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There was something Revan once told her that Meetra never forgot. No matter how much time separated them.
“Did you know the greater Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs?” he said, with all the enthusiasm of a twelve year old who liked gross things. “The hundreds of tiny hatchlings feed on the body until they’re big enough to hunt for themselves.
Malak, tender hearted child that he was, frowned and said it was sad.
Meetra, who could admit she used to be a bit much, said, “It’s a perfect example of the Unifying Force. There is no death, there is the Force.”
“That’s very wise,” Revan replied, straight faced. “Which Master will you eat?”
The conversation devolved into outraged laughter and name calling.
It was a silly fun fact. One idle moment in what would become long and storied lives. Yet she remembered it at the most bizarre moments.
Revan asked her to disobey the council and join the war.
Did you know the Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs?
Dxunn burned.
Its children feed off of the body.
Malak slaughtered an entire Mandalorian tribe.
The Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs.
She blew up a planet and ended a war.
The children eat their mother’s corpse.
She stood before a council of the men and women who raised her, stripped her of her rank, her lightsaber, and the Force.
And she wondered. Did the greater Firaxan octopod hate its children, for what they demanded of it? Would it choose death in old age and extinction, if it could?
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Sherlock fandom.
Can you forgive me?
John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.
John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.
“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.
His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.
“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”
Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.
“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.
“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”
Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.
“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.
“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.
“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”
John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”
His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.
It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.
Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.
When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”
When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there.
“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”
John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.
“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.
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#flash fic friday#flashfiction#sherlock fandom#sherlock#john watson#sherlock fanfic#bbc sherlock#johnlock#post recheinbach
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Trying It Out
May 20 Prompt: Experiment
“What are you wearing?” Sherlock looks up from his experiment, distracted. Something John is doing has broken the order of his disciplined mind.
John frowns. “Erm, clothes?”
Sherlock stands, approaches John like a specimen. He sniffs. “You’re wearing cologne.”
“Yes. Occasionally I do wear fragrance.”
This is a new one. It’s lighter, fresher. Not the rubbish he ordinarily wears when he’s—
“You have a date.”
“Oh, yes. I might, that is. Going out in a bit.”
“But I thought— you broke up with… the last one. The one with the hair.”
John laughs. “They all have hair, Sherlock. I don’t recall dating any bald—”
“The one with the Hair. Big Hair. Uncontrollably Big Hair.”
“You mean Sylvia. It wasn’t that big, you berk. Just a bit retro, with the teasing.”
“Teasing?”
“What people do when they want their hair to look bigger. You take a comb, and you—”
“What have you done with your hair?”
“My hair?” John is blushing, a clue that things are not as they should be. “I just… had it highlighted. A bit. I mean, why not? Women don’t have a monopoly on—”
Gently, he lays his hand on John’s head. “Product. You never use product.”
John looks annoyed now. “If you’re done examining the crime scene, I’m going out.”
Alone, Sherlock contemplates what sort of woman could make John put product in his hair. And wear a fragrance that doesn’t smell like something his father would wear. He can draw no conclusions.
He continues his investigation, undeterred by his lack of success. John Watson is a tough case, but he has no doubt that he will solve him.
John hasn’t worn a jumper in days. He’s grown a small goatee, and then shaved it off. He’s joined a gym, lost five pounds.
At this moment, he’s wearing a pink shirt. Nothing bright, just a dusty pink, touchable-looking shirt, well-fitted to his torso.
“Nice shirt,” he ventures.
“Thanks.” John blushes again, almost as pink as his shirt. He’s disturbed, perhaps, because if Sherlock ever says anything about what John is wearing, it’s to suggest that he burn whatever jumper he’s wearing.
Who is this man, and what has he done with John Watson? Sherlock’s flatmate dresses like an old man: check shirts, cuddly jumpers, trousers that sag a bit in the bum. Always in colours like beige, tan, brown, grey, and occasionally blue or green. He never wears pink.
“It’s a good colour on you.”
John smiles awkwardly and walks away. The seat of his jeans is not sagging. John has a rather nice arse, he thinks.
Several evenings each week John goes out, always around nine. He looks a bit different each time. Once he spiked his hair. He’s worn different colognes, shirts that have miraculously appeared from somewhere. Certainly not the usual shops where John buys new khakis and ugly jumpers whenever Sherlock has spilled acid on the old ones or used them in an experiment. These shirts and trousers are more expensive, much nicer than anything he normally wears.
And Sherlock deduces: John is dating a man.
