tobacco ashes

2

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. 

Ingredients: 
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) 
Poppy
A pinch of salt. 

Directions: 
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. 

WARNING:
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. 

A Dragon’s Loyalty

Thank you to @mysteryprof for inspiring me to write this! It’s not so much demon Hanzo as it is dragon!Hanzo and Van Helsing!McCree (because I desperately need Blizzard to give us this Halloween skin), so I guess this can be considered a Van Helsing AU <3 hope you enjoy!!

*

The steady sound of booted footfalls echoed down the stone hallway, recognizable even without the faint jingle of spurs. The creature hidden within the abandoned wine cellar shifted, lifting its great head to take in a deep whiff of the air around it. The smell of rotting wood and dust was now pierced by leather, gunpowder, and… blood.

Cramped as its hiding space was, any opportunity to shift into its natural form was taken where it could. Last of its kind, trapped in a foreign land, a prize sought after by human and monster alike, meant discretion was key to survival. The trip home was slow and treacherous, made only possible by concealing its identity. Slowly, its large form shuddered and shrank, rough blue scales transforming into smooth human skin. Claws became fingers as the mythical beast picked up the robe bundled up next to his gear and fastened its sash around his waist, a show of modesty for company’s sake, not his own. Long, straight hair fell past his shoulders, as inky black as his eyes. All that remained of his true form was its image seared down his left arm, disguised as a tattoo.

The dragon was Hanzo once again.

With a human hand he wrenched the door open, just as Jesse McCree stepped up to the threshold. “Whoh there,” the hunter exclaimed, though his voice lacked its usual energy.

“You are hurt,” Hanzo muttered distractedly, burying his face into Jesse’s coat and running his hands over his chest until he found the source of the blood smell. A puncture hole in the left shoulder, red stains concealed by the dark of the leather.

“Yeah. Was too busy tryin’ to keep the blood-sucker from bitin’ me to notice she had a knife,” Jesse answered, wincing as Hanzo pawed at him. “Hold on a minute now, lemme at least sit down ‘fore ya patch me up.”

“Hmph.” Hanzo reluctantly pulled away, letting Jesse enter the cellar. The man pulled off his duster and flopped onto the cold floor, grunting as the movement jarred his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt clung to the wound, and Hanzo quickly pulled a small kit from his bag. “Allow me.” Jesse merely nodded, a grimace the only hint he was in pain. Hanzo cut away the shirt with a knife, peeling the soiled cloth away. “Did you kill her?”

“Almost. Threw my flask o’ holy water in her face, but then she stabbed me an’ bolted. I reckon she made it back to her den.”

A rumbling growl formed in Hanzo’s throat, its sound not entirely human. “I will-”

“No,” Jesse interrupted quickly. “I know what yer gunna say. Our goal is to get ya home, that’s it. I hurt her enough that she won’t be on our tail no more. Right now that’s good enough fer me.”

Hanzo fell into silence, a frown gracing his otherwise stoic features as he cleaned and bandaged the wound. Jesse drank from his flask, oddly patient as he was tended to. The fresh scar would be one of many, his arms and torso littered with them. They painted a story, of violence and adventure. It wasn’t the first time Hanzo had seen them, since he assigned himself to mending Jesse’s hurts. He would do what he could to thank the man for risking his life for him.

“Why?” The question had been on the dragon’s mind for weeks now, and his curiosity finally bubbled out of him. “Why do you risk so much for me? I am not a fool. I know your… organization merely pretends to care-”

“I’m not them.” A stern anger rang in Jesse’s voice. “They’re just a… a means to an end fer me. They assigned me to ya because they think this charity mission’ll make 'em look good.” He couldn’t hold back a snort at the thought. “Overwatch’s reputation is in tatters. Amari’s dead, Reyes over-extended himself, and Morrison can’t control him anymore. Just a matter o’ time till it all goes to hell. Keepin’ any rare creature from bein’ hunted to death is, frankly, almost a damn suicide mission. 'Specially in yer case, what with a literal king’s bounty on yer head.” Jesse was never anything but blunt, and it did no good to try to lie to a dragon anyhow. “This way they can kill two birds with one stone- get rid o’ one o’ their most “unpredictable” agents, an’ get points for tryin’ to save a majestic creature such as yerself.”

