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user-needs-new-hyperfixation · 11 months

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OMG I never would have thought about Mycroft and Ms Hudson that way before you mentioned it. Tell me more about that alternate universe where they got married? If you're still in the mood for answering *finger crossed*

I'm always in the mood for talking about Yuumori haha! Thanks for the ask!

We first see them interact in chapter 17 and they're already kinda friendly (in spite of Miss Hudson whispering to John that Mycroft is even more of a hassle than Sherlock lol). Then there's the whole adorable comforting milk tea thing in the later chapters, plus Miss Hudson being the one to basically express that she hated not being able to pass on to Mycroft that Sherlock was alive. So there's some things there to work with, though like almost every potential pairing in this series, I love them as much as friends as a romance. Indeed, there's actually something really special about the idea of a man and a woman in somewhat different stations forming a friendship in Victorian England. So I like it either way and lean towards preferring them as friends.

But as a ship, I think they would have a very mature, down-to-earth kind of romance. It wouldn't be some grand wild thing, it'd be...easy and comfortable and sweet. They're both independent adults who've made their own ways in life. It wouldn't be that kind of dramatic: "You complete me, I am not me without you" thing. Instead it would be, "I was already complete, but my life is better with you in it." And in some ways, the older I get the more I like that kind of love (though I'll always be a sucker for drama too lol).

Also, just imagine poor Miss Hudson trying to raise children with Sherlock as their uncle. 😂😂

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #asks

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moriartyluver · 10 months

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Mangadex translation vs official Moriarty the patriot English translation

Sugar mama is crazy 😭 poor ms Hudson

Usually I find that the official translation is less funny than the mangadex translations but this one panel had me cackling for a good minute

Sherlock is actually such a menace for telling this man that ms Hudson is gonna be a sugar mommy to him

#moriarty the patriot #william james moriarty #william moriarty #mtp william #yuukoku no moriarty #mtp #Sherlock Holmes #mtp Sherlock #yuumori #ynm #sugar mama 😭

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inafieldofdaisies · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday *let's pretend it's Wednesday, okayy* | tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat & @fourlittleseedlings <3

Before jumping in, some backstory: I had different plans for Chapter 2 (read as covering the arrest), but an idea kept crawling at me, like "hey, it's actually my turn, I need to be here". So here it is. 😭

August 18th, 2018 John

"Hudson asked Whitehorse to let them all leave early this Saturday, said she's throwing Deputy Donovan a birthday party at the Spread Eagle."

Ms. Willis was the eyes and ears of the Project inside Hope County's Sheriff's Department. She was always eager to offer intel, always ready to be of service to his brother. John relayed on the older woman to keep taps on the movements of Whitehorse and his deputies, knowing what they were planning next was of utmost importance, it meant staying one step ahead of the Sinners. It kept their people on the path to Eden. Still, oftentimes the information she presented ended up far from tactical, straight up into gossip territory. And if he let her, she'd talk on for hours, to a point John felt the need to recall Joseph's words over and over "Patience, brother. You have to love them." Yes, Nancy Willis was useful and he had to tolerate her, for the sake of the Project.

The struggle to remember that was becoming a more frequent occurrence as of lately. That day's conversation with her was no different. He had no idea why Nancy considered a birthday party an important detail. Nor did he need another reminder of his failure: that the Spread Eagle was still open and poisoning his region. Spreading the sin. And yet, the mention of Hope County's newest deputy's name always aroused his curiosity. Where most people in Holland Valley chose to run away in hope of escaping facing their sins, Sabrina Donovan accepted a job in the Sheriff's Department and rented a cabin in HIS region. He didn't know if that made her extremely brave or absolutely naive.

Deputy Donovan quickly became a thorn in his side. Not only did she live on Darcy Harris' property, a poor attempt made by the old woman at stopping him from acquiring her land for the Project, but she constantly sabotaged his men in their work, often interrupting Cleansings. Indeed, she was absolutely naive if she thought she would stand in the Project's way or stop him from finishing the task Joseph bestowed on him. One day she'd be sitting in his chair, confessing every sin she's ever committed, no matter how small. He'd make sure of that.

He blamed that very same curiosity for the urge that took over him that Saturday night, for making him get into an unmarked truck - he wasn't about to alert all of Fall's end of his presence, and ending up in front of the Spread Eagle, standing in the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

He was going to see her once and be done. The town was calm, dark, a stark contrast to the party happening inside the bar. Laughter and music seeped all the way outside, trying to take over the silence.

He had no idea how long he stood at his hiding spot before the doors of the Spread Eagle finally opened as two figures stepped out, one of them lighting up a cigarette. "Tell you what, Gray, this party was exactly what I needed after this week. Whitehorse has been all up in my face about the last accident." Melodic laughter was all the responce the man got at first, followed by "I'm pretty sure you set a new record of how fast you got into trouble this time, kid", her tone grew serious, "You're starting to worry me, Calahan." First time John was hearing Sabrina's voice or seeing her in person for that matter. All he could make out in the dark was the denim jacket over her shoulders. He immediately knew who the quite drunk sinner she was speaking to was.

Calahan Hartley, though most called him Rookie.

The Deputy was nothing short of the bane of John's existence, where Sabrina usually ended conflicts with his men rather peacefully, Calahan enjoyed wreaking havoc through his region and did his hardest to ruin Joseph's vision of the future. Nobody else needed a Cleansing more than him. "Ha. I'm just giving those peggies hell. They sure as fuck deserve it." My men are just following God's will, soon you will be fulfilling your purpose too. My brother is never wrong. The two continued talking, but John's thoughts drowned out their faint conversation. He's about had enough of Hartley's voice. He wished he could- "Patience, brother. It's not the time for action yet.", Joseph's voice echoed in his mind, trying to smother the urge for destruction. His brother's usual words helped, same for the fact the Deputy finally decided to head back inside after smoking a second cigarette. "You coming in, Gray? You promised to sing for me." "In a bit. Save me some of the cake, don't let Sharky eat all of it, yeah?" Sweet silence. Sabrina leaned back, staring up at the night sky. Gone was the mask of the happy birthday girl. It was replaced by a look of melancholy. The change shifted something in him too and before he knew it, he was pulling out a piece of paper from his jacket. "Happy Birthday - J" John paused, looking at the note in bewilderment. What is this?

