tobacco ashes


You’ve Fucked with the Wrong Witch jar. 

Recently someone stole personal items off of my patio within the night and it really irritated me. A few days ago in the morning I saw someone out of the corner of my eyes while I was making tea and they were wearing a grey hoodie, hood up where I couldn’t see their face. It looked weird to me but really when you are home alone all day you feel everyone is suspicious coming by your house (at least that is just me, note, I live in apartments and on top of that live right near a trail everyone walks on, so I get people passing by all the time.) The next day lighters were taken off my patio, and it isn’t like I can go to the police. “Oh, some person in a grey hoodie stole lighters from me.” They can’t and wouldn’t do anything, there isn’t anything to go off of. Plus there lighters, who cares? People might say let it go but I won’t. Honestly, no matter how big or small of what was taken the fact is I feel violated. Someone jumped my enclosed fence onto my patio, trespassing and took my shit. That isn’t okay with. 

By this incident I was inspired to make this jar and I hope that it can help you if you come across something similar within your life. Justice comes to those who yield the sword. 

A black candle
Dragon’s Blood incense ashes. 
Tobacco or tobacco ash (optional)
Coffee grounds 
Lily of the Valley (optional, warning, this herb is poisonous. If you use, use with care) 
A pinch of salt. 

Light your candle. Open your jar, place your ingredients one by one as you wish. You can say whatever you would like to set your intentions or say nothing at all, this is what I said though: 
                “No harm or thievery shall come to me because this is my home and I will protect it. With my power and my two hands I shield those away who want to cause harm and tricks and if you come across this threshold without permission then you shall feel my wrath that will cause a storm of unfortunate luck for you because I am not the person you should be fucking with.” 
Once you are finished, cap up your jar, and let it sit next to the candle as it burns out. (If you can, don’t leave a candle lit if you won’t be home) Once the candle is done, charge your jar as you’d like. (full moon, crystals, incense, etc.)

To Use: 
Sprinkle this powder under your front door mat or around your patio/balcony in the corners. Make sure it is where you won’t accidentally get any on you. I don’t recommend placing this on the bare ground either. There is salt in this and you don’t want to kill that spot of the earth. 

I do not recommend placing this powder inside the house. This is more for an external barrier to surround your home. Plus, there are toxic ingredients within spell and you don’t want any to harm you, others, or pets. 

anonymous asked:

Hi! I hope you don't mind a throwback question to the early days of the show; but I was wondering—do you have any theories about why Sherlock excluded John from his cases for two months after ASiP? I always been puzzled by that, even before I discovered TJLC. I'd love to hear any thoughts. Thank you!

Hey Nonny!

Aw, yeah, I love throwback Thursdays LOL! Oh, gosh, I know this was explored at least in a fanfic, and I think I have seen a meta about this, but I’m gonna do my own and give you my thoughts :D I think the original meta itself stated that just because John wasn’t writing about it didn’t mean that they weren’t having cases! Which I believe completely! Could be that John didn’t know yet that he was destined to write a blog, so he maybe started drafting them and thought “what a silly idea, I like writing about this man, but he won’t care”, or didn’t start writing them until he found out Sherlock was starting to read them… as in, John DID visit Sherlock’s blog, found out that Sherlock just wasn’t going to tell him:

Because these are the idiots we are dealing with, here, people. Because as you’ll see, John can be just as petty as Sherlock, and not tell Sherlock he noticed.

The above comment immediately following the address change post, and John comments on the post right after this one, so he fucking noticed right away. John visited the blog on a regular basis (in-show, John knows exactly what was on Sherlock’s blog at any given time [the tobacco ash comment]), I think we can then assume he saw this VERY early on. In fact, probably the SAME DAY, given this comment here:

Our cupid Mike Stamford probably then immediately went to Sherlock’s blog and made the comment on the forum directing Sherlock to John’s blog, and Sherlock immediately checked it out and did his aloof schtick. Now, since Sherlock’s forum posts don’t have dates, I can’t say with certainty on what day that Sherlock commented with “I’ll wait until he’s noticed I noticed”, but I think it’s a good guess to say it was on the same day as ASiP.