“Then why did you agree to this mission?” Hanzo pressed, unfazed by the direness of their situation. It wasn’t news to him.

Sighing, Jesse reached into one of his many coat pockets, retrieving a cigar and a matchbook.  “For lots o’ reasons. Reasons I don’t usually speak about.”

“Just give me one reason, then.” The plea was audible, and Hanzo flushed and looked away. A voice from his past rang clear in his mind. Dragons never beg.

Jesse heard the tone too, and his head snapped up in surprise. His teeth clamped down on the end of his cigar as he struck a match. Hanzo thought he might not answer, but- “I was with the group that found ye, remember? The last dragon in existence. Didn’t even believe it till I saw ya with my own eyes.” The smell of tobacco and ash filled the space between them. Hanzo wrinkled his nose, but leaned in closer nonetheless.  “I remember goin’ into that dungeon, seein’ what they’d done to ya. Those massive chains, that muzzle.” He shook his head. “Reyes told me it took him hours to cut ya free.  An’ there ya were. All shiny an’ bright, giant fangs glintin’ in the light ya gave off. Then I looked into yer eyes, an’ I knew- I knew despite yer capture, there was still fight left in ya. I never seen anythin’ so sad before… an’ beautiful.”

“…Beautiful?” Hanzo repeated the word as if puzzled by its meaning.

“Yeah. Beautiful.” Jesse’s gaze flickered over Hanzo’s human form, before their eyes met. Something in Jesse’s stare made Hanzo feel like the human was seeing through him. He remembered that day, the day he was freed. He remembered those men, who awed at his presence and yet spoke of him as if he weren’t there. Then Jesse appeared, approaching the dragon with reverence. He had been the one bold enough to talk to him. To ask about him. The first human to show him kindness.

With a sharp inhale, Hanzo was the one to look away first. He cleared his throat before changing the subject. “So the odds are against us.”

“The chance o’ ya seein’ yer homeland again is damn near non-existent.” Despite his bleak words, the hunter smiled. “But, I make this vow to ya- I’ll try my hardest to get ya there.”

“Very well.” Hanzo lifted his head, his voice becoming deep, sultry, inhuman as he spoke. The voice Jesse heard when they first spoke in that dungeon. “Then I make this vow to you. I will kill anything or anyone that dares hurt you again.”

A shiver ran down Jesse’s spine. A dragon’s wrath was the stuff of legend. It was said that their protectiveness was just as fierce. Being in this dragon’s good graces, Jesse suddenly felt more safe and more cherished than he ever had his entire life.

That knowledge was too much to process, and a sudden wave of weariness washed over him. “I, uh, might need a nap 'fore we move on,” he muttered as he slumped down against the wall.

“Of course.” Hanzo stood. “Do not worry for our safety, I will keep watch. Get some rest, Jesse McCree.”

“Ya too, Hanzo…” Jesse’s eyes closed, then blinked open again. “Hey, uh, is Hanzo yer real name? Like yer… dragon name? Or-”

“It is the only name you need to know for now.” A pleased smirk tugged at the corner of Hanzo’s mouth. “Rest.” There was a command to the word, and what felt like a fresh breeze ruffled through Jesse’s hair. Before he could even think to ask where it came from, he was deep asleep, his troubled expression melting into a peaceful one.

*

The Drowning at a Party.

Meet me at Bart’s. Drowning at a party. Lestrade treating it as suspicious. - SH

Sounds thrilling but I’m busy. - JW

Mrs Hudson will watch Rosie. I know you’re at Speedy’s. Again. I’ll meet you outside in 5. - SH

John sighed as he stared at his not-so baby girl, and more screeching toddler. The books were right about that part.  

“Well let’s get you upstairs shall we. Daddy has to go and babysit his other child.” He leaned over and tugged Rosie’s cheek and she giggled loudly as he picked her up out of the high chair.

————————————

“Ah Molly, I was wondering what was taking you so long.” Sherlock called, he hadn’t even turned to see who it was, but the lanky bastard always had a knack for knowing people by their footsteps.

John briefly glanced at Molly, and then once more when he noticed her lab coat didn’t seem to be drowning her petite frame due to a small rounded bump hidden under a large maroon jumper. It had only been a month since he last saw her hadn’t it? He cocked his head in confusion and he caught what he imagined was his own expression mirrored on Lestrade’s face. Although Lestrade seemed to be eyeing him questionably.  