The realisation socks him in the gut, takes all the air out of his lungs, and makes his heart sink.
Once, many months ago, John tried to flirt with Sherlock. Across a table at Angelo’s, he asked if Sherlock had a boyfriend. And he said he was unattached. Sherlock’s reaction to this was half-panic, half-disdain. Sherlock Holmes was married to his work. He didn’t have what other people have— girlfriends, boyfriends, people he went places with.
He had John, who dated women. John, who wore lumpy jumpers and trousers that sagged, and walked like that. John, who could never get a woman to go out with him more than twice. John, who would never leave Sherlock.
And now? John might have a boyfriend. And it’s not Sherlock, as it should have been.
Lestrade looks like he’s itching for a cigarette. Anderson looks bored. Donovan is smirking at John, who is— checking out Lestrade’s arse?
Before Sherlock can process this, John is turning to the other cop on the scene, the one who found the body. He’s tall, darkly handsome, and obviously flirting with John.
And John is not frowning. He’s smiling, giving him that charming look he often gives Sherlock when he’s done something unusually brilliant. That look is for Sherlock, and John’s giving it to this tall, handsome idiot!
“Come along, John,” he says, swirling his coat impatiently and raising his hand for a cab.
John comes along.
It’s ten in the evening, about the time when John usually starts yawning and washing the tea mugs, making sounds like he’s going to bed.
Not tonight. John is wearing a fitted black shirt and a pair of jeans that show off a number of things that Sherlock is dying to see without that layer of denim. His highlighted hair is carefully tousled, making Sherlock’s fingers itch to touch it.
“Where are you off to?” The fact that Sherlock hardly ever asks where John is going off to means that he’s giving John an awfully big clue that he cares where John goes off to late in the evening, returning in the wee hours smelling of other mens’s cologne.
“Just meeting some friends,” John says.
It’s true. John has friends— unlike Sherlock, who has just one.
“Wanna come with me?”
Sherlock looks up, startled. John has never invited Sherlock along for pub night, or watching the footy with the blokes, or meeting up with old army buddies.
“Me?”
John smiles. “Sure. I’d like you to meet my friends.”
It’s a gay bar, as Sherlock suspected, a rather nice, upscale place. He’s actually been here before, for a case.
“John!” The man who is calling out and motioning them over to a table is the very man of Sherlock’s nightmares. Tall and handsome, he has dark, curly hair and blue eyes. He’s grinning at John and as soon as they’re within an arm’s length, he pulls John into a hug.
He has a companion as well, a man who is shorter, with reddish-blond hair.
“Sherlock, meet Alex and Dustin.”
“Finally!” the taller one exclaims. “We’ve been dying to meet the boyfriend!”
Instead of declaring that he’s not gay, and that Sherlock is not his boyfriend, John smiles sheepishly at Sherlock. “Alex works in retail, men’s clothing. I met him when I decided to upgrade my wardrobe. Dustin is his boyfriend.”
And instead of denying that John is his boyfriend, Sherlock slips an arm around him. Smiling at Alex, he says, “You’ve worked an absolute miracle on his man. Thanks to you, I no longer have to resort to spilling acid on his ugly jumpers.”
John laughs. “Oi! You leave my ugly jumpers alone, you git!”
“A pleasant evening.” Sherlock studies John’s face as they walk home. “So.”
John ducks his head, smiling. “So.”
“An experiment?”
He huffs, shaking his head. “I haven’t been totally clear with you. I’m not gay. I’m bi, and I decided it was time to explore that side of me, learn to live with it. I told Alex I wanted to impress you, the poshest man on the planet, so he picked out things for me to try.”
Sherlock stops walking, takes John in his arms. “And you told him… I’m your boyfriend?”
“Well, I’d like to be. Maybe we could consider it an experiment?”
“Hm. It might be good to collect some data.” He leans down, kisses John. “I’m fairly sure, though, that I can predict the results.”
“Me, too,” John says, rising up for another kiss.
Flash Fiction / 1264 words
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Crafting Spells with Incantations: A Primer for Fantasy Writers
1. The Roots of Language & Power: Think about languages. Why is Latin so captivating to many? Elvish words from Tolkien's Middle Earth gives us a sense of nostalgia. Incantations borrow from the weight and mystery of forgotten or invented tongues to create allure in our fictional works. Authors might want to consider phonetic aesthetics and rhyming words. Cadence can distinguish between magic that stays with the reader or falls short.