Also, even before the ASiP blog post was put up, John was already directing people to Sherlock’s blog post the night after ASiP happened in the timeline (the ASiP post went up Feb 7):

So, you know DAMNED WELL John INDEED saw the “see if he notices” post because THAT POST is just below the coded message post on Sherlock’s forum.

Now, John is encouraged again since he knows that Sherlock is reading his blog, and John was just waiting for the most interesting case they had so he could embellish and romanticize Sherlock (which I genuinely think John didn’t realize he did until Sherlock brought it up in comment on ASiP) so he could impress Sherlock and indulge Sherlock in the praise I think he knew Sherlock loved

Apparently John never said anything, because Sherlock didn’t comment or allude to him knowing about the Study in Pink blog post until a month or so later, on the same day that the Blind Banker case was posted:






Who knew Sherlock would be the first to crack??? HE COULDN’T TAKE JOHN NOT NOTICING HIM ANYMORE. It was driving him nuts.

Also, there is the Diamonds are forever post that mentions Sherlock did find a body, so I think they were still out solving cases.

So, Nonny, I personally believe that they WERE out solving cases, just he was being petty and dumb and held out as long as possible to write up the next post in full because I think he KNEW it was killing Sherlock. There’s really nothing in-canon that states they just were sitting around doing nothing for a month. I mean, sure, they were probably still trying to find the right groove of living together, but I think in the end it’s just a case of “anything could have happened”, but more likely they’re just being stupid idiots and pretending to ignore each other and pretending that they weren’t already so fucking gone on each other. Jesus.

Only 6 years later we discover Sherlock fucking ADORES John’s blog to pieces, loves the inane names that John comes up with, and reads it when he’s pining for him, FFS.


(also, as a completely unrelated aside, anyone else find it fishy that it’s only JOHN’S blog that they broke the fourth wall on and said John wouldn’t be updating anymore? Sherlock’s, Molly’s and Prince’s blog all do not have the BBC message at the top… just something to think about).

one-roomed mind palace

On the nights when John can’t quite keep his eyes closed, the even breathing of his daughter across the room doing nothing to soothe him to sleep, he instead draws himself into his own meager mind palace that Sherlock knows nothing about.

His only has one room, no doors, and a window that opens up to the roaming moors where his grandparents had lived. Inside, the living room of 221B is as much of a clone to its real-life counterpart as John could ever manage. It’s not perfect, but he’s not using it for the storage of tobacco ash and various melting points, so it fulfills its purpose just fine.

There’s only one memory he’s intent on keeping safe.

He feels arms, strong and warm, cage around him and draw him against a hammering heart. He feels air stir at his hairline. He feels a dry hand press at the nape of his neck, fingers curling him closer as if he would disappear at any moment. He hears a sigh.

“It is what it is.”

From there, during the pivotal moment of John’s lifelong emotional state, it only gets worse.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. His forehead is pressed to Sherlock’s sternum, and both of his hands find themselves against his broad chest, fingertips digging into an expensive dressing gown. His tears won’t stop.

Sherlock’s hands tighten. “No, John, you have nothing to be-”

John pulls back, cutting him off. Sherlock’s arms loosen until his hands are merely resting against the curves of John’s shoulder blades. John looks up to meet his gaze, but his eyes are closed. “Sherlock,” he says. “Not this. Not… I’m sorry for everything. For every single bloody thing. You…” His breath hiccups. “I am so, so sorry.

His eyes don’t open. John can feel his voice through his chest, where his palms are still connected. “Nothing,” he says. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Nothing?” John huffs in disbelief. His hands begin to trail up, up, up, and Sherlock’s eyes flutter open in surprise when his fingertips brush the cut beside his ear, half-hidden by his hair, where John’s fist had sliced open his skin. John’s other hand barely touches beneath his right eye, almost catching on his bottom lashes, where the white of his sclera is still stained red. Sherlock’s stopped breathing.

“Everything,” John whispers. The hand on Sherlock’s cheek drops back down to the center of his chest, where John kneads into the scar that his wife had made. “I have everything to apologize for.”