John just shrugged his shoulders in response and Lestrade mouthed the word ‘Tom’ to him. Now John knew that door had definitely been closed, locked and bolted. Once again he shrugged and Lestrade looked back to Molly again. John only just realised that Sherlock had been watching the  whole exchange, staring at the two of them like they were chimps in a zoo. John coughed and Lestrade shuffled his feet back towards the body. Both of their heads hung like reprimanded school boys.

“So, male victim, Ross Hall, 29, found dead in a pool at a party held for lifeguards celebrating no deaths this summer.” Lestrade started as he stood at the head of the body, Molly pulled back the sheet as he spoke.  

“You have got to be kidding me.” John whispered and laughed, mostly to himself, but he felt three sets of eyes suddenly glare at him.

“The only suspicion is the bruising to the back of his head.” Lestrade continued. “We wondered if it was-“

“Intentional? Don’t be ridiculous. I assume that even by your detective skills you found a small clear sealable bag in the mans back pocket, lined with a substance formed from the coca plant. Cocaine for those here who haven’t had much dealings with recreational drug use in their life.” Sherlock may have addressed the room but he was definitely glaring directly at John at that last part.

“And if you had even bothered to look at the photos of the crime scene I could actually be doing something much more productive with my time than spending it here with you lot.” John watched as Molly’s head bowed a little.  

“I thought you gave up on that blog post about the analysis of tobacco ash?” Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge John’s comment instead he held out his phone with the photo he had pulled up on Google images for the three of them to see.

“I actually thought to look up the location of the incident on the taxi ride here. And would you look at that in all of point seventy sixth of a second we have our answer. Come on Lestrade you can’t be telling me you didn’t pick up on the rocky water feature at the side of the pool? You know the glaringly obvious beacon in plain view.” His voice was thick with boredom.

“There was no sign the victim-“ Lestrade was silenced before he could barely begin.

“Fell onto the feature. Please, spare me. If you had bothered to even attempt to do your job today, you would have known this was just an accident.” Sherlock droned on as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“You can see that the feature is made from granite, to be precise. How awfully ornamental. Anyways, said victim had clearly snorted a line too many, but he intended to go for a swim on his own because he had already taken his shoes and pants off and they were most definitely dry. Terrible idea, I don’t condone it myself. Obviously, he lost his balance after taking off said trousers and fell back. His head hit the granite, without causing a bleed, which is possible Lestrade. Oh and if you bothered to compare it to the photo of the crime scene you’d clearly see the point five of a millimetre crack in the stone.” Sherlock held up his phone against a photo he’d snatched out of Greg’s pocket. John struggled to see the difference. Then again Sherlock always seemed to have an unnatural magnification ability when it came to detail.

“I mean come on I’ve seen harder Spot the Difference puzzles in a children’s magazine.” He replaced his phone back into his pocket and thrust the photo back into Greg’s hand. “So there it is. One coked up and drowned party guest.” Sherlock finished his statement and looked so bored John could imagine he probably wished it was he who was the one who had smashed his head and drowned.

“I’m sorry we wasted your time Molly. It seems Lestrade was looking for an excuse to get out of the office, no surprise when Sally Donovan is your partner.” With that he seemed to give Molly some sort of warming smile. John had definitely not seen that one before. But when Sherlock looked back towards Lestrade and himself it was replaced with his usual flat lined expression.

“No foul play here. Just a victim of a terrible irony. How sad. Now have you got anything actually worthy of me being dressed today or can I go back to being naked in my bed sheet?” He stared straight through Lestrade and John swore he saw a blush creep up over Molly’s features.

“That’s it for-“  

“Thank you, Greg. Maybe next time check you have inserted your neurons when you get out of bed in the morning.” Sherlock turned on his heels and was heading for the door when Lestrade, who seemed to ignore Sherlock’s comment, turned to Molly who was preparing the body to be placed back into refrigeration.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, when are you due.” That seemed to make Sherlock stop dead at the door.

“Oh, no it’s fine honestly, it’s getting past the point where I can hide it now. But I’m around sixteen weeks, I’m due in March.” She smiled sheepishly, laughing intermittently between her sentences out of awkwardness John suspected.  