2. The Binding Element - Intention: Fancy words can enchant, but intention carries power. Consider the caster's emotions, desires, and the cost of wielding the magic. A simple spell to light a candle may be whispered, while summoning a storm might require a shout. Emotional resonance adds depth to your magical system. Depth can make it more relatable and memorable.
3. The Harmony of Gesture: Incantations are often paired with gestures. The flow between word and motion can amplify potency. Perhaps the caster must trace a key through the air to open a door. Visual clues help readers see spell casting in their minds.
4. The Complexity of Consequence: Let spells have consequences. Mispronouncing an incantation could come with disastrous or unexpected outcomes. Spells can backfire if cast with doubt. Create checks and balances that challenge your characters.
5. Soundscapes of Sorcery: When performed correctly, what sounds accompany the spell? What sounds come when the magic is incorrect? Spells that summon forth storms release echoing booms in the distance. Offer readers a multi-sensory experience where they can 'hear' the magic too
-Indigo
If you’d like more check out my article on unique and classical sources of magic.
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MONDAY! Monday is the deadline! Christmas weirdness! 350 words! Prizes! Fame! Bragging rights! Proof of aesthetic and literary superiority! Disturb your friends and family!
#writing#contest#flash#fiction#flashfiction#microfiction#weird#genre#horror#fantasy#science fiction#speculative
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“How much do you love me?” Tweek looked over and stared at his device. He didn’t look up and kept scrolling. The question seemed to hang in the air as anxiety slowly chocked Tweek.
“I ugh um ugh … “ Tweek felt as the anxiety seemed to take every word he would like to take out of him before he could even speak. He felt a light pressure. He turned and saw that Craig had put his phone down and was looking at tweek’s eyes. The blue of the ocean met the green of the forest as they locked eyes.
”you don’t have to respond. I know sometimes you have difficulty with words and that won’t change how much I love you.” Craig said this as he gave a light smile. He turned back to this phone.
Craig was always there for him everytime his anxiety became too much or he wasn’t able to function. It was Craig who picked up the pieces. If anything he was the glue that held Tweek together to any point in his life. Part of the reason that he couldn’t say anything is because there wasn’t enough words to express how much he loved Craig.
An inferno of frustration seemed to slowly bite up his skin as he realized that he had to do something to express all of his love for Craig. Without another thought he reached over to put a hand on Craig making the man turn and look at him. There was a second match of the sea and forest and Tweek swung his leg over so that he was straddling Craig who let his phone drop to the floor and slid his hands onto Tweeks hips.
Tweek slowly leans down as his lips lock onto Craig’s. There were no words as they sat there lips locked together. The worlds felt like it was fading away as they felt each other. Finally Tweek leaned back “never enough words for how much I love you.” The hands that were on his hips slid up and pulled him so that they were chest to chest he felt the warmth below him. “I love you Tweek.”
Tweek just stayed there as their hearts beat in time together. Tweek may not have the world but he knows he will do anything in his power to show Craig how much he loves him every day.
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Imagine a crab. He becomes rounder. Even rounder. SO ROUND. Such a round crab guy. He is wearing a hat and introduces himself as Barry Crabcraberson.
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The Siege of Maglubiyet's Legion
The land was quiet, peaceful, and serene. The morning sun had just begun to rise, casting a golden glow on the trees and fields. The dew on the grass glittered like diamonds, and the birds sang sweet melodies.
But this peacefulness was about to be shattered. In the distance, the sound of war horns echoed across the land, signaling the approach of a hobgoblin legion. The settlers in the nearby village heard the horns and knew what was coming.
They had heard the stories of the hobgoblins' martial might, their love for warfare and battle, and their thirst for conquest. They knew that these creatures cared about nothing except the opportunity to demonstrate their skill and cunning in battle.
As the villagers scrambled to fortify their defenses, they caught a glimpse of the hobgoblin legion. The creatures had dark orange or red-orange skin, with hair ranging from dark red-brown to dark gray. Their yellow or dark brown eyes peered out beneath their beetling brows, and their wide mouths sported sharp and yellowed teeth. A male hobgoblin in the front ranks had a large blue nose, symbolizing his virility and power among his kind.
The hobgoblin legion marched in perfect formation, a thousand booted feet echoing across the land. Stones flew from their catapults, and the thunder of their approach shook the earth. The settlers knew that they had to fight for their survival.
The hobgoblin legion had organized themselves into tribal bands known as legions, each with a warlord and several captains serving under their command. These hobgoblins were ruthless tyrants, more interested in strategy, victory, glory, reputation, and dominion than leading troops into battle.
