221Brick (for hiddenlacuna)

(art by x0chipilli | 221 words by mugenmine)

Sherlock’s cry is John’s North star. The sound becomes a thread for him to follow in this black maze of bricked over doors, and boarded up windows. John doubles back, searching for the stairwell he barreled past, when his only thought had been Sherlock is in here. He grips the torch and paints the walls with light, searching for the right door, the right turn, the way up, the way through.

“Scream for me, Sherlock,” John says. The idea sickens him and drives him forward. A cry in the dark means pain, but it also means life. I am here. Find me.

Seconds pass, time slows and feels like hours.

Sherlock’s scream rips through him, it scours his soul, and when it cuts off John’s will turns to stone.

Sherlock lies broken in the dust, shoulder wrenched out of place, blood pooling from his mouth, arms locked behind his back. He breathes though, he lives and that is the only thing of worth in this fucking place.

Two men block John’s path, taller than him, younger, stronger. A wall of muscle and hate and 412 bones, and John will grind them into paste if he has to. The blood on their hands belongs to Sherlock and he means to take it back. John shuts off the torch. He grabs a brick.


For every 221b or 314h (hannibal) I finish, x0chipill will create a composition. (…until we go crazy…) Thank you to all who sent us b words! When a word sparks we will jump on it! ;-)

Thank you hiddenlacuna for brick. Our search for wordy inspiration is still on! Please drop a b or h word into the ask!

His orbit decays.

John smiles because of a kiss. Then he wonders if he imagined the the touch. Not quite sure. He almost doesn’t feel the gentle pressure against his hair, being so tired from a too long day. He sits on the sofa, the cushions keep him something resembling upright. He is quiet and he drifts, his eyelids slip closed. The world is broken up with black. The sound of Sherlock, busy in their space sometimes breaks through. Sometimes it lulls him.

John sways as Sherlock settles on the sofa. His orbit decays. He leans against Sherlock side.

The kiss is soft against his hair as if not to wake him. I’m not yet all the way down, he would say, if he was lucid enough for words. Don’t stop, he would say, but he hums instead in hopes of continuing, in hopes of being kissed. Gentle fingers pull through his hair and he smiles, his sound has sufficed. Sherlock knows all of his sounds, he told him once.

Sherlock speaks quiet words against him, and John doesn’t understand them, but he nods, somewhere on the edge of a dream. He will have to, if he can remember, ask Sherlock what he agreed with, or agreed to, with his nod. But not right now. Now he drifts. His orbit decays. He smiles because…

Happy Birthday, x0chi my dear dear friend. Here are some words. I wrote 221 of them for you, like right now. They are unedited. Which gives me agita. I wish you the best of years. :-) xoxox

Looking for inspiration... (for 221b mini-fics)

Hello. I’m starting a wee project with x0chi and I need your help. I’m crap at outputting anything at a steady pace and x0chi is looking for fast turnaround art practice so our goal is for every 221b I write she’s going to do an accompanying sketch. Our starting pace is about one a week… It’s like the gym for creative things… :-) (Building word muscles!!)

I’m not sure if I have the rules of the 221b drabble down. 221 words, last one starts with b.

So I’m looking for that last “b” word.

If you throw a word starting with “b” in my ask. I’ll write you a 221b and art will come with it.

Thank you so much for your help!