“So, are you and the fath-“

“I’m sure Molly has better things to be doing than making small talk with you Lestrade. You know, like her actual job, whom unlike you she is rather more competent at.” Greg looked a little fed up after being cut off by Sherlock for the fourth time today. Rather than giving Sherlock another opportunity to silence him he held up his hands in defeat, waved to Molly and John and not so accidentally shoulder barged Sherlock as he pushed through the door.

“I know it’s been a while, but you should come over some time. Rosie will be thrilled to see you.” John spoke softly to Molly.

“Yeah, that sounds wonderful. How is she?” Molly’s eyes gleamed with the promise of Rosie cuddles.

“Acting too much like a two year old for a twenty month old baby.” Molly laughed, genuinely this time and her hands came to rest on her stomach. Sherlock sighed loudly from by the door and John gave Molly a look that only those special enough to know Sherlock on a personal level would understand.

“I’ll text you later. Take care Molly.” John reached out and touched her upper arm before turning to the door to see Sherlock had already left through it. By the time he had caught up to him, they were almost at the exit.  

“You know, you can huff and puff as much as you like, you didn’t have to come today. You knew that was nowhere near a seven, so why bother?” John called from behind him.

“August is such a boring month. I mean where are the murders? It’s like someone flicked a switch and all people want to do is commit petty fraud and adultery.” Sherlock threw his head backwards in frustration.

“Yes because that it so terrible… but is this why you’ve been so frustrated recently? It’s the closest you’ve got to a potential murder in weeks so you wanted to check it out, even though you knew it wasn’t anything more than a drug induced accident. I’m starting to think you just like seeing dead bodies.” Sherlock looked down at him with his trademark smirk and took off towards the road, John hurried behind as per usual until he reached his friend’s side as they stood waiting on the curb.

“So, Molly Hooper’s pregnant.” John grinned impishly up at his friend, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed back at him.

“Yes John, no need to state the obvious.” Sherlock mumbled as he quickly pulled out his phone to check the time.

“Know, I mean come on. Who do you reckon is the father? Unless you already know, which you probably do.” John asked eagerly, convinced Sherlock would have some insight on the situation.

“You’re very good at asking questions John. Maybe you should use that wonderfully honed skill of yours and ask Molly yourself.” Sherlock had clearly tired quickly of this conversation, as his attention became absorbed by phone and his rather pathetic looking inbox.

“Suit yourself.” John muttered to himself as he pulled back his coat sleeve to check his watch. After he was reassured they were well within the time he told Mrs Hudson he would be back in to pick up Rosie, he rolled his shoulders back and stared across the road. A young woman with a child of no more than two years old were sat sharing a chocolate ice cream on a bench at the bus stop.  

John thought back to Molly. They had lost touch a little bit since Sherringford. Molly seemed to throw herself in to work, similarly to himself. Her shifts never seemed to match up to child sociable hours. And with the lack of murders, thankfully, there were less frequent visits to the morgue.  

But pregnant?  

I mean he couldn’t remember her bringing up her love life. He was no fan of womanly gossip, but he definitely couldn’t recall her speaking of a new love interest. Sherlock jostled beside him as he dropped his phone back into his pocket as a black cab came into view.

Anyways, she seemed delighted about the baby, so John concluded he had no reason not to be happy for her and he smiled to himself. By the looks of her she would have her baby by the end of winter, maybe spring time if she was around the gestation period he assumed by her bump. If all things went well, maybe Rosie would have a playmate in a couple of years time.

“She’s sixteen weeks and four days.” Sherlock spoke to the air in front of him.

“What?” John asked out in confusion.

“One hundred and sixteen days to be exact. And her due date is the twelfth of March. I told you before you think too loud.” Sherlock shouted as he flagged down a cab.  

Hang on.  

——————————————

John sat back in his armchair and rubbed the bridge of his nose as a dull ache throbbed behind his eye sockets. Since Sherlock’s disclosure of Molly’s imminent arrival, John felt as if his best friend may have been hiding something. That night after they had been to the morgue the thought hit him like a big, red London bus as he made himself his last cup of tea for the night. As the kettle clicked, the spoon in John’s hand bounced off of the kitchen top.  

What if it’s Sherlock?

The thought had haunted John for the next few weeks as John wrestled with theories in his head. Now Sherlock wouldn’t like to admit it, but if there’s one thing he had in common with his brother it was that they were both good at knowing things about other people. 