The settlers had only a few defenders, armed with swords, shields, and bows. But they were determined to fight to the death. As the hobgoblin legion approached, the settlers released a volley of arrows, but the hobgoblins were well-trained in the art of war and easily dodged them.
The battle began, with hobgoblins charging forward with their weapons raised high. The settlers fought back with all their might, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. The hobgoblins were skilled fighters, and their weapons were deadly.
The settlers were pushed back, retreating into their village. The hobgoblins followed, their eyes gleaming with a lust for blood. The settlers fought fiercely, but it was no use. The hobgoblins were too strong.
The village burned as the hobgoblins ransacked it, taking what they pleased and destroying what they did not. The settlers who survived were taken as slaves, their fate uncertain.
As the hobgoblin legion marched away, their war horns sounding once more, the land was left in ruins. The peace and serenity of the morning had been shattered, replaced by the aftermath of war. The hobgoblins had conquered and controlled, leaving destruction in their wake.
Buy me a coffee!
#fantasyfiction#flashfiction#dungeonsanddragons#hobgoblins#maglubiyet#battle#siege#warriors#militaryfantasy#swordandsorcery
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✨Happy Happy B-Day for Me! (Yippie!) 🥳🎉✨
>>The only gift I ask from my followers is to INTERACT with this post. Like, comment, or share! It means a lot to me!
>>There's a special story in this post! Make my day and read it as well!🥰
A representation of how many birthdays have been for me. A crafted so everyone can assume what the story is really about. I hope to be able to bring more tales like this one in the future ♥✨
#cute#my art#fantasia#kawaii#fantasy#art#drawing#oc#BirthdayArt#ArtistOnTwitter#storytelling#Fantasy#Mystery#Suspense#Whodunit#DetectiveStory#Intrigue#ShortStory#MicroFiction#FlashFiction#Storytelling#Narrative#Tale#StoryTime#WrittenWord#Storyteller#CreativeWriting#Art#Drawing#Illustration
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The Copper Crown
FOR @flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 974
Male x Male
[Henry needs a distraction from his looming wedding. He meets a wandering Knight.]
When his mother was angry, she’d fume in her study. She'd pen her displeasure on scraps of paper, never read by any other eyes but her own. When his father was angry, he’d storm out of the estate and partook to the warmth of liquor that muddled his mind. He'd return home the next morning smelling like the stables.
Henry had tried his mother’s form of distraction. Locking himself in his study, so when Elizabeth yelled, the wooden door would muffle it and hid the sight of her angry tears. He’d try to write down his frustrations like his mother. But the admissions in his own words; of his true character, one he could never utter into existence without repercussions to his name had been too much to bear. Even the act of writing it down made his hand quiver as he held the quill tight. A penned remorse for turning his childhood friend into an antagonist to his life because he could not love her the way she did. As she had done for some time.
And so, he followed in his father’s footsteps. He walked out the doors of his estate at the eve of his wedding and into a carriage, instructing the coachman to take him to the farthest alehouse. There, the name Briarwood would be nothing but an itch to the mind rather than an open revelation of his certain prestige.
He found refuge in a tavern with an intimate charm. The Copper Crown, with its flickering lanterns on the low-beamed ceilings, they casted an amber glow on tapestried walls and worn wooden tables stained with the heavy scent of ale. The patrons huddled in their respective tables, some conversations lively and merry, others echoed in gentle somberness.
The nobleman had found a corner to himself, immersed in the shadows of his thoughts. He drank the brewed ale hoping to drown the weight of his impending union with its heady warmth and ease the burden on his heart. But it seemed that he was rather inept in hiding his afflictions, as a man stopped by his table. And Henry’s ears alone became privy to the rich velvet tone of the stranger’s voice. His chaotic thoughts silenced by just a few words.
“Evening, care for some company?”
Henry looked at the man. Dark, tousled hair that danced a tint of red in the lantern light framed his striking face, sculpted well by time and hinted at years of daring adventures. His eyes, the colour of midnight, intense yet inviting, especially at how they wandered to study Henry in the same way his own eyes studied him. Manners told the nobleman to nod and offer a hand,
“H-Henry.” He mentally cursed at the stutter of his own name.
The man’s hand was large and rough. He shook Henry’s hand with the firm grip of a swordsman and sat at the empty chair,
“Callum.”