A message for her?

A peace offering for the night?

An attempt to get her to smile again?

NO. It's a warning. So she knows we hold the power and are always watching. But he couldn't bring himself to finish signing his name. Once Sabrina headed back inside the Spread Eagle, John left the note on the windshield of her Bronco. Nancy's intel was paying off again. He didn't allow himself to stick around to hear her sing. Joseph trusted him to help with his vision and he wasn't going to fail him. It was time to put the curiosity behind him. She's just another sinner waiting for Atonement.

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circusoflosers · 9 days

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Sherlock Sissons

A long time ago Mrs. Martha Hudson was Ms. Martha Sissons, she was young and fun and liked to rebel against her parents by going to the pub and meeting "friends". One night while at the pub she met Mr. Morland Holmes, they had a connection and too much alcohol and they ended up in bed together. In the morning many thoughts and feelings went through Martha's head like shame, what have I done, and "Bullocks I've done it now! Although she said that last one out loud. By the time she had composed herself she had realized Morand was gone and a note was left behind, it read "I'm terribly sorry, this was a mistake and I'm married to a wonderful woman. I do wish to see you again though, so we can make this mistake again. call me at this number any time 01792-654-9982." She was shocked "How scandalous!" Martha kept the note out of curiosity and went home to her own flat. It was about a month later Martha discovered she was pregnant, she knew who the child belonged to and decided it would be for the best to keep it to herself. When the baby was born she named him Sherlock after her Grandfather who she was quite close to and had supported her through her pregnancy. When Sherlock was 15 months old Martha met a man named Frank Hudson who was charming in every way, they quickly fell in love and decided to get married. Frank was a drunk and an angry, violent one who disliked Sherlock on a good day because he wasn't Frank's. It was a hard day for Frank, or it would be except for that blasted Bastard living in his house, it was on this day he decided enough was enough the boy had to go! Frank told Martha he would quit drinking if he gave Sherlock to his father or up for adoption, Martha was affronted but really wanted a chance at happily ever after with the man she loved besides all his faults and after weeks of arguing, and debating she dug out Morand's number and gave him a ring. Morand was frustrated for lack of a better word, he had met this woman about two years ago and had been waiting for a call but not one quite like this. When he told his wife about the hidden son she was rightfully upset but once she calmed down a few days later she reminded him just why he loved her by opening her heart and letting Sherlock in before she even met him. Violet told her husband to call the poor woman back and agree to take in the boy, she was quite taken with Sherlock the moment she laid eyes on him and so was Mycroft, her other son. Life went on smoothly for both families after "The Exchange¨ the Hudsons had two daughters Abigail and Rosie, and Sherlock blended well with the Holmes' but things would not remain. Frank goes back to drinking and gets the death sentence in Florida for Arson, and Sherlock leaves his family to pursue detective work in London, he stumbled upon Mrs. Hudson and knew immediately who she was drawing on the similarities between themselves and fuzzy memories of a two-year-old. Martha also knows who Sherlock is based on his name and photos sent to her by his parents on all holidays, she never brought it up even though he knew she knew he never brought it up either, in one of his rare moments of social ability. But when John moved in he realized something was going on between them, even if it took a few months. It took almost a year of sleuthing and probing, pushing and asking questions before he finally got them to confess to him what was going on, and he was very surprised to find they were Mother and Son.

Feel free to use this and its unsatisfying ending for your own stories, but please do give me credit as inspiration. Also, any mistakes being pointed out would be greatly appreciated!

#bbc sherlock #AU #This was fun to writte

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broetry · 2 years

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Tiktok foods I want to try

I wasn’t sure exactly what to title this. These foods weren’t created specifically for tiktok, that’s just where I happened to find them. So idk if “tiktok foods” is an accurate term, but “foods I found on tiktok that I want to try” sounded too long. Anyways. Here’s some recipe’s I have been dying to try. Some of these might be considered “odd” but curiosity knows no bounds with me.

-Loaded potato soup

•specifically the recipe by Keyshawn Hudson @chefkeysh

-Brazilian lemonade

•specifically the recipe found by Iona @thisisiona

-Crispy soy garlic chicken

•specifically the recipe by Alice @alicecsun (they have a link in their tiktok bio with a lot of their other recipes too!)

-Butternut squash Mac n cheese,

•specifically the recipe by Justine Doiron @justine_snacks

-Acorns

•In the wise words of argyle, “try before you deny” the recipe is by Alexis Nikole @alexisnikole. She has many many foraging recipes that sound delicious

-1929 water pie, Cowboy cookies, Avocado icecream,

•all vintage recipes found by B. Dylan Hollis @bdylanhollis

•do I think they’ll be good? No.

-Sabudana khichdi

•recipe made by @rootedinspice they have multiple recipes I want to try

-Carrot hot dogs

•the recipe I found was by Porscha & Bree @thatonecutelesbiancouple

•I’m not vegan but HEAR ME OUT

-Five minute apple pie

•recipe by emme from @emmezhou

•I’m a poor college student, sue me.

- strawberry Agua fresca

•recipe by Ariana Ruiz @arimonika

-Chiffon cake

•specifically the recipe by Ms Shi @msshiandmrhe

-Korean cream cheese garlic bread

•recipe by @two.plaid.aprons

Grape tanghulu

•recipe by lynja @cookingwithlynja

Roz maamar

•specifically the recipe by @fooddolls, couldn’t find their names :(

Cherry Gum Soup

•recipe by @alexisnikole.

•If you want to know how to forage for food in case of the apocalypse, give her a follow.