The likeliness of this scenario was that Molly was considered a close friend to Sherlock. Even after the events of Sherringford the pair seemed to have resolved their differences. They told John they were strictly friends. Completely platonic. John doubted this at first, after all he saw Sherlock break into pieces in that room. Yet, the dust eventually settled. Quite literally. As 221b was restored to its former bachelor pad glory and Sherlock and Molly resumed their working relationship. He suspected Sherlock wanted to know as much about Molly’s ‘situation’ because that’s just who Sherlock Holmes was.

He had always thought that maybe Ms Adler had worked her way back into his clutches. Her text tone had been very active as of late, he had noted. He always thought something was going on between them. None of it made any sense, until today happened.  

Molly had been over earlier to see Rosie again. He wasn’t sure whether it was the pregnancy hormones or the fact that Rosie was such a delightful baby, but Molly had been over a lot in the past few weeks since he’d seen her in Bart’s. The odd time that Molly had been over, Sherlock occasionally stopped by. This included today’s visit. What got to John was that Sherlock didn’t seem to be coming over to see him. He spent most of his time watching Molly with Rosie. Occasionally he would pick Rosie up, point and spout dictionary definitions of inanimate objects littered around the living room. Apart from that, he would sit on the sofa with his legs crossed and observe.

It was when John had excused himself for ten minutes, to put the endless pile of washing away, he returned to the most peculiar sight. Molly was sat in the arm chair, Rosie curled awkwardly into her side and around her bump as Molly read her ‘Guess How Much I Love You.’

He hovered in the doorway, unseen by both Sherlock and Molly that he felt like an intruder in his own home. As Molly performed the actions in the book, stretching her arms out wide, Rosie copied her every move. The pair were absorbed in each other; Sherlock was absorbed by them. He watched onwards and when Molly turned her head to look at Sherlock sat opposite her, he returned such a tender and open smile that John was convinced he was an imposter.  

He was momentarily sucked into whatever this thing was between his two friends, the door creaked with his weight and the moment vanished in the blink of an eye. Sherlock stood promptly, dusted off invisible crumbs from his sleeve and Molly focused her attention back to Rosie who was starting to doze against her shoulder.  

Sherlock left without barely a word, just buttoned up his suit jacket, nodded once at John and left swiftly. Not long after Sherlock’s departure, Molly stood with Rosie still firmly attached to her. John got the message and took Rosie out of her arms as Molly put on her jacket. She made her excuses, it was her second ultrasound scan in the morning and she wanted to be well rested. She kissed both John and Rosie on the cheek and left quietly.

So now John felt he needed to put this to bed once and for all. He knew that if he asked Molly directly, she would probably deny it. And Sherlock? Well he didn’t know where to begin with that conversation. Instead, he formulated a plan to try and answer the mystery which had plagued him for weeks.  

————————————

John couldn’t believe he was doing this. Who did he think he was? James Bond? He almost scoffed. He couldn’t resist, what he saw yesterday required a much deeper investigation. He knew Molly had her appointment at ten at the UCL Hospital this morning. He was always glad that Molly blabbed too much when she was nervous or uncomfortable, like last night. If he suspected what he thought was happening, then a certain curly haired, lanky git would also be there too.  

He had dropped Rosie off with Mrs Hudson for the morning. He loved her dearly but she would most definitely be a hindrance in his task. He got to the hospital relatively early and managed to find a cafe just outside the entrance to the maternity ward. After twenty minutes he saw Molly half waddle half walk down the corridor and straight past John and through the doors to the ward. John kept the broadsheet over his face until the door to the ward had almost closed behind her.

Okay, so she was alone. But John knew Sherlock better than that. He knew that if Sherlock rocked up to a hospital with a pregnant woman on his arm the media would have a field day. If he entered on his own, it was less suspicious. Almost as if on cue, not five minutes later, he breezed in from a different direction to Molly. Of course he probably used an inconspicuous entrance.  

John felt so smug with himself for being right that he almost forgot what his investigation may just have proven. Molly was, quite possibly, pregnant with Sherlock’s baby. John’s stomach sank like a stone and he suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. He stood from the cheap MDF chair, walked out of the hospital and all the way back to Baker Street.  

He heard music and giggles coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat, but he didn’t stop in to say hi. He marched straight up the stairs and sat in his old chair and waited. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when Sherlock eventually returned home he all but raced up the stairs like a gazelle and his face was beaming until he turned around to see John sat staring at him.