Their conversation flowed like a dance, a delicate interplay of words and silence that blossomed with intrigue. Henry blamed the ale for his sudden openness to this stranger, as court life taught him to be tight-lipped with information of his life. Though he does not downplay Callum’s adept way of unraveling his guarded heart, with a well-timed smirk, a dulcet chuckle, or a playful tease that bordered the temptations of intimacy.
“This place,” Callum gestured to the Copper Crown, “is where people go to find reprieval from their lives. What brings you here? Aside from the obvious desire for a drink?”
Henry hesitated; his gaze momentarily lost in the depths of his ale. "A wedding." he finally admitted, the word heavy with both duty and reluctance.
Callum's eyes glinted with curiosity. "Ah, weddings. Joyous occasions,” he stopped to study the defeated look on Henry’s face, “or so I am told. Are you... the blushing groom-to-be, then?"
A bitter chuckle escaped Henry's lips. "Yes. Though not willingly... it is a union born out of duty, not love."
Callum leaned back into his chair, his strong arms held across his broad chest as his eyes held a mischievous glint, “Well, that does explains a lot then.”
When Henry looked at him confused, Callum continued with his observation, his words laced with a teasing charm, “You look as if you're about to face a monster, my dear Henry."
Again, Callum had a way to weaken his defense as he laughed ruefully at the accurate analogy. His marriage did seem like a dreadful looming creature ready to pounce and devour him. As he did, Callum leaned forward and his legs briefly brushed against Henry’s. An accident, Henry told himself as his laughter slowly faded.
“Need of a rescue? Shall I be your knight in shining armour, and whisk you away from the jaws of matrimony?” He asked with a sly tilt of his – to Henry’s observation – very kissable lips.
Henry tore his eyes away from Callum as his neck felt like it was searing in heat, “I'm afraid, that I'm past the point of rescue.”
Undeterred, Callum leaned even closer, his voice a velvet whisper that held allure and a promised liberation, "What about a distraction, then? Something to divert your thoughts from your impending doom?"
He reached across to graze Henry’s hand with his own. The touch sent a subtle thrill through Henry, of a sensation he had long suppressed. He looked up to see Callum’s suggestive smile, the offer one he’d dreamt of for years yet never enacted on. Tonight is his last night as a bachelor and though Henry contemplated, his heart had already been set the moment Callum offered his company.
At last Henry nodded. "A distraction, yes. Even if just for the night."
They left the tavern discreetly, hand in hand and disappeared into the night. Henry returned home the next morning, smelling like the stables.
#flash fiction friday#flashfiction#a form of distraction#male x male#fiction writing#writblr#flirty#flirting#one night stand#fantasy writing#fantasy#writers on tumblr#I ran out of word count! The ending is rushed#this was a lot of fun to do#i love this#Not OCs just made for fun#flashfictionfridayofficial
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Sherlock fandom
Characters: Sherlock and John
Like a grown child
“God, you act like a child sometimes,” I exclaim looking pointedly at Sherlock.
“You make it sound like something unpleasant, John,” Sherlock pouts. “I thought you loved children.”
Over the last year living with Sherlock Holmes, I’ve learnt to expect the unexpected, but this retort took me by surprise. Was Sherlock implying something, or was it just wishful thinking and imagination on my part? We never talked about children. Why would he think I love them? Searching my brain doesn’t give me any clarity on the matter.
I have been dating on and off since I moved in, but it’s hard to keep me interested nowadays. Sherlock is so much more fun to be around than any of my dates. Besides, I’ve recently realised that I’m desperately in love with the madman. I know it won’t lead to anything, because Sherlock is married to his work, though sometimes I think I’ve spotted some glances that tells me he’s not as aloof as he was in the beginning of our acquaintanceship.
“John?” Sherlock inquires.
I startle when he addresses me, because I’ve been so lost in thought, I’d almost forgotten he’s standing in front of me.
“What were you thinking of, John?” Sherlock murmurs and moves into my personal space.
My cheeks blush and I’m unable to form a coherent sentence. Having him this close to me apparently makes my brain go offline. All I register is the warmth from his body, the exquisite scent of him, his breath on my forehead and then his hand touches my shoulder.
I inhale sharply, close my eyes to revel in this cocoon-like encounter.
“Look at me,” he whispers and I’m unable to resist.
When I meet his gaze, the child-like behaviour from earlier has vanished. What’s left is a sincere look and a warmth I’ve never seen before. I raise my hand to cup his cheek and he leans into my touch, closes his eyes and moans quietly.
