sorry if this is rubbish


Good, then. Let the fans who actually give a shit about the music have the experience they deserve. 

And she’d be standing next to me [x]

(Woo! Leslie actually did some semi-finished artsy stuff!)


MA / 6888 words

Childhood friends - Dunkirk Harry

Part One

Unknown number:
Little Lulu Lamb, is that you?

Who the hell is this?

Unknown number:
Your mum passed me your number.

Although the reply hadn’t exactly answered my question, I thought I might have known who it was, just because of the name. Little Lulu Lamb. It was something I hadn’t heard for years.
I scowled down to my phone, because although I’d taken a guess, I manged to talk myself out of it very quickly, since it had been years since we last spoke. He’d gone off and auditioned for The X Factor, and then the boy I’d grown up with just wasn’t around anymore. I hadn’t even seen him since, and I wasn’t sure it was because we’d just missed running into each other, or because we’d never really tried to see each other.
All I could think was that it couldn’t possibly be him.
Why would he bother getting in touch now?

Keep reading

A man enters an office supply store. He was a mere mortal seconds before, but as he passes through the door he becomes a customer. His superior gaze drifts across his domain and settles on the cashier. 

“Do you sell stamps?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say,” However-”

“I want one.”

However, we sell them only in sets of ten.”

“But I want one.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t sell you a single stamp.”

“Can’t you just…” He (skillfully) mimicks the act of ripping apart paper. 

Clearly, I have never thought of this. My simple mind grapples with the idea. I realize I am dealing with a genius, and yet, I regretfully inform him, “Sorry. They come on stickersheets, and anyways, the barcode–”

“Well that’s just rubbish,” he informs me. He is right. I realize this now. His genius ignites a spark within me. 

“You are right,” I tell him as I take fifteen sheets of stamps into my hands and begin to tear them apart. I type 0,019 stamps and press a non-existent key on the register. I hold out a quarter of a stamp to the customer (with a smile), but he shakes his head (without a smile). I rip apart all the stamps I can find, desperate to please him, for he has gifted this humble store with his presence. From the pieces, I begin to assemble a perfect, custom-made stamp. It is worth exactly 66,66€. I single-handedly reprogramme not only my cash desk, but the entire system. It can now scan any stamp in (or out of) existence. It is raining stamps. I am smiling.

Two hours later, it is done. Beaming, and covered in the torn remains of hundreds of unfortunate stamps, I hold the perfect stamp out to The Customer. He accepts it. I rejoice. It might just be my high fever and blurry gaze, but I think the right corner of his mouth moved upwards for exactly half a second. I am blessed. 

He licks the stamp and slaps it onto a letter. He wants to lend a pen. I lend him a pen. When he is done, he holds the letter out to me expectantly. He does not say a word, my silent angel, but I can tell what he wants. Thus is our connection. There is nothing, I assure you, nothing I would have rather done than to accept his letter, on my knees, with tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks… But alas: 

“I want to send the letter,” my dear customer finally says, after the silence has stretched into infinity and back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,” I say with a polite smile, brushing stamps off my shoulders, “We don’t accept mail. We only sell stamps.” 

After all, you can’t make exceptions to a well-established rule in the workplace. 

The customer doesn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s okay,” he says with a disarming smile. “I wouldn’t ask the impossible of you.” 

As he turns to walk away, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off with a stamp that wears his majestic face, hand-stitched by me. 

I don’t tell him there’s a mailbox around the corner.

(That’s not my job.) 

  • Robert: I, Robert Jacob Sugden, take you, Aaron Dingle. (Aaron chuckles) What?
  • Aaron: Nothing. I just wasn't expecting you to do the whole 'till death do us part' thing.
  • Robert: Well, that's how it works, idiot. (takes a breath) I take you, Aaron Dingle, to be my wedded husband. I promise to be faithful. To put you first. To make you happy. Too keep trying to be better for you, because... you deserve it.
  • Aaron: I, Aaron Dingle... take you, Robert Jacob Sugden... to be my wedded husband... I can't really think of anything else to say. I'm sorry, I'm rubbish at this. But you know...
  • Robert: I know. (forehead kiss *dead*) It doesn't matter.
  • Aaron: No. It does matter. I've never had this with anyone before. I never thought I'd have this with anyone. And I never thought I'd have it with you. Now I've gone and messed it all up.
  • Robert: Don't.
  • Aaron: I promise to be better as well. To trust you. To never let you down ever again. I promise I'm gonna be the best husband I can be.
  • Robert: Hey, you're already the best husband I've had.
  • Aaron: I'm serious.
  • Robert: So am I.

allroadsleadbacktobakerstreet-d  asked:

Angsty Sherlock headcanon coming your way: After the events of TFP Sherlock keeps on gaining more deleted memories from his childhood and starts to suffer from nightmares. Maybe one night John hears him screaming and goes to comfort him?

Er…so personally I think this is very bad, but I feel like you’ve waited long enough for your fill. 

In the Dark of the Night

Initially, John thought it was Rosie. A nightmare, maybe, or an earache - she’d had an infection the week before and her sobbing had kept him up all night, it was awful. But when he staggered over to Rosie’s cot she was asleep, her rosebud mouth curved in a tiny smile.

The sobbing doesn’t stop, though, and now that he thought about it, it didn’t sound like the unabashed wailing of a child. This was a shameful, muffled sobbing, the sound of someone who was trying their very best not to be heard.

John debated whether to make his way downstairs, but to his credit he didn’t actually debate very long before he found his way as quietly as possible down the creaky old stairs of 221B. The sobbing grew louder as he descended, occasionally interspersed with low whines like an animal caught in a trap.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured as he took in the scene. Sherlock was scrunched into a ball on the couch, his face jammed into a pillow, his entire body shaking. He jerked when John spoke, and immediately sat up, trying to surreptitiously wipe his face on the sleeve of the dressing gown.