“Ah, John. Have you come to tell me you’ve fixed the visitor counter on your site again? I noticed it must have been off a few week’s back.” Sherlock mumbled as he shrugged out of his Belstaff.

“It’s you. You’re the father of Molly Hooper’s child.” John proclaimed loudly, and he watched as Sherlock glanced to the door.

“And finally the penny has dropped.” Sherlock answered unenthusiastically as he hung up his coat.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not my problem you’re so obtuse.” Sherlock all but collapsed into his chair. He popped the button on his suit jacket as he leaned back into the cushion.

“Hang on. You were trying to tell me? But Irene Adler? The text tone?” John questioned.

“A red herring. Oh and it’s surprisingly easy to set a provocative text tone onto one of your contacts.” Sherlock examined his fingernails.

“So all this time. All this time you were messaging Molly, not Irene Adler.” John struggled to hide the shock in his voice.

“Well, for the past six months. Yes. I pretty much had to plant the seed, otherwise I never thought you’d get there.” Sherlock shot John a demeaning glance.

“So you mean at Bart’s, with the drown victim?” John sat forward in his chair.

“Yes, of course John, do keep up.” Sherlock exhaled loudly and rubbed his brow.

“You dragged me to Bart’s because you knew I would see Molly and start to suspect who the father was.” John could feel himself becoming more frustrated.

“I wouldn’t say I dragged you.”

“You didn’t think to just sit me down, preferably with a pint, and tell me ‘oh guess what John, I knocked Molly Hooper up’ that would have been the much easier thing to do.” John’s voice became elevated with anger.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“You know not everything has to be a game Sherlock. And this - this baby is most definitely not a game. Neither is Molly’s life.” He was aware he sounded angry and his tone was harsh, but Sherlock had gone too far.  

“I would never treat my child or the mother of my child like a game. Is that really what you think of me?” Sherlock shot up from his chair. The mood changed so suddenly, like someone had flicked a light switch. John felt slightly threatened by his best friend as he towered over him.  

“I-I thought you two we-were-“ John stuttered out of shock.

“Completely platonic? We were for the most.” Sherlock composed himself, calmly sitting back into his chair. His fingers tapped the ends of the arms.

“Yes. I mean when did this all happen?” John asked softly. He relaxed further back into his chair.

“One hundred and thirty five days ago, if you wanted to-“  

“No, Sherlock, I don’t mean the conception of your child. I mean you and Molly.” Sherlock seemed to pause slightly at this.

“Two nights after Sherringford.” John knew that this was all he was going to get out of him on this topic. He also knew better than to ask how the child was conceived. He didn’t want to think about-

“It was the biological way.” John’s thoughts were interrupted.

“I’m sorry?”  

“The baby. It was conceived through sexual intercourse. Honestly John, you may as well stream your thoughts across your forehead on a ticker banner.” Sherlock tossed his eyes back into his head.

“I wasn’t going to ask. But, erm, congratulations? I mean is it congratulations because you haven’t given much indication towards your feelings on the situation.” John pried a little more.  

“It’s not planned if that’s what you’re suggesting? Although I do feel a sense of accomplishment at passing down fifty percent of my genetic makeup to a member of the next generation. I never thought I’d find it exciting, but pregnancy is fascinating. Plus, Molly gets the baby she always wanted, and my parents get the grandchild they never thought they’d have. Also, the sex was surprisingly not as vanilla as I would have expected from Molly. She has got quite a tongue-“

“Honestly, Sherlock. There is no need to paint a picture.” John stared at the latest pending member of the fatherhood club. This was definitely Eurus’ fault. “So, do you have any plans?” John posed the question with the tone of a life councilor.

“Of course. She’s going to stay at her flat, raise the baby there. It’s three bedroomed, plenty of space and not to mention somewhat more suitable for an infant.” John watched as Sherlock’s eyes darted around the flat.

“And you’re going to remain living here? Is this what you want or what Molly wants?” John tried to wrap his head around the situation. Did Sherlock think the baby was going to be a compulsory hobby for the next eighteen years?

“Molly understands the nature of my work. My life has always been unpredictable and there are people who know me who don’t like me or what I do. People who would like to see me hurt.” John registered his friend’s words carefully.  