The sight is breathtaking and I long to move closer. As if he’s read my mind, he encircles my shoulders and pulls me to him. His eyes scan my face and what he finds must please him if his genuine smile is any indicator.
“I want to kiss you,” I tell him in the softest voice I know.
“Please, John.”
The way he says my name, makes my heart flutter. It feels like the most precious thing.
My fingers caress his nape, he lowers his head, and our lips meet. His plush lips are delicious under mine. I let my other hand card through the luxuriant curls, and it doesn’t take a consulting detective to realise that he enjoys that immensely.
When we part, Sherlock looks dazed and is reluctant to let me go.
His inner child has once again emerged, I think to myself.
It’s my turn to scan his face for any foul play. Has he distracted me from…I can’t seem to remember what I was so agitated about now that I have the gorgeous man in my arms.
“You’ve put a spell on me, haven’t you?” I murmur and claim Sherlock’s lips again, not caring a fig about how I yield to him.
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#flash fiction friday#flashfiction#sherlock fandom#sherlockholmes#john watson#johnlock#sherlock fanfic#a form of distraction
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Candles
For the prompt: Candle Light / May 7 @notjustamumj
The thunder started an hour ago, a storm moving in from the southwest. John has just settled Rosie, grateful that the bedtime battle is over, when a clap of thunder and the sudden pelting of rain on the windows wake her again.
“Great,” he says, scooping her from the cot. “Okay, Rosebug, let’s go look for the candles.”
The kitchen is the obvious place to look. Mary seems to have prepared them for every possible emergency— well, except for her own death. There is plenty of powdered baby milk and cereal, more tins of soup than John will ever eat, and batteries of every type. First aid kit, multitool, books of matches.
But no candles.
In the dark, there is no telly to distract them, just the rain and random cracks of thunder, loud enough to shake the bric-a-brac on the shelves. Rosie is exhausted, but each boom rouses her, starts her screaming again.
“I know,” John mutters, walking her around the room. “I feel like crying myself.”
The letter. The things he wrote to Sherlock, after… He’d been wild with grief, unable to sort out his feelings. What happened was clearly Mary’s fault. It was her choice to go to the aquarium, to shield Sherlock from the bullet that would have killed him. And irrationally, John had blamed it all on Sherlock.
After Sherlock came back, John had struggled to realign the frayed ends of his life. He had grieved Sherlock for two years, and gradually realised what he felt for his dead friend. But he’d moved on, and wouldn’t have survived without Mary.
He’d chosen her. He’d married her, and she was having his child. But he was unhappy, and knew it.
In the darkness, he imagines the familiar shapes of 221B— two chairs, the table where he used to write his blogposts, the tall window where Sherlock would stand, playing his violin.
Sherlock will never forgive him. The things he wrote in the letter were unforgivable.
A sudden crack of thunder, and Rosie starts up again. John stands at the window bouncing her, his own tears falling on the soft, blond hair.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know, love.”
A knock on the door startles him.
Who would call on such a stormy night? Sometimes neighbours call, in need of a doctor.
Locks undone, he opens the door. A flash of lightning illuminates his caller like a character in a horror movie. Wet hair, pale face, sharp features.
“Sherlock.” John is so surprised to see him that he simply stands there, gaping as the rain drips off his coat.
“John.” Fishing in his pocket, Sherlock pulls out a packet. “Candles.”
“Come inside,” he says. “You’re soaked.”
A brief smile. “Not quite.”
In the darkness, Sherlock shrugs off his coat. “Do you have baby food jars?”
“Jars?”
“For the candles.” Sherlock takes Rosie from his arms. “So the wax won’t drip on your table.”
Jars, he has in abundance. Rosie is a good eater who has never met a baby food she won’t eat. He rinses six jars and sets them on the table.
Sherlock is explaining thunder to Rosie. “In the clouds, there’s a lot of static. The atmosphere insulates it, but it builds up until it has to go somewhere and— boom! It sends lightning to the ground.”
The thunder booms, Sherlock says boom again, and Rosie giggles.
John burns his finger on a match. Sherlock finds his lighter and offers it to John, who lights each candle, letting it drip into the jar, then sticking the base into the wax. Rosie watches, rapt.
“Boo,” she says, reaching for the light.
“Boom!” Sherlock picks up one of the candles. “Let there be light!”
They move the candles into the sitting room and settle themselves on the sofa.
“It’s her teeth,” John says.
“It’s fine.”
“You live thirty minutes away,” John points out. “And yet you arrived right after the storm started.”
“Weather report.”
“And you deduced I didn’t have candles?”