The specific videos I’m referencing are-

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRumvm1V/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRumnaqm/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRumTubY/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuukh37/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuuB9LJ/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuu1yKL/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRumEvmG/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuudQPj/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuueCnq/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuuBy4n/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRumEDdt/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuuLByQ/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuuAayu/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuur2Ls/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuu1rEo/

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRuuubAH/

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kaunis-sielu · 2 years

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Holmes & Holmes: 2

“Can you tell me more about him?” She asks, “Lady Cecily’s intended I mean.” So you do. You tell her about Sir James Conan, a fine young man to be sure. Cecily is able to be more herself than you’ve ever seen her. While she is quite a few years younger than you, and you grew up in America, you’d met Lady Cecily more than enough times to know that Sir James is a good match. He doesn’t mind that she has a giving heart, one that wishes to be of service to the poor. He was quite impressed with her charcoal drawings and had kept her secret when he’d found out about them. You were truly happy to see your sister’s god-daughter so happy.

Miss Enola too looks pleased when you tell her about Sir James. You’re so engrossed with your conversation, over a proper English tea provided by Mrs. Hudson of course, that you don’t notice the door opening, not until you hear him.

“Enola?” A deep rich voice says.

“Ah, Sherlock.” She sounds slightly disappointed, “my brother,” she tells you, as he enters the doorway, sweeping his hat off of his head when he sees you. It must not be an uncommon occurrence for him to find his sister in conversation with a stranger at any hour of the day because he hardly looks surprised. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Miss Enola says introducing you to her brother, “Sherlock, my client,” she puts the emphasis on my, “A Ms. Irene Adler.”

“Ms. Adler.” He looks alarmed, but only for a split second then he schools his emotions again. “Enola, you cannot take this case.”

“What!”

“She is, she might, you cannot.” He demands, his ears going slightly pink as he refuses to say what you know he’s implying.

“He means,” you say coolly, “I am a dangerous woman. Independent. I might put ideas into your head.” You tell her standing from the chair that you’ve been sitting in. “Mr. Holmes, I can assure you, any dangerous ideas in Miss Holmes’ head were there long before I arrived.” You tell him studying him with as impassive of an expression as possible.

“It’s getting late.” He says and you know he’s attempting to dismiss you, you arch an eyebrow at him.

“I am not afraid of the dark.” You tell him and he sighs, “besides I carry this.” You pull a six inch long hat pin from your hat. It’s thicker than a normal hat pin but when you also use it as a knife that is to be expected.

“Oh! May I?” Miss Enola asks and without looking away from her brother you pass over the weapon.

“Enola!” Mr. Holmes says sounding exasperated she ignores her older brother and the side of your mouth lifts slightly. “Ms. Adler,” he admonishes and you have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing.

“How did you get it so sturdy?” Miss Enola asks with wide eyes.

“Had it made specially, it’s not safe being a single woman in America either but this certainly helps.”

“I am insanely jealous.” The younger woman says turning the hat pin round.

“It’s yours. I have others.”

“No.” Mr. Holmes says through a clenched jaw.

“You’d rather she be defenseless?” You ask arching a brow at him, if looks could kill you’d be long dead by now.

“I rather, she be a respectable woman.”

“I certainly hope, Mr. Holmes, that you’re not implying that I’m not a respectable woman. I did, as a matter of fact, just sing for Her Majesty the Queen two nights ago.”

“You’re a singer?” Miss Enola asks sounding surprised.

“Operatic, I’ve also done some acting but singing is my real passion. Have you ever been to the opera?” When she shakes her head you give her a wide smile, “I shall send you tickets. How many? Just for the two of you?”

“We best invite our eldest brother Mycroft too.”

“I’ll have three tickets sent over.” You promise and Miss Enola beams while her brother glowers.

“Is Mr. Norton also in London?” She asks innocently.

“No, Mr. Norton is long dead.” You tell her and Mr. Holmes stalks across the room.

“I’m so sorry Ms. Adler but Enola and I have an appointment,” Mr. Holmes says plucking the hat pin from Miss Enola’s grasp and handing it back to you as he guides you with a gentle hand at the small of your back out of 221 Bakers Street. You drop the hat pin into the ground so that it sticks straight up out of the floor, then wink at Miss Enola over your shoulder as her brother guides you away. She grins cheekily back at you and you turn your attention to Mr. Holmes. You give him a soft, slow, smile.

“Careful now Mr. Holmes, or I’m going to get the impression you don’t like me.”

“That, is not the only impression I have to offer Ms. Adler.”

“Ah. You mean the rumors that I killed my husband.” You say. He doesn’t respond. “I can assure you Mr. Holmes. While I did not love the late Mr. Adler I was quite fond of him.”

“And his money.” Mr. Holmes mutters, “forgive me.” He says louder as you stand on the stoop of his home.

“You’re not incorrect, his money allowed me freedom after his death. Something not many women can do.”

“Can I hail you a cab?”

“No thank you. I’m only a few blocks away.”

“It’s not safe to travel this late, do you have no chaperone? A maid?”

“I have a chaperone.” You assure him before whistling softly through your teeth. As expected your sleek black German Shepard emerges from the bushes and sits waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.

“This? A dog is your chaperone?” Mr. Holmes looks truly surprised, then he lets out a loud, “Ha!”

“You don’t believe that Duke can protect me?” You ask with an arched brow and he looks quite skeptically over at you. “Duke, protéger.” You tell your dog who darts up the stairs and between you and Mr. Holmes. He uses his butt to move you further from the man and when Mr. Holmes moves Duke growls. “I can assure you Mr. Holmes. I am perfectly safe.” You start down the stairs and when Duke gives another growl you roll your eyes, “Mr. Holmes do you desire to be bit?” You ask arching an eyebrow at him again.

“Of course not.” He says, his voice clipped and dare you say, irritated. You’d been warned that it might be difficult for you to read the gentleman but you’re finding it exceedingly easy.

