’s been in the corner with his headphones and a book since they checked in, but will occasionally look up to complain about how uncomfortable the seats are or how long they’re waiting.  he’s also that asshole that can fall asleep anywhere and eventually does just that, curled up on one of the airport seats in the most uncomfortable-looking position, but he’s fine
  • nina finds out the duty free shop is open all night and almost misses boarding with how long she’s in there.  she emerges with armfuls of new purchases and has to sit on her suitcase to make them all fit
  • kaz is Not a fan of airports.  they’re too busy and bright and crowded and there’s nowhere comfortable to sit if you can even find an empty seat, there’s too many tourists, everything is overpriced,
  • he probably just sits in the least-crowded area he can find, sipping coffee and scrolling on his phone.  after a while, inej joins him.  she doesn’t sleep well in airports so they spend a couple of hours just sitting together in silence, until at one point kaz looks up and sees inej has fallen asleep, head resting on folded arms and hair falling across the table.  it doesn’t affect him in the slightest, not at all, he’s definitely not staring
  • (he certainly doesn’t drape his jacket around her shoulders before going back to his coffee and his phone.  nina didn’t see a thing.  shut up, nina.)

The framed print of the Periodic Table of Elements is missing from his bedroom wall. They’re out of milk again, even though there was a fairly decent amount left last he checked, as he was making tea the previous afternoon. And his flatmate’s military haircut appears at least a full centimetre longer than its state just a day prior.

In hindsight, those oddities Sherlock has noticed this morning, observations he couldn’t immediately formulate a deduction to adequately explain, should’ve been sufficient clues.

The critical – and most alarming – sign that it most certainly isn’t just another day of his life at his (and his blogger’s) 221B, however, arrives in the form of a plain envelope. Addressed to him. Well, to ‘Mr S. Holmes’.

Enclosed is a ticket to a symphony concert (over in the States, in NYC), an introductory flyer (containing a photograph of the very fresh-faced orchestra, featuring bright, innocent eyes and a few missing-tooth grins), and an unsigned note, penned in elegant script: “Don’t be late.”

The detective’s gaze fixes upon somewhere specific on the photograph, and is for a long moment incapable of moving away. Amongst the performers sits a dark-haired, neatly dressed boy in the front row. A child whose confident, lopsided smile reminds him so much of-

He shakes his head, but fails to clear his mind of painful memories threatening to surface, memories that he’d wished to leave behind amidst the rolling plains and sweltering heat in that Pakistani city and never have to revisit.

He’d realised, mere days after, that a significant part of him did desperately hope to win her, yet despite the heart’s insistent whisper, their respective pride decisively yielded dispute instead of ‘dinner’.

He absolutely despises how, years of silence later, three pieces of paper are all it takes to make something in him once again flutter.

There is no doubt that the invitation is from The Woman. Nor that the charming boy, the child that is sure to shine as the star of the performance, is none other than her own. What he doesn’t understand, is the reason behind such a move. Move? He’d thought their game was long concluded, and he certainly wasn’t the winner.

What’s she hoping to achieve now, taunting him with the family she’s clearly succeeded in building? Tearing at old wounds that haven’t healed and probably never will, as if there hadn’t been enough hurt that they each caused the other?

Nothing, nothing makes sense.

..but there is a way to rectify that, he supposes, hands still steepled beneath his chin.

He reaches for the desk beside him and flips his laptop open. A few clicks and keyboard taps later, the British Airways booking page appears on the screen.

It’s a nice, blue-skied morning, after a night of precipitation and thunder. Sherlock Holmes is one swift motion away from pulling his bedroom door open when he pauses, his attention suddenly caught by something to his left.

A Periodic Table print, on the wall. The one that should currently be resident in NYC, not here in London. The same one that he’d gently taken off himself and placed into a poster tube, to accompany a small boy on the flight back to his American home, a couple of years ago, at the youngster’s request.

“No! It won’t be the same. I don’t want a new one, Dad, I want this. Yours.”

Nero had taken a keen interest in the sciences, even back then, when he still liked to be carried and swung around. He’d ask to be lifted up in front of the large framed print, hug his father’s neck tight, and tilt his head to study the columns with concentration. He’d point towards individual elements, and demand to hear cool stories of their discoveries, to learn their unique properties, to know everything there is to know about these fascinating constituents that make up the world..

A slight curve stretches its way across the detective’s lips at the thought of his son. A far-too-telling smile. One that he has to remember to erase from his face before entering the living room to greet John. One to which no passing observer would’ve spared a second glance before assigning the simple, ordinary label of ‘fondness and pride’.

But proud he is, indeed. In curiosity and cleverness, in exploration and mischief, the plantlet cheekily flourishes, with much more liberty than he ought to have been allowed. Yet it isn’t as if either parent has any real power to constrain his access to what latest objectives he’s chosen to set his determined young mind upon – both Sherlock and Irene’s well-honed people-manipulating craft has proved unconditionally susceptible to what they see in those big, blue eyes. Nor do they truly intend to deny the boy at all.

Directing his thoughts back to the present, Sherlock examines the framed print before him – is this yet another coded message from Irene or Nero? Has it been delivered and discreetly put up within the time frame of a few hours, whilst he was asleep? They couldn’t have been visiting Baker Street themselves – he would’ve observed. And the boy must’ve been busy with rehearsals recently, with his first big concert this coming weekend.

Speaking of which, he expects to pay them a visit very soon.

Shiro’s a terrible morning person when he doesn’t have the greatest threat in the universe breathing down his neck. Give him a safe, neutral area he’s out like a light for up to 12 hours at a time. He’s shit at waking up bc normally he’s so tense and horribly alert. Examples;

- Once mumbled something like ‘Lance get off the floor’ and then picked him up and carried him around for ten minutes. He was just making breakfast.

- Sometimes Pidge goes to see him early in the mornings for something and he just yanks her under the covers with him and goes back to sleep.

- Stood there stroking Hunk’s face and patting his cheeks asking if he’d brushed his teeth and washed his face and kept nodding and saying 'good. Great job’ no matter what Hunk actually said.

- Goes through the motions of brushing Keith’s hair even though normally he doesn’t have a brush in hand. Acts like he’s tying it up even though they have no hair ties and also Keith’s never worn his hair up before.

Tauriel: Your father wants to give me to Arwen and Aragorn as a wedding gift.

Legolas: He was only kidding. He would never do that.

Tauriel: He told me he would.

Legolas: I know my father. He is not giving anyone to anybody.

Tauriel: You do realize this is Thranduil we are talking about?

Legolas: Dad, did you tell Tauriel you were giving her away as a wedding gift?

Thranduil: Yes.

Legolas: Dad, that’s ridiculous.

Thranduil: Why?

Legolas: You don’t give people as gifts.

Thranduil: Your mother gave you to me.

Legolas: That is sweet, Dad, but I don’t think this is the same thing.

Thranduil: Give me grandchildren and I’ll reconsider.

Legolas: How do you want to deliver her? In person or overnight?

Sometimes I look at my work and cringe at how imperfect it is, but then I remember; I created this, this was a blank page before I filled it with my very own story from my very own imagination. That’s kinda amazing.

No story is perfect. It’s okay, keep writing. I believe in you.