And then Sherlock’s face shatters, so wonderful and horrible all at once, and John’s nose is squashed against his neck when his arms pull him back and tighten, elbows hooked around his shoulders and chest shaking in quiet sobs. John lets himself be held and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, murmuring words into his skin that he couldn’t remember if he tried. They’re broken, John knows, and all that’s left for them is to shudder together through the pulsing waves and try not to drown.

It’s an unsure thing, after all of this when John draws himself back to the present, if he’ll drift to sleep or cry his eyes out.

And yet, despite that, he always takes the gamble.

Keep reading

Meet My Wife, Ch. 3

A/N: Find the whole thing on AO3: Meet My Wife

Sherlock watches you sleeping next to him in his small dorm room bed. You are breathing softly and evenly and he resists the urge to reach out and touch you. Initially annoyed at being assigned such an aesthetically pleasing and potentially distracting Chem Lab partner, Sherlock had quickly come to appreciate your drive, and intelligence. During long afternoons in the lab and late nights studying at the library he was able to deduce the reasons behind your quest for scholarly success. You were working hard to put distance between you and your upbringing, and likely, your family.

Keep reading

He kept the photograph, along with the letter, neatly pressed within the small book. It sat in his shelf – filed, secure and contained – amidst the various biographies and references, to be kept there until work required its reappearance. 

And that, he had decided, was the end of that.

Yet weeks later, while perusing his indices for a case involving tobacco ash, he found his hand reaching for the small bound book instead. 

Why he should be reading it when he had more pressing matters to attend to, he couldn’t say. The case was closed. There was no more information to be gleaned from within her letter, or from the photograph itself. The Woman’s face stared at him with condescension, and just a touch of mischief, between the pages of the book. He snapped the book shut and slid it back into its place.

It did not stay there for long. When Watson was out, he found himself reaching for the book and the photograph, absentmindedly at first, then with increasing urgency, and a mild sense of guilt – as if he were engaging in something illicit or sinful – with every encounter.

It was as if the Woman within refused to be contained inside the book and shelved. He should have known, truly, that she was simply too much – too clever, too real, too unsolvable a mystery – to be boxed into a single photograph, a simple footnote.

Every time he opened the book and stared at her face within, studied her handwriting, it seemed to him that she came alive and taunted him. And yet, he could not leave it alone. She would not let him.

The next morning, he packed his luggage. Unwilling to leave the photograph which had so enslaved him, he plucked the item from its home in the shelf, and without thinking about it, he placed it within his watch.

With a hurried goodbye to his landlady, Sherlock Holmes set off to Montenegro.


By SorrowsFlower




When the deerstalker made his first appearance in ASIB I just thought of it as a reminiscence to canon Sherlock Holmes. After all, this hat has become the most famous trademark for the great detective worldwide for more than hundred years. Somehow the deerstalker and Holmes are almost inseperable. Therefore it’s no great surprise that this hat shows up in Sherlock BBC as well. What I wonder now - after having written about the Deer and the Skull - is this:  Could the deerstalker be of more importance for the story than just a reference to victorian Holmes? Because:

‘The deerstalker is traditionally a rural outdoorsman’s cap. It is not an appropriate headgear for the properly dressed urban Gentleman. The fashion-conscious Holmes would be loath to commit such a sartorial faux pas.'  (X)

That’s about canon Sherlock Holmes. Nowadays - in the 21st century - wearing a deerstalker in London would look even more strange I assume. And I’m not talking here about fans who wear it in honor of Sherlock. That’s something quite different. No, I mean wearing it as a hat … just a hat.

The more I think about that 'silly hat’ the more it appears to be a massive anomaly in this modern Sherlock Holmes adaptation.

Keep reading


Go to the source…Observations

40 days past March 8th is Easter.

So, this year we will observe Easter.

Lent / Ash Wednesday
Sherlock: 243 types of tobacco ash. Deleted!
Sherlock TSoT: I know ash!
Creepy Guy SiB: I know human ash.

ACD: Holmes monograph on the subject of tobacco ash, first mentioned in A Study in Scarlet. Used to solve The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear (arguably the 40th story).

Observe animal behavior…

BBC Sherlock: Sherlock experiments on John in HoB by using idea of an animal that attacks in the lab, and Eurus makes remarks about experimenting on them in TFP. She also calls them pack animals, which could have two connotations: pack animals like wolves or pack animals like elephants. Mycroft refers to them as lab rats. Sherlock and John discuss murderous zoo animal in TLD. Murderous Mary elephant is placed on site. The Veiled Lodger has this attack animal concept, and is chronologically the 40th story.