“Then, I suggest you let me on my way and leave my dog alone.” You tell him starting down the stairs, with Duke on your heels.

Tag list:

@andahugaroundtheneck @also-fangirlinsweden @pagina16ps @princesssterek @valsworldofcreativity @dumblani @inkedaztec @loving-life-my-way @animegirlgeeky @shinycupcakebaker @eralen @sophham @gh0stgurl @wonderlandfandomkingdom @abschaffer2

#sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #imagine Sherlock Holmes #imagine Sherlock Holmes x reader #holmes and holmes story

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carebeardean · 2 years

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moriarty the patriot makes me Soooooo crazy like the entire show is about the value of human life & human connection, the moriarty brothers kill because they value the lives/livelihood of many working class & poor people more than the life of one rich person, & sherlock could so easily become a killer without remorse but john and ms. hudson keep him tethered, sherlocks trusting nature is the only thing that gives william hope that the new world hes creating could become possible..moriarty entire plan hinges on the hope that people will choose to be kind, despite everything in his life leading him to believe otherwise. moriarty & sherlock are always so close to slipping into despair or madness and yet it’s the obsession and eventually love they share that keeps them alive. arguably william only survives to the final problem because of sherlock.

and the cost of human life is too much. william Knows from the start that the price is his soul, & he kills because he can’t stand to see his people suffer. he leaves his world, his impossible hope in the hands of the man he loves, the only light in his world. & sherlock can’t let him die because he loves him, because liam is that bright, beautiful world to him.

the world tells moriarty that he is monstrous, that he is a waste of space & moriarty loves the world anyway. he becomes monstrous to save the people he loves, and he believes his life holds no value, that he can trade it for the saving of another. moriarty the patriot is about revolution, but the revolutionary act of love is when sherlock loves a man who’s life society has decided is worthless. the entire show is clouded with dark fog that clears when two men make the world better by loving each other and I will never stop being insane about it

#the fact that Sherlock’s flowers in the transition card symbolize hope & faith.. I am Biting I am Chomping #moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #mtp #sherliam

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fuckyeahfightlock · 2 years

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Advent Ficlets 2021, Day 2

Star

“How many more?” Sherlock inquired, and there was an unmistakable tinge in his voice that told John he was reaching his threshold for boredom. They’d had three hours of disappointing meetings with potential clients, none resulting in anything Sherlock was willing to take on. Mostly he’d sent them on their way with either an answer to their very minor mysteries; one he’d excused himself from, to call the police, who met the man on the pavement as he left, and took him into their custody with a grateful wave up toward the front windows of the flat.

“Just one more,” John told him. “Woman called Emma, received an inexplicable package in the post and wants you to trace its source.”

Sherlock shrugged lightly and his eyes rolled a bit; John knew he found the premise uninteresting. “Never know,” he said encouragingly. “Could be something.”

“Almost certainly not, but if she’s the last one--”

“Here you are, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” interrupted Mrs Hudson, newly arrived with the client at her elbow. The woman called Emma was expensively but not ostentatiously dressed, with blonde hair pinned up at the back of her neck, an ostrich handbag, and large sunglasses, which she removed and placed into a case that matched the purse. “I’m sorry, dear, I’ve already forgotten your name?”

“Emma Bunton,” Sherlock blurted, and launched himself forward, gently--reverently?--shaking her hand in both of his. “What a pleasure,” he beamed. “An honour!”

“No,” the woman demurred, casting her eyes down and shaking her head in the universal sign for unworthiness of praise or fawning.

“It is for me,” Sherlock argued, and seemed to realise suddenly that he should have already released her hand. “John, take Ms Bunton’s coat.”

Despite having been ordered to do so, John did move to help the woman with her coat, all the while trying to recall why her name sounded familiar. He carried the coat to the landing and hung it on the hall tree; it was pleasantly redolent of sweet, lemony perfume.

Sherlock offered her the clients’ chair and she sat, dangling her handbag from her elbow rather than set even its little metal feet on the floor. With her back to him, John made a questioning expression and mouthed over her head to Sherlock, “Who...?” Sherlock smiled weirdly, whipped his pocket notebook from inside his jacket and took up his pen. John resumed his seat, and Sherlock tore off the page and passed it to him.

“Notes to myself, John, if you don’t mind slipping that in the Foxmoor file,” Sherlock said quickly, then returned his attention to the client. “Now. What can I help you with?”

“I got a very weird package last week, and when I contacted the police they referred me to you.”

Sherlock looked intensely interested, even leaned forward as he listened--a significant change from his earlier assertion the case was likely yet another one too dull for him to be bothered with. John did not remember a Foxmoor file.

“In what way was it weird?” Sherlock asked, strangely obsequious in tone even for a client who intrigued him.

“It was a pair of my own. . .” she hesitated.

John looked at the slip of paper Sherlock had thrust at him.

“Take your time,” Sherlock said.

“. . .my own underwear,” the client said.

BABY SPICE!!!, the paper said.

John laughed, and immediately recognised the poor timing. Sherlock and the client both looked at him with daggers in their eyes.

“Sorry!” John apologised, and pointed at the note. “Foxbury file.”

“Foxmoor flie.”

“Right. Foxmoor file. Just remembered something in there. That case. You remember, Sherlock.” John looked for help; Sherlock went on glaring.

“This seems delicate,” Sherlock intoned. “Perhaps you’ll excuse us, John? Thank you.” He left no pause for protest, so John nodded, tight-lipped, and rose from his chair.

“Nice to have met you, Ms Bunton,” he said. “You’re in good hands. Excuse me.” Not knowing where else to go, John went upstairs to the spare bedroom, which did still contain the bed he and Sherlock had bought bedding for the previous year, though John had never slept in it, but which was mainly used for storage. As such, he began rearranging boxes in their stacks, setting aside boxes of Christmas decorations, gift wrap, and one of expensive silk ribbons of many shades and patterns. After about ten minutes, he overheard leavetaking behaviour and Sherlock must have walked the client out the door, because it took a rather long time for his footsteps to ascend to the extra room.