“John!” he said, pasting a smile on his face. From where John was standing, it mostly looked sick, and Sherlock’s mouth kept twitching. John had never seen Sherlock’s face so out of his control before. “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, and jerked to his feet. “I’ll just…” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his room. John did not miss that his other arm kept the pillow clutched across his midriff like a shield.

“No, it’s fine,” John said, and planted himself on the sofa. “Had a nightmare, won’t be getting back to sleep anyway.” It was a brazen lie, of course, but now Sherlock would feel compelled to offer comfort - it wasn’t as though John didn’t know how Sherlock’s brain worked by now. Sherlock sat down next to him, and they spent some time staring into the shadows of the living room.

“I used to dream of Afghanistan,” John says, and Sherlock looks at him from the corner of his eye, his fingers still digging into the couch pillow like it’s an anchor, or a lifeline.  “Before I met you. I’d wake up and I’d be crying, and I couldn’t stop. Not for hours. Some nights I was afraid to go to sleep.” He takes a breath, sighs it out. Sherlock doesn’t move. “Some nights I’d sit on my bed with my gun in my hand, and I’d…wonder. I’m still not sure if I would ever have gone through with it, but I wondered, sometimes. If…all this-” his gesture took in the world, his life, everything, “was really worth it.”

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath.

“What-” he stops, licks his lips. “What do you dream about now?”

John shrugs.

“It varies. Mary, Culverton Smith. Moriarty. Sometimes I dream about that damn cabby, even,” John says. “I’m always just too late. I dreamed of the morgue two weeks ago. Dreamed that nobody came in and stopped me.”

“You’d have stopped yourself,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yeah maybe,” John says, but he’s not so sure.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the play of streetlights and headlights on the walls. It’s central London, there are always passing cars casting patterns into the flat. Even at fuck-off-o’clock on a Sunday.

They are quiet for so long that John almost jumps when Sherlock speaks.

“I killed a man in Tokyo,” he says. “He was one of Moriarty’s and he had information I needed. I…I had forgotten, until now. Well, until Eurus.”

John wants to ask how, wants to ask why, but he bites his lip and says nothing.

“I sliced off his eyelids,” Sherlock says in an eerie, distant voice. “I thought, if he could tell me what I needed to know, I could…he was strong, though. I could have admired him, if he hadn’t made it so much harder.” He holds out his hands in front of him and stares at them. They’re shaking like leaves. He clenches them into the pillow again. “I thought…I thought I could do it. I thought I could do it all and then come back, and there would be you, and-but. But now every time I close my eyes I see his face. He didn’t look human by the end. Just an animal in pain. I told myself it was mercy when I cut his throat.” The laugh sounds painful, jagged, a thing of edges and pain and bitterness. “I knew it was, in Serbia. In Serbia, god. I’d forgotten Serbia, too. Deleted it, locked it away. I’d have kissed the knife, then, if I’d thought it would free me. Just an animal in pain.”

John watches as Sherlock tilts his head back and swallows, but the tears are flowing free now, even though Sherlock’s face is completely blank.

Suddenly, he knows what to do. He turns sideways on the couch, reaches out, and pries Sherlock’s hand off the pillow to take it in both his own.

“You should go,” Sherlock says, but his long fingers are curling around John’s palm, giving the lie to his words. “You should take Rosie and…”

“No,” John says.

“I killed people,” Sherlock insists. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re an idiot,” John says, and yanks on Sherlock’s hand, hard, so that he falls over into his lap. He catches an elbow just left of his vulnerables for his trouble, but a moment later he has Sherlock - who has gone totally limp with surprise, tucked up against his chest, his curly head under John’s chin. “This man in Tokyo, you say he was one of Moriarty’s?”

Sherlock nods stiffly. His hands are moving restlessly, as though they’re not sure where to settle, but eventually one of them curls into the fabric of John’s t-shirt.

“He ran the Asian side of a human trafficking operation.”

“And did his information help you get home?” John asks, weaving one hand into Sherlock’s curly hair to stroke his scalp. Sherlock nods.

“Good,” John says. “Then I’m glad you killed him.”

Sherlock goes rigid in his arms.

“John, but-”

“No, I want you to listen to me for a moment, Sherlock,” John says quietly. “Will you do that for me?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says instantly, and John smiles into his hair.

"I’m glad that you killed him, Sherlock. I’m not happy that you had to do it, I know it cost you something, but I can’t say I’m sorry that you could. Because if killing that man was part of what brought you home, then I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

Sherlock tries to twist to look up at him and John lets him.

“You really mean that,” Sherlock says, quietly amazed.

“Of course I do, you idiot. Losing you is my worst nightmare, of course I’m glad you could come back, even if it took killing someone, even if it took killing a hundred someones.” Sherlock looks stunned, but John presses on. “And if, you know, we ever come across whoever put those scars on you…just say the word, Sherlock. I learned a thing or two in Afghanistan that I bet you don’t know.”

Sherlock huffs a strangled laugh and hides his face in John’s neck.

“No need,” he says. “Mycroft took care of them. I’m told the person who found the bodies is still in counselling.”

“Good,” John says, and strokes Sherlock’s hair softly. It feels as though they’ve crossed some kind of Rubicon here, like they’re finally moving again in the direction everyone in the world thought they were. He has his hand in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock is holding on to his shirt with both clenched fists. “That’s good. Now let’s try to get some sleep before Her Ladyship decides its time for breakfast.”

And they continue to lay there in the dark, the two of them. Silent but not alone, twisted but not broken, until dawn starts to light the sky over London.