Observe women…

The Adventuresses of Sherlock Holmes (ASH for short), a scion of The Baker Street Irregulars, which was founded by female fans, because BSI did not allow women membership.
“We must certainly lose to them.” -TAB Mycroft (Who Sherlock gives 2 years, 11 months, and 4 days to live at the end of the bet. Oct 2018 from TAB release date?)

Observe the spirit…

Love /AMMO/, Faith (Culverton), Charity? The greatest of these is love, if Sherlock is a resurrection figure. And to have John. Originally, Mary meant love (Egyptian), then sea (Maria or Stella Maris connects it to Venus), then bitterness or wished-for child (Biblical).

Observe scripture…

Genesis has a creation story that is partially covered in the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale The Garden Of Paradise. This story also features the East Wind, North Wind, a fairy, water-phobia/a very wet Prince, talk of forests (we know part of Sherlock was filmed in a forest), angels, apples, panes of glass, mirrors, weeping tears of blood, what constitutes sin (desire itself or acting on it), defying death, and the Arctic (Sherlock North).

Matthew 13: 9-16 Jesus and the disciples discuss using parables to teach, but people that do not perceive what they should.

Observe Moriarty:

Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press capable of criticizing it?

— Sherlock Holmes, The Valley of Fear

This topic had been covered by *Newcomb about 20 years before, and it may have been him that inspired the character of Moriarty.

Mary reading Dynamics of Combustion, and 221B is blown up, but the book was written by Sherlock’s mother so in EMP, regular MP or John’s unconscious state, the boys would be unscathed. It represents the love of a true mother, rather than the feeling of AGRA Mary who leaves her child behind and jumps in front of a bullet in T6T.

Observe the sky:

Mid-March, observers equipped with binoculars may attempt to detect the tiny crescent of Venus (love). Telescopes show a large, thin crescent at this point, the image split into the /rainbow / colours by an effect called dispersion.

Currently the Obliquity of the ecliptic is around 23.4°, slightly less (by about 0.013°) than it will have been 100 years ago, when measured by the American astronomer and mathematician *Simon Newcomb. (This means things are off kilter, so consider the camera shifts in TAB and TFP.)

@impatient14 @jenna221b @whimsicalethnographies

Bullets Pt. 3

|pt. 1| |pt. 2|

Another three days and still there was no sign of Michael. Elouise had checked the Garrison, the office, nowhere. And still he hadn’t come home. Their house was cold and lonely and she found it unbearable trying to sleep there alone, causing her to retreat to her childhood bedroom in Polly’s house, which appeared just as she had left it.

When Monday came round she pulled on her clothes and walked the short distance to work, unsure if today was the day she’d see him again. She half expected him to be standing outside the office, a hand in his pocket as he leant against the brick, a cigarette in the other. Instead she saw a girl, dressed in a fur coat and hat pulled close over her eyes, making it hard to tell who she was. Whoever she was though, she looked out of place. Elouise picked up her pace as she approached her, only one thing on her mind as a devilish smiled played on her lips.

“Excuse me,” she greeted warmly, “you look lost, can I help you with something?”

Keep reading

This book… 👌✨ I have just started reading it & already I am so deeply in love with it. A journey of a young boy from Guarani~Kaiowá tribe into the jungle through secret ancestral paths with an elder pajé… Growing with each step. 🌿🐍🌿 And giving deep thanks for Rapé, jungle medicine made of sacred tobacco & ashes from ancestral trees & many medicinal plants in a beautiful alchemy to remind us of our center & to help us to focus & cleanse all stagnant energies, clearing away all that is no longer needed. It has been such an ally through this last month while backpacking around… Always bringing me back into each moment & the divine breath. Gratitude overflowing from my heart!!!! We are so blessed & provided for… 🍃🙏🏼🍃

Through the Night - Sledgefu

Gene wakes up and realizes Snaf can’t sleep so he takes the normal course of action. Improved & Edited 7/22/17

It was @ramimalekeyes‘ birthday almost a whole fucking month ago and I promised him a fic so here it is I hope you all enjoy it and I can’t believe I did this. I just love Kay that fucking #much tbh. It’s now just under 3k and nsfw

I don’t mind if you interact with this one if ur under 18 it’s not an insert.