“Ah. You’re protecting them. You don’t want people to know the baby is yours. This is why you’ve both been very hush hush about the pregnancy. That also explains the text tone. You were throwing people off of the scent.” Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.  

“We both agreed it’s probably for the best, for the first few months anyway. I don’t want my child becoming mindless brain fodder in any form of media outlet.” John looked understandingly at Sherlock. “For the first few weeks, I will stay at Molly’s. As often as I can. I will still take on cases; Domestic only. Apparently babies are a leech on ones wallet.”

“And then…” John spread his hands out in the air in a questioning gesture.

“I’ll move back here. See Molly and the baby a few times a week, take on more cases and eventually get back into the good stuff, I suppose.” Sherlock, sat firmly back into his chair, seemingly impressed with his answer.

“You suppose? The woman you confessed your love to, albeit forced, is going to give birth to and raise your child and you’re going to stay here and play Consultant Detective like always? Do you want my honest opinion?” John asked forcefully. There was no way he was leaving without throwing his tuppence worth into the ring.

“I’ve never not been with you.” Sherlock sniffed and turned his head away.

“I don’t think you’ll want to move back. Irregardless of what you think about people wanting to hurt you. You know your brother would always watch out for your family.” Sherlock looked directly at him as he spoke that final word. “I think you think you can just waltz in and play happy families for a few weeks and then detach yourself. Trust me if you can hold that baby in your arms and honestly turn to me and say you can walk away from them, then I don’t know you at all Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the lone wolf you think you are.” John followed Sherlock’s gaze. He was looking at a photo frame from Rosie’s christening. He remembered Mrs Hudson bringing it up once the refurbishment was complete. John smiled as he cast his eyes over his late wife, then he looked to Sherlock and Molly stood side by side.  

"Do you love her?” The question seemed to hang in the air.

“Why are you so obsessed with trying to get me to play happy families?” Sherlock sounded bored, but John could tell he’d unsettled something within the Consultant Detective.

“Because you have a chance to grasp something I once had; happiness.” John could feel himself becoming moved. Memories of Mary flooded his thoughts.

“Are you saying I’m not happy now?” Sherlock asked defensively, he pulled his hands down into his lap.

“No, I don’t think you’re as happy as you could be. You can have it all, you know? The job you’ve always loved and a family who will love you unconditionally. You’re a good man, Sherlock. But I really do think this is your last opportunity.” John recognised the look that cast a shadow over Sherlock’s face. He stood up and walked over to his friend and crouched next to him.

“You’re scared you’ll fail.” Sherlock cast John a glance. His quietness spoke more than his words ever could in this moment. “I’m not saying it will be easy, because it won’t. I don’t expect Molly or the baby to give you an easy ride either. If there’s one thing I know about you Sherlock Bloody Holmes is you are not a failure.” He firmly patted his hand on his friend’s back reassuringly.  

Sherlock didn’t respond at first. His hand moved to the inside of his jacket pocket and withdrew a small black and white photograph and he sat and stared at it for a small while. John watched quietly from beside him. Sherlock’s face was blank but John knew the cog’s in his mind were working overtime. He hoped he was filing this memory away in that palace of his. Then John did the last thing he expected himself to do and he laughed.  

“I’m sorry. Did I miss the punchline?” Sherlock stirred from his trance and raised one of his large bushy eyebrows.

“No, I just imagined you arms deep in a shit filled nappy.”

————————————————-

John took the stairs two at a time as he proceeded up the endless concrete steps. At the top, the fire door was propped open with a plastic chair and John smirked. He pushed the chair aside and walked onto the roof as the London sky line twinkled in the backdrop. The sharp Spring night air stung at his face. The figure leaning over the railings hadn’t acknowledged his presence, just kept staring out into the city, a cigarette dangling from his lips.  

John walked up beside him and reached into the pockets of his jacket and removed two whisky glasses and a hip flask. The clink of the glasses caused the tall figure to turn and look towards him.

“What are you doing?” He questioned as John placed the glasses on the ledge and poured two equal, and very strong, measurements of whiskey.

“A toast.” John answered as he handed Sherlock a glass.

“A toast?” Sherlock echoed, John nodded and joined his friend against the railings.