He swanned in, shut the door behind him and leaned his back against it as if he needed it to hold him up. His smile was closed-mouthed, his eyes shining. He looked almost giddy.

“Starstruck, are you?” John teased. “I thought pop music wasn’t your area.”

“I was a teenaged boy confused about who he should want, who he should be. The Spice Girls were everywhere.”

“So you thought you should want one of them?”

“Naturally. But what I really wanted was to be one.”

“I’d have you for a Posh, frankly.”

Sherlock regained his feet, narrowed his eyes and deadpanned, “That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” The eyebrow went up. John laughed.

“Well, then, Ginger,” John offered, and cast his mind back. “They weren’t really in my orbit but I admit I sought out all of that one’s nude photos.”

“I wanted her to be my friend. But I wanted to be Emma. Darling and small, everyone loved her. Nothing to not love about her. Did you see the film?” Sherlock was pacing in a narrow alley between the bed and the row of boxes John had set out, draining energy.

“No, took a pass on that,” John grinned. “Of all the many surprising things I’ve learned about you since we met, I think this is the most surprising. Sherlock wanted to be everyone’s baby.”

Sherlock hummed, shook his head.

“No, no, don’t deny it. It’s fine,” John assured, and caught him by the hand, pulled him close to wrap arms around him. “I think it’s. . .well.” He felt devilish. “Let’s just say it’s something worth revisiting, in another context.” He lifted his eyebrows, half-joking.

Sherlock was blushing from his open collar to his razorblade cheekbones. John let go a stagey, villainous laugh. “Very interesting. You took the case?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, very good.” John nuzzled against Sherlock’s ear, then whispered, “I recall very short skirts.”

“Mind the edges,” Sherlock warned.

“Put a pin in,” John acquiesced. “I’ll take these boxes downstairs.”

Sherlock cut a glance toward the spare bed, neatly dressed and--they knew--passably comfortable. “We can do that later.”

#Advent ficlets 2021 #Another Party on Christmas Eve #long post #I was so glad to get Star again so I could have them meet a celebrity like with Paul McCartney in the first story

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kissinginkitchens · 3 years

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You Bring Me Home — Chapter One: Flightless Bird, American Mouth

a/n: I've been working on this story for mooonths now and I'm so excited to finally share it with the world! It's heavily inspired by Harry's Behind the Album mini doc, except I changed the setting to Hawai'i because I've personally spent some time there and as they say, write what you know! YBMH takes place in the period between One Direction's hiatus and Harry's first album/tour, but with that being said, this is entirely a work of fiction and some events don't follow the true timeline. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my little story, I hope you love it as much as I do! It will be updated every Friday at 5 PM PST. My inbox is open, so feel free to talk to me once you've finished reading! I'd love to hear from you :) Much love, Mel <3

Pairing: Hawai'i!Harry x Original Character

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 5.5k

May, 2016

Harry watches LAX get smaller through the airplane window and visualizes all of his worries stuck at the terminal gate, their magnitude also diminishing as he takes flight. He sinks lower in his seat and skims through playlists on his phone when a nagging feeling at the back of his mind pulls his attention away from the screen. Looking up from the song choices, he spots a cell phone quickly lowered from his line of vision and a girl with flushed cheeks who quickly averts her gaze. Harry shoots a tight-lipped smile in her direction and goes back to his phone with a sigh. The days when he could roam the streets freely without fear of recognition—or worse, harassment—feel like an entirely different lifetime. He sometimes imagines that he’ll wake up back in his childhood bed as if the past five years had all been a dream, but he never does. In fact, his privacy and anonymity seem to dwindle with each minute of radio play that One Direction receives. It’s a bittersweet pill to swallow, but one he hopes will go down easier with some time in the Hawaiian sun.

His close friend and new manager, Jeff Azoff, had suggested the vacation as soon as the band privately agreed to take a hiatus.

“You’ll go home for a few weeks,” his voice had crackled through the speakers of Harry’s phone. “Visit your mom and Gem, lay low for a while until the smoke blows over,”

Harry mulled it over in his mind, eyes flickering over the rolling landscape outside of the tour bus window.

“Then what?”

“Then you go for a little vacation. The label offered to cover a house in Hawaii so you can start working on the album,”

“Alone?”

Jeff chuckled lightly on the other end before responding. “I mean, if that’s what you want,”

“No,” Harry corrected. “You and Tom should come. Mitch and Bhasker, too,”

“The dream team,”

“And there’ll be a studio there?”

“Yes,” Jeff started, almost hesitant. “But I don’t want you to think about that too much,”

“But you said the label—"

“I also said vacation. Look, Rob said ‘it will all happen in due time,' did he not?”

Harry twisted the rose ring around his finger, tracing over the silver petals and thinking back to his conversation with the CEO of Sony Music, Rob Stringer. Upon the proposal of his debut solo album, Rob had told him that the most important ingredient for a successful debut would be patience. The singer had agreed in the moment, but every day not spent in the studio felt like a test he hadn’t studied hard enough for.

“Yeah.”

“So you take the free vacation,” Jeff suggested. “You go out, live, get some writing material. Maybe mess around with some tunes. And then we come back to L.A. and get to work. But until then, I just want you to focus on taking it easy.”

So take it easy he had. Or at least he had tried to when he was back home in England. Harry quickly grew restless after what felt like the millionth awkward conversation with past friends and acquaintances, all of which eventually led to the topic of One Direction and it’s unexpected hiatus. After one month at home, his mind and journal were full of ideas for songs, things that he wanted to say before he lost his nerve. One night as he tossed and turned in bed, he shot Jeff a text, just two words that would kick off a three month getaway to the Big Island of Hawai'i:

I’m ready.