Keep reading

John wakes up alone on his 50th birthday. He huffs and rolls over, finding Sherlock’s spot cold and lonely. He would have loved to wake up next to his husband on a day that now he definitely feels old.

John knows Sherlock, knows that he can remember 243 types of tobacco ash or the trajectory of a bullet but that he can’t be fussed to remember John’s birthday.  In the first few years together, as boyfriends and then husbands it bothered John. Quite a bit. Sherlock would forget, not say anything, not do anything special, and then finally, late in the day he’d remember only because John had been quiet too long or acted cold and detached. Only then would he remember.

But this year John is not going to act any different. Who cares if Sherlock forgot? John would, quite frankly like to forget. Fifty. How did this happen?

As John thinks back on his fifty years, forty-five of them quite terrible, the door cracks open. Sherlock peeks in, checking if he’s awake. John shifts a bit and Sherlock walks in, shy and reserved. John rolls onto his back meeting Sherlock’s eyes, and they hold a sparkle.

Before John can inquire as to what is going on, Sherlock rushes in, saying “I know you feel old, John. You’re not old. You’re wonderful. Strong and fast and brave and happy. You are happier now than you’ve ever been. Happier than you were at twenty, or thirty or forty. I remembered. Happy birthday, my John. I want to take you to brunch and show you my bolt hole at Kew Gardens. It’s lovely this time of year. So get up! Get dressed! Because there is lots to be done!” And with that Sherlock rushes out again, without a good morning kiss, or a nuzzle or a response. John chuckles, pulling his legs out from under the blankets.

Sherlock has always been unpredictable, but in fifty years young, John would have never predicted this. 

anonymous asked:

how would the hosts help you if you were getting into bad things like skiping school and smoking ect. ?

Tamaki: Tamaki, being the worrisome person that he is would have been texting you immediately upon the first day you didn’t turn up at school. When he had finished his classes he would have stopped around your house with medicine that he didn’t particularly understand, as well as chocolate and movies that you liked. However when he entered the house and found you sitting in the lounge with a smile on your face he was confused. He decided that maybe you just needed a break or something. However when he bent over to kiss you and smelt the unmistakeable scent of tobacco ash his whole demeanour changed. He stiffed, standing up straight. He dropped the bags and immediately begun to search your home looking for all the cigarettes he could find. Once he had them all he would leave, heading to the pharmacy, and dumping the cigarettes in a dumpster far away from your home. He would then buy several packs of nicotine patches and storm back. You would be livid with rage, and you two would have a screaming match, not ending until you agreed to try and quit, at which point he would be gentler, promising to help you and telling you to tell him if you ever need him.

Kyoya: You had been missing from school and your home for a while before Kyoya’s private police force finally managed to track you down in the back alleys and slums where you had been meeting with dealers. They detained you, handcuffing you and forcing you into the truck, apparently under strict orders not to harm you. They drove you to Kyoya’s house, who immediately met with you alone. Despite his initial anger he admitted how pleased he was to have you back. Then he got down to business. He knew of drug addiction, not to mention that his family owned several facilities that assisted people, but since you had only just entered the world he figured that he had a good chance of pulling you back without having to send you away. He made you promise to see a consultant where they would discuss what to do and put you on various drugs to try and wean you completely off the shit you are into. After the conversation however, Kyoya took you up to his private bathroom. He ran you a bath and waited patiently outside whilst you washed. Afterwards he provided clean clothes and helped you into his bed. With the lights off the two of you lay there for a while, clinging to each other, and you were surprised to feel the shakes of Kyoya’s suppressed sobs. He thought he lost you.