“Lucky guess.”
“You never guess.”
Sherlock smiles. In the candle light, his features soften. His pale skin glows golden. He’s beautiful.
John bites his lip. Why is Sherlock here? The letter—
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Nothing I can say will ever excuse…” He looks down, feels tears splash on his hands.
“Didn’t read it.”
“What?”
“You were angry. If I’d read it, that would have stood between us. I didn’t want that. So, I burned it.”
Rosie’s asleep now. Sherlock carries her to her room, John leading the way with a candle. Laid in her cot, she sighs, finding her thumb.
Downstairs, John says, “No electricity. I’m afraid tea is out of the question.”
“It’s fine.” Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket, produces a bottle. “This will warm us up.”
It does. In the flickering glow of the candles, they drink in silence.
“I’m sorry,” John says.
“You don’t need to apologise. I’m the one who’s sorry— and I haven’t properly said so.” He holds his glass, staring into the amber depths. “I miscalculated, and I deeply regret that.”
“Miscalculated?”
“I didn’t realise how much I mattered to you. Or how much you mattered to me. I’m sorry for making you think it was all a joke. Can we…?”
“Be friends again?”
“I would like that.” His eyes are some indescribable colour in the candle light. He looks at John, searching.
“Maybe,” John says. He shakes his head. “Maybe we could be more.”
Sherlock sighs, rubs his eyes. “I was afraid. I thought you hated me.”
“I did.” He smiles at the look Sherlock gives him now. “If I hadn’t cared for you— if I hadn’t loved you before, I wouldn’t have been so angry with you.”
“You loved me?”
“I love you. I’ll be your friend. But if you want—”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with tears. “Yes, I do want. I love you too.”
Years from now, John will remember Sherlock’s face, radiant, his hair red-gold in the candle light. He’ll remember that first kiss.
1000 words this time: flash fiction
💕 Thank you for reading/reblogging!
Tagging: @elwinglyre @helloliriels @raina-at @keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jrow @peanitbear @bertytravelsfar @momma2boys @lisbeth-kk @mydogwatson @eterne-locked @thegildedbee @sarahthecoat
#johnlock#notjustamom may prompts#my fics#candle light#fic prompt#sherlock bbc#flashfiction#1000 words
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Night Out
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 199: Night Out 1000 words.
Gordon glanced over his shoulder, and was out of his seat in a flash.
“Scott, stop! Don’t drink that!”
A bleary-eyed glare was all he got in response. Too many tables, stools, people… He couldn’t reach his brother until after Scott smacked his lips, pulling a face.
“Tasted weird,” he acknowledged. Gordon resisted the urge to groan.
“I’m not surprised. Why’d you drink it?”
Scott scowled. It was such an uncharacteristic look that Gordon wondered how much his brother had drunk already.
“Never happy, are you?” Scott muttered. “Complain when I drink: complain when I don’t.”
“What?”
“You said I was boring.” There was hurt in his voice. Gordon did groan this time.
“I didn’t mean it,” he protested. “You were being… never mind. Since when do you listen to me, anyway?”
“M’not boring. I know how to have fun, just as much as you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Scott blinked, looking around. He looked slightly confused, as if no longer being certain where exactly here was.
“Scotty.” Gordon kept his voice low and soothing. He stepped towards his brother, guiding the man back onto a stool, uncertain if Scott standing was a good idea. “How’d you feel?”
“M’fine. Taste’ weir’ though… Gords?”
“Yes, big brother?”
“D’you give me somethin’? I feel… am I talking slow?”
“You’re going to be just fine,” Gordon said. “I just need you to sit here for a sec, that okay?”
“Bossy,” Scott slurred, but he slumped obediently back against the bar. This time, Gordon knew it was the only thing propping his brother up.
Looking around, it didn’t take long to spot the same man that he’d seen slip something into his brother’s drink. He was having the same trouble Gordon had had – too many obstacles between him and the door.
Gordon wasn’t above dirty tactics, though. With an excessive use of elbows, he forced his way through the crowd, grabbing the man and spinning him around.
“What’d you give him?”
“Get your hands off me.”
The guy tried to pull away. Gordon lost his patience.
The next thing the man knew, he was on his knees, his arm bent up behind him and Gordon having an uncomfortably tight grip on a little finger that may or may not be designed to have pressure put on it in such a way.
“What did you give him?”
“Gordon?” Virgil looked non-plussed as he came back from the restroom. “Did I miss something?”