“To fatherhood. A thankless job with ridiculous hours and a shit wage.” He clinked his glass with Sherlock’s and let the liquor run smooth and warm down his throat. Sherlock hesitated a moment, stubbed out his cigarette then swilled the glass twice before mimicking John and polishing off the amber liquid.  

“He’s a cracker, Sherlock.” John watched as Sherlock’s lips turned upwards and he looked so proud and dare he say it, content. They stayed silent for a moment. John watched out of the corner of his eye as the emotions of pure love, adoration, fear and terror passed over Sherlock’s face all at once. The same expressions he had once worn a time ago.

“Are you going to ask me?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Ask you what?” John feigned ignorance, but he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

“Well I know I’m not holding my son in my arms but-“  

“If you could still walk away? Well could you?” A brief silence followed John’s question and a sharp breeze cut through them like a knife.

“No. No, I couldn’t. Just being up on this roof is torture, but I’ve never needed a smoke so much in all of my life. Plus, Mycroft has his army of baboons littered like roaches all over the building, which rules out the main entrances.” Sherlock shared one of his rare bedazzling smiles. John laughed and clapped his friend on the back. He knew that Sherlock was grateful deep down of the security his brother provided.

“Mrs Hudson is going to secretly miss having you around.” John spoke sadly, although his tone was lighthearted. Sherlock continued to smile out into the city. John knew then Sherlock had made his decision.

“I’m also ruling out domestic cases for the next eight weeks at least. You know newborns can recognise their parent’s faces by the time they are two months old?” Sherlock spoke with the excitement of a child in a sweet shop. John responded instantly with a knowing smile, sharing his friend’s excitement of his newfound fatherhood.

“You’re going to be bloody fantastic, Sherlock Holmes.”

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:

WHICH IS HILARIOUS BECAUSE ONLY A FEW DAYS BEFORE SHERLOCK COULDN’T CONTAIN HIMSELF ANYMORE AND WAS COMMENTING ON LITERALLY EVERY OTHER POST JOHN MADE:

SHERLOCK WAS GETTING ANNOYED THAT JOHN DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING TO HIM ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT IF HE NOTICED THAT SHERLOCK NOTICED THE ASiP POST.

SHERLOCK COULD NOT CONTAIN HIMSELF ANY LONGER, SO HE WAS THEN CASUALLY COMMENTING ON RANDOM POSTS TO TRY TO GET JOHN TO SAY SOMETHING TO HIM.

UNTIL HE FINALLY BROKE DOWN AND POSTED DAYS LATER ON THE ASiP POST

THESE TWO WERE LITERALLY PLAYING A GAME OF “Well if he’s not going to say anything, I’M not saying anything!” THEY WERE BEING IDIOTS ABOUT IT. JOHN’S BLOG POST WAS A LITERAL ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM.

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.

*flips a table* I FUCKING CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE TWO.

(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).

The twilight is fading in
Bitter mellow orange, apple skinned skies
Deepening into an inky blue
The twilight is fading in
And I have a lit cigarette in my hand
The end burns with a glow
When I suck in air, it burns brighter, the fire seeping into the tobacco underneath, leaving grey ash behind
It leaves a minty taste in my mouth and the wind blows past, carrying the smoke with it.
Somewhere, you’re leaving home from work
Packing away your laptop and the pen and paper and zipping it shut
Or
You’re lying on the rooftop, searching for stars to wish on as the sun drowns and spills rose and honey across the sky
Sometimes, I wonder how it would feel like to hold your hand,
To notice the crinkles in your eyelids as you shut your eyes in frustration
To be next to you, under the setting sun, and tell you, “Look at this sea that has trapped the world within it”
Sometimes, I wonder if you wonder the same.
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

STALKING  THE  DEERSTALKER

________________________________________________________________

FOLLOWING SHERLOCK’S DEERSTALKER THROUGHOUT THE SERIES - BASED ON THE ASSUMPTION EMP STARTS AT THE BEGINNING OF ASIB 

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

anonymous asked:

how many different types of tobacco ash can you name?

Too many and even one would be too many to be practically useful in the 21st century. However, if you were to let me cut your lung open I could most likely tell you how long you have been living where you are currently living by looking at the “ash” found in there.

Post scriptum: If you need a list of tobacco ashes, you can google it. There is a somewhat precise list online.

4

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 thelostspecial.com 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

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.

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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… 🍃🙏🏼🍃

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..?” “…"