Haruhi: When Haruhi you and Haruhi planned on your date you agreed to meet outside the cinema at 8:00pm. However when Haruhi arrived and saw you breathing in the fumes of a cigarette you could feel the disapproval of her gaze a mile off. Whenever she saw you after that night she would ask about your ‘habit’ asking you to quit, telling you it’s stupid and your hurting yourself. You became broker, your voice became courser and you developed a worrying cough. It’s only when you overhear Haruhi confessing to Tamaki that she was terrified for your health did you realise that this seemingly small thing was huge to her. You talked to her after that, saying that for her you’ll try to quit. She was delighted. She helped you throw away your cigarettes, helped you buy some nicotine patches and went to the doctors with you for moral support. She was relieved to hear that the problem wasn’t overly serious, and was in fact curable. She stayed with you when withdrawal sent you spiralling out of control, holding you softly, stroking your head and whispering sweet nothings into the air. Everyday she reminded you how proud she was of you and you swore to her that you’ll never make her worry like that again.

Kaoru: When Kaoru and you were cuddling as you watched a movie, he leaned over to give you a peck on the lips, however, pulling away he decided that there was something off about the way you taste. When he saw you having a cigarette outside the next morning he understood the taste. At that point he informed you that he will be suspending all forms of kissing and cuddling until you promised to give up smoking. You objected harshly to this, but Kaoru stood firm. For the next three weeks the two of you gave each other the cold shoulder until you couldn’t take it anymore. You approached Kaoru awkwardly when he was alone and admitted that you wanted to give up smoking. The massive grin that spread across his face wasn’t from the satisfaction of winning, but from relief. He and you together talked to doctors who recommended many different methods of quitting. You decided to try weaning yourself off them slowly, cutting down the amount you had a day until you were clean, with Kaoru beside you everyday, telling you how proud he was of you. He was the one to hide all the other cigarettes so that you stuck to your daily limit but if you broke he would be supportive and help you try again.

Hikaru: Hikaru exploded the first time he witnessed your new ‘habit’. As you took another shot of heroine he was frozen with rage before he erupted in a mess of screaming and shouting. That was when you went quiet for a while. Hikaru had stormed off after his initial meltdown leaving you to wallow with your syringes. Hikaru regretted his actions as soon as he had walked out on you, knowing that it was dangerous to leave you like that, and he began to hate himself upon discovering that you were gone when he returned. He worked tirelessly trying to track you even calling on Kyoya’s private forces to assist him before he finally located you in an old abandoned building with several others. Hikaru took you back and brought you to a hospital where they could try to fix you up. They had a recuperation programme for people in your situation which Hikaru had signed you up for that was designed to wean you off onto a less dangerous drug, then wean you off that entirely. The entire time Hikaru stayed glued to your side, and it was difficult to get a moment alone. He was so scared of losing you again.

Honey: When Honey found you at your home for he twentieth time, drunk off your arse, he knew something had to be done. His face darkened, his voice raising before he grabbed your wrist and dragged you out of your home and to his house. The sweet, innocent childlike Honey disappeared for a few days as he forced you to attend doctor’s appointments and groups sessions. Soon he gradually turned back when he felt that you were getting better. He became more supportive and more happy, he started cuddling you again and stuffing his (and yours) face with cake. One veining late at night s he curled himself around you he confessed that he was scared. He was worried that your drink self would become a permanent state of mind, and was worried what would become of your health because of it. When you started showing major signs of improvement the two of you would celebrate with a cake night, and when you were suffering tom the effects of withdrawal, he would stay silently by your side, giving you his unending support.

Mori: Mori  had spent a while tracking you down since that first day you disappeared from school, however when Mori found you neck deep in gangs he was surprised to say the least. He picked you up effortlessly, dragging you out of there without even bothering to give the others the time of day. You had tattoos and piercings, not to mention terrible language and a smoking habit. Mori had suppressed many a sigh as he dragged you back to his house without any effort, you cussing him out all the way. However when he dropped you and started to yell at you then you looked up surprised and wide-eyed as the gentle giant ranted and raved about how worried he was about you - how worried everyone was about you. When he was finished he fell down next to you, resting his forehead on your shoulder and regained his breathe. After that, you separated yourself from the gangs, got rid of your worse tattoos (not all of them however - there were some that meant a lot to you), and gave up your cigarettes in exchange for a much better drug - Mori. During a night of passion, he removed your underwear, looking up at you as he did so. He leaned down, about to lick you when he stopped, frozen; “… Is that a piercing..?” “…"

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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