********

“Sounds great, I'll go put in your order.” Alani offers sweetly, trying not to overdo it with the customer service voice. After waiting on the family at her designated table, she heads back to the kitchen and finds her younger sister, Pua, crouched in the corner taking what appears to be a serious phone call.

“I don’t know, I just saw it!” Her sister cries in a hushed tone. “Where do you think he’s going?”

“Is everything okay?” Alani cuts in with concern.

Pua whispers into the speaker before bringing the phone to her shoulder.

“Harry Styles was just spotted on a plane this morning,”

“Who?”

“The guy from One Direction,” her sister explains with a hint of irritation in her voice. “The band who sings that song you secretly like, ‘Fireproof,'”

Alani vaguely recalls the melody, but she waits expectantly for Pua to elaborate. “And this is news because…”

“Because the band just broke up, so where could he possibly be going?”

"The unemployment office?”

Pua rolls her eyes and returns to her phone call while Alani envelops her in a tight hug.

“I’m just kidding!” Alani apologizes, squeezing tighter despite her sister’s attempts to break free. “I’m sure he’ll be living off of royalty checks until he’s, like, eighty,”

“Get off me, freak!” Pua cries out, finally breaking the embrace.

Alani clutches her chest and pulls out an invisible knife. “Ouch. I’m telling Harry you said that,”

“This is exactly why I don’t tell you things.” the younger sister huffs, storming out of the kitchen through the employee entrance where Alani’s best friend, Maleah, has just arrived.

“Looks like someone forgot to eat their Cheerios today,” she remarks, tying her curls into a high ponytail.

Alani shrugs and leans against the counter. “She’s going through something. Just discovered that boys in pop bands are, in fact, just regular boys.”

“Poor thing,” Maleah frowns. “We all have to learn eventually.”

********

The sky is a blend of cotton candy pink and burnt orange when Alani returns home from the café with a strawberry smoothie in tow. She empties the mailbox and sorts through the various bills and advertisements, but her stomach drops when she sees a familiar return address label. After a quick greeting to her excited dog who waits at the door, Alani bolts up the stairs and quietly shuts the bedroom door behind her. Breathe, she reminds herself before tearing into the envelope and discarding it onto the wooden floor.

Dear Ms. Hale,

We are very grateful to have received your submission to Rolling Stone magazine. However, we regret to inform you—

She doesn’t read the rest, slumping to the floor in defeat. The sixth rejection letter from Rolling Stone lies crumpled at Alani’s feet and she kicks it across the room with a frustrated grunt. She had worked for over two months perfecting her analysis of Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi and its allusions to the environmental impact of urban development in Hawaii. As part of her initial research, Alani had even traveled to both the Royal Hawaiian hotel in Honolulu, which is the famous Pink Hotel mentioned in the song, and Foster Botanical Garden that Mitchell referred to as “the tree museum.” She was certain that her effort and persistence would result in at least a consideration. The second third time's the charm! Maleah had joked watching Alani submit the piece. Six articles in the span of two years, each one facing the same rejection despite the increased effort Alani had put in over time. The fact that the rejection letter hadn’t changed over the course of the two years brings an incredulous smile to her face, and her stomach turns when she considers that the editors probably hadn’t even read her work, anyway. All that effort, she thinks to herself, all that time, for nothing.

“It will take time,” her favorite professor, Dr. Hudson, had reassured her three months after the Joni Mitchell article was submitted. “Every great writer faced countless rejection until that one piece. Yours will come. Keep your eyes open and your pen ready.”

Alani sighs and lifts herself off the floor, choosing to crawl into her unmade bed instead of slumping onto the hardwood. She hears a soft scratching at the door before her King Charles Spaniel, Freddie, pads into the room.

“Come here, bubs,” Alani whispers. He obeys and burrows into the duvet, giving her temple a gentle lick before nuzzling into the nape of her neck.

“You still love me, right?” she asks, voice cracking. “Even if I’m a failure?”

Freddie sniffs her ear in response.

********

“Right,” Harry says, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth as he reads the map. “No, left, sorry,”

“Do you actually know how to read a map?” Jeff teases, correcting the turn.

Harry pouts in response, his brows furrowing. “In my defense, we’re literally in the middle of fucking nowhere,”

“There are worse places to be,” Mitch pipes up from the back seat. “England, for example, where they say things like ‘litchrally’,”

“Very well said, Mitchell,” Jeff Bhasker adds with a fake British accent of his own.

Harry turns to his friends in the back seat with a finger pointed like an agitated mother. “If you lot don’t shut up, I’m gonna lead us to a volcano and push you in,”

“Where are we even going? I forgot,” Tom complains.

“To get food,” his manager responds from the driver’s seat. “I think,”

“Why can’t we just stop there?” Mitch asks pointing to a café pulling up on their right.

Jeff merges into the turning lane quickly without a second thought. “Good enough for me, I’m starving.”

“Sorry, H.” Mitch pats his friend on the shoulder.

Harry scoffs. “You’re the one who wanted poke.”

The Aloha Nui Loa Café is much more spacious than the exterior suggests, yet it still feels cozy. The walls are painted sage green and adorned with various local art pieces, as described by the plaques that accompany them. A skylight fills the center of the room with plenty of warm lighting, leaving the space along the walls in a bit more shade for an intimate feel. In one corner, a hanging disco ball leaves freckles of sparkling light along the walls where the sunlight hits, making the whole image very idyllic in Harry’s mind. As if he couldn’t enjoy the setting more, he hears the beginning of an Otis Redding song that he’s had stuck in his head drift through the restaurant speakers.

“Welcome in!” a voice calls, which pulls him from his survey of the room. His head whips to the source—a girl around his age with wavy, dark hair and honey skin. “For here or to go?”

Harry takes a hesitant step up to the counter. “For here,”

She smiles warmly and pulls some menus from under the counter. “How many in your party?”

“Five.”

“Great, follow me.”

Harry and his friends follow the waitress to the corner of the room under the disco ball and take their seats at the round table.

“My name is Alani,” she introduces herself, setting the menus down. “I’ll be serving you today. Can I get you started with some drinks?”

Harry continues scanning the restaurant while his group orders. His eyes land on the shirt that Alani is wearing, a white tee with the words “Enjoy Health, Eat Your Honey” in blue lettering that surrounds a picture of a cartoon bee.

“Harry,” Jeff says gently, catching his drifting attention.

The singer turns to his manager, who nods to Alani waiting with a pen pressed to her notepad. Harry feels a rush of embarrassment creep across his cheeks and he clears his throat to cover it.

“Just water,” he says, eyes glued to the menu. “Thanks.”

“You got it.” Alani nods, flashing a toothy grin at the rest of the group before turning back to the kitchen. Harry. Her mind repeats, finding a hint of familiarity, though she doesn’t know why.

When Alani arrives at the drink station, she finds her sister staring at her, mouth agape, while Maleah unsuccessfully conceals her laughter.

“What?” she questions, checking herself for any embarrassing stains or smells.

“You were—and he—” Pua stammers. “He was—and then he—”

“That’s Harry Styles,” Maleah translates, her voice hushed as she peers over her friend's shoulder.

Alani turns to steal a glance at the table she just seated, but Pua and Maleah latch onto her and shake their heads frantically.

“Don’t look!” her sister hisses.

Alani smirks, amused at their reactions. “No shit. That’s One Direction?”

Maleah snorts, clasping a hand over her mouth as Pua huffs. “No, dumbass! It’s just Harry. I don’t know who the other guys are,”

“But the blonde guy? That’s not—?”

“No!” Pua and Maleah giggle in unison.

“Okay, geez,” Alani relents. She manages to steal a quick glance at the table over her shoulder, immediately searching for Harry. Her eyes scan over the long, curly hair kept out of his face by a pair of white sunglasses that she had seen on Kurt Cobain once. All of his features are sharp and striking, from his pointed nose and defined jawline to the bright blue eyes. Or maybe they were grey? Alani wonders, trying to remember the exact shade. He doesn’t look anything like the fresh-faced teeny bopper she’d had in mind, the one from a music video her sister had shown her a long time ago. She would have never guessed that the What Makes You Beautiful singer had so much dark ink trailing down his bicep and forearm, though her knowledge of One Direction was very limited.

“What did he order?” Pua questions, her eyes wide.

Alani quickly snaps back to reality and resumes filling the drinks. “A water,”

“Oh my god,” Maleah swoons. “I’m never drinking anything else ever again,”

“I didn’t even know you liked him,” Alani teases with an eyebrow raised.

Maleah sneaks another peek at the table and catches her lower lip between her teeth. “I mean, I didn’t really think so either but look at him. What a fucking dream,”

Harry was objectively handsome, this Alani could admit, but she personally didn’t see the appeal and had a strong feeling that he was just like every other male celebrity. The fact that he hadn’t even bothered to make eye contact with her only served as further proof of what she knew to be true.

“Okay, well, your dreamboat is waiting for his water. So excuse me,” Alani winks, making her way back to the table.

The singer spots Alani returning out of the corner of his eye and the sight of her causes a strange flutter in the pit of his stomach that makes him want to duck for cover. Instead, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and pretends to be occupied with something on the screen.

“Okay,” she greets, setting the drink tray down. “I have a Blue Hawaii, a Mango Mama, two Loco Cocos, and a water,”

The group graciously accepts their drinks with a chorus of “thank you," but the only one under Alani’s scrutiny is Harry. He still doesn’t meet her almond eyes, and though she figured he wouldn’t, she can’t help the inkling of disappointment that washes over her. After taking their meal orders, Alani heads back to the kitchen, checking on her other customers along the way. Harry’s eyes follow her and he observes the way customers light up at her presence, indulging her conversation with laughter. He watches as she lingers by the jukebox in one corner of the room, a detail he had missed in his initial scan, and waits anxiously to see what song she chooses. Baby I’m-a Want You begins softly and Harry feels the corner of his lip curl ever so slightly. Good choice, he thinks.

********

“He’s still here,” Pua muses, peering through the tiny window in the kitchen door. It had been nearly two hours and the five men were still seated around their table cracking jokes and doing a lot of talking with their hands.

Alani doesn’t look up from her bowl of sliced kiwis, offering a hum in response. “And what do you want me to do about that?”

“Nothing,” Pua shoots back. “Don’t bother him,”

“What kind of girls do you think he’s into?” Maleah asks, attempting to peek through the window.

Alani shrugs, bored of the conversation and of thinking about Harry. “I don’t know, but I’ll bet he’s a real sucker for the ones who stalk him while he’s eating,”

“How does he make eating a salad look hot?”

“Can we talk about something else now?” Alani whines, poking holes in a lone kiwi with her fork.

Pua tosses a wet dish rag in her sister’s direction and cheers when it lands in her face. “Go see if he wants more water, he looks thirsty.”

“I already refilled it,” Alani defends. “Twenty minutes ago. I’ve refilled it a hundred times, I’m surprised he hasn’t peed his pants.”

I’m gonna piss myself. Harry thinks, his right leg bouncing to distract himself. He really wasn’t all that thirsty, but he couldn’t stop himself from finishing each glass of water that Alani placed in front of him. He really wasn’t all that thirsty, but he couldn’t stop himself from finishing each glass of water that Alani placed in front of him. Like clockwork, she would return to fill his glass almost as soon as the last drop had been drained, and so what began as a little experiment slowly turned into a bladder hazard. But if the trend was to be trusted, she would be back any minute and he wasn’t going to miss it; afterall, there were only so many ways to casually linger in a small café without making it weird. Unable to bear it any longer, he heads to the restroom and hopes that Alani doesn’t clear their table before he has a chance to see her again.

Harry pads down the back hallway with his eyes cast down at the floor, which proves to be a mistake when he walks directly into another person.

“Sorry!” they both apologize quickly, Harry’s palm taking purchase on the other person’s upper arm.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he offers, finally meeting the dark, mocha eyes already looking back at him.

Alani presses her lips into a tight smile. “Me either,”

Harry’s heartbeat picks up when he realizes it’s her, and he isn’t aware of how close they’re standing until he detects the faint scent of kiwi on her breath. He takes a step back and rakes a hand through his hair.

“So I guess I’ll just—”

“Yeah, sure.”

Green. Alani notes to herself. His eyes are green.

********

Shortly after Harry returned from the restroom, him and his friends settled their bill and headed out. Alani cleared their table and her eyes nearly fell out of her head when she saw the hefty tip left behind. The word mahalo was also left behind on the receipt, underlined twice, and she wondered if it was his handwriting.

Later that night, she settled into bed with her laptop and hesitantly typed his name into Google. As she expected, countless articles about the split of One Direction emerged, most of them speculating what was next for each member. To her surprise, however, Harry’s name seemed to be mentioned more than his fellow bandmates as various sources labeled him “the next Justin Timberlake” and rising star of the group. Upon further investigation, she learned that the demand for information about the elusive Harry Styles was high, especially concerning any possible solo music. No news had yet been confirmed by Styles himself, nor anyone claiming to represent him, but she still wondered if his presence in Hawaii had anything to do with a possible solo project. Almost as soon as she thought it, Alani dismissed the theory in favor of the idea that he was most likely just taking a vacation. And from the buzz that she saw surrounding the news about One Direction, she couldn’t blame him.

The more Alani read, the more she wanted to know, and something deep down told her that his was a story worth telling. Of course, the only problem was that she had hardly talked to him, and there were only so many things she could say about the fifteen glasses of water he downed. There was no way of knowing if she would ever see him again, either, or if he was merely stopping in Hilo on his way to another island or somewhere else entirely. Alani sighed, thinking back to her most recent rejection from Rolling Stone. She knew that there was no possible way she would ever see or talk to Harry ever again, and even if she did, why would he bare his entire soul to a stranger? Still, she let her mind wander through the possibility.

Dear Ms. Hale, the letter would read, we are very grateful to have received your submission to Rolling Stone magazine and are pleased to inform you that your piece on Harry Styles will be featured in next month’s issue. Additionally, we would be honored to have you on staff, effective immediately.

It was far-fetched, Alani knew this, but she dozed off that night with endless ideas swimming in her head.

********

By the third day after his visit, the only trace of Harry is in Alani’s search history. She would have completely forgotten about him if it weren’t for her sister’s constant reminiscing and multiple attempts to rename the house salad to the “Harry Special.” As a result, a part of Alani’s thoughts periodically linger back to that day and the subsequent hours spent on Google that she’d rationalized as research instead of stalking. Somehow the knowledge that she’ll never see him again only adds fuel to the questions still burning in her mind, but a customer clearing their throat while she sorts menus below the hostess podium interrupts her thoughts.

“Welcome in!” She calls, standing. “What can I—”

She stops in her tracks, unable to believe her eyes. Harry blinks and waits for her to continue.

“What can I get started for you?” Alani tries again, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her shock. Luckily for her, Harry had been too focused on choosing his next words to register her mistake.

“What’s in the Honu smoothie?” he asks, mentally kicking himself for asking such a stupid question when the menu just inches above her head clearly spells it out.

Alani hums, thinking back to the times she had made the smoothie herself. “Kiwis, spinach, mango, avocado, and a hint of lime,”

“I’ll take one of those,” Harry says, reaching for his wallet.

Alani punches in the order with trembling fingers and nods. “For here or to go?”

“To go,”

Disappointment fills her chest. Sure, she hadn’t planned on seeing him ever again, but the fact that she did felt like a sign. If she wanted to take the chance, she’d have to do it fast.

“Anything else?” she asks, weighing her options while he skims the menu.

“No thanks.”

Alani makes the smoothie quickly, head spinning. She had spent most of the night after their initial meeting planning out exactly the type of questions she hoped to ask him and what kind of article she would write. She was used to writing about what she knew—artists and music she’d admired for years— but she figured that starting fresh with someone she hardly knew would be a good challenge. Not to mention that it seemed like just the thing Rolling Stone would jump for. Alani finally works up the courage as she finishes his smoothie, but when she returns to hand it to him and hopefully strike up a conversation, his ear is pressed to his cell phone. She holds out the drink and he graciously accepts, giving her a small nod as a “thank you” and rushing out of the restaurant.

Two days later he returns and is seated at the counter, typing away on his phone. Alani feels both a rush of optimism and annoyance at the universe for dangling his presence so unexpectedly. She starts heading over to him, but Maleah cuts in.

“Trade me?” she proposes, eyes wide.

Alani blinks. “Oh, I would but I—”

“Please,” her best friend pouts. “I’m leaving to see my grandparents in stupid California for two months. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to see him again?”

Alani sighs, but gives in, reluctantly exchanging Harry for the family of four seated by the window. A strange feeling settles into the pit of his stomach when he sees that she heads in the opposite direction after a hushed conversation with another waitress. He doesn’t know why she traded him for a different customer, but he takes the hint.

A week goes by without another sighting of Harry and Alani has permanently taken on the role of greeting hostess in hopes of seeing him again. Her heartbeat temporarily speeds up when she sees a long haired customer approach the door, but her spirits quickly fall when the face doesn’t match his.

Another week brings another disappointing realization that Harry might be gone for good. One rainy morning when the restaurant is quiet and only two customers huddle together in a booth near the back, Alani hunches over the hostess podium and doodles on a stray receipt— a sunflower, a crescent moon, and two hearts. The bell above the door jingles but she doesn’t look up, too absorbed in her scribbles.

“Do you serve coffee?”

The familiar accented voice stops Alani’s pen dead in its tracks. She lifts her eyes first to confirm, and then straightens up when she sees that her ears haven’t deceived her.

“