“Only big brother taking my words to heart about being boring, downing a previously unattended drink and now this kind fellow here is about to tell me what he put in it.”
“Oh.” Virgil winced, looking across the bar. “Well, he’s still on his seat, for what that’s worth.”
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“He really won’t,” Virgil said, “and this is him asking nicely as well. You better tell him.”
The man was scowling, whether through pain or the frustration of not being able to get out of the hold he currently found himself in. He mumbled something under his breath, a word that meant nothing to Gordon. He glanced at Virgil, who nodded once, and released the man.
“Be grateful I’ve got better things to do,” he snapped. With a shove, he sent the man sprawling and re-deployed elbow use to get back to Scott. Virgil helped this time – his brother’s bulk had to come in useful at times.
Between them, they got back to their commander. Virgil was just in time to catch him as he pitched forward off his stool.
“We need to get him outside,” Virgil muttered, “somewhere I can run a full med-scan.”
“You brought the scanner with you on a night out?” Gordon manoeuvred one of Scott’s arms over his shoulder, glancing pointedly at Virgil until his brother took the other. Scott was a dead weight, and his chin was resting on his chest as he stood. His breathing seemed slower and he wasn’t even attempting to talk.
Virgil didn’t say anything until they’d navigated through the bar and out into the cool night. The air seemed to revive Scott a little and he looked up.
“V’rg?”
“Hey, Scotty. Got yourself in a bit of trouble there, big brother?”
“S’not my fault,” Scott mumbled. “Gordon’s.”
“I didn’t drink a spiked drink,” Gordon protested. He used the wall to prop his brother against, ducking out of the way as Virgil – sure enough – pulled a med-scanner out from his pocket and ran the portable device over their brother.
There were no red lights, which Gordon figured was good. There were, however, a lot of yellows.
“It’s in his blood,” Virgil said, “but should be short-lived. We should get him back to the penthouse. He needs to sleep it off.”
“So much for a night out,” Gordon grumbled. He once again took Scott’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go and check on Johnny.”
The words were surprisingly effective at getting Scott to put one foot in front of the other.
“Should’ve stayed home,” Scott mumbled. He sounded a little clearer than before, but Gordon was certain that was just the fresh air. “Stayed in with John. Not cared if you think I’m boring.”
“I didn’t mean it!” Gordon protested again. “Gees, I told John the same thing and he just said so what.”
If he’d known Scott would take it to heart so much, he’d never have opened his mouth. One throw-away comment, and this was the result.
“Besides, I take it back. You’re the reckless one. The one who thinks the answer to be boring is to get drunk.”
“S’good,” Scott muttered.
Virgil, supporting the other side of him, rolled his eyes. “Honestly. This is why we don’t let him have time off. It never ends well. You should’ve known he’d take it personally if you told him he was boring.”
Gordon scowled. He’d only meant it to try and get his brother to put down his load for a while. Next time, he was staying with John!
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Are you looking for creative inspiration? A way to turn an empty page into a story for the ages? Then you’ll need to connect with your own “Muse”, but that creature of beauty and horror will need much more from you. Are you prepared to give it?
“The Muse” is a brand new #AudioBook for 2023 written by the brilliant Christopher Lee Scoville and voiced acted by the amazingly talented Justine Leah Hince.
This is the first of our new ‘Cornucopia Radio’ collection of #Halloween #Horror themed #FlashFiction pieces to be released this month. Tales to unnerve, get under your skin and leave a mark! We’ve got more to come over the next few weeks, so keep an eye on this page.
You can download this video, the mp3 version or subscribe to the podcast to get these pieces automatically via our website: http://www.cornucopia-radio.co.uk/short-video-fiction
Also let us know what you thought of this production and the story. I know how hard Christopher and Justine worked to bring it to you, and they would love to read your comments.
#halloween radio#halloween#horror#audiobook#art#voice acting#voice actress#short story#flashfiction#creativity#writers block#audiodrama#audio fiction#story book#video
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Fingertips - Raeda - Flash fiction
The first rays of golden sun drifted through the window. Fingertips brushed over smooth skin. Soft over hard edges of bone. Whispers of hair stood to attention at the coolness of her breath. Green eyes opened. A smile was given and returned. Both delighted at stealing a moment before the world awoke. Raine found her hand, turning it in theirs, examining it, before brushing fingertips over fingers.
"Be mine." Raine whispered.
Eda turned away. The air around them changing.
"I always was."
Raine's fingers reached out to touch her shoulder, but hesitated , unable to undo what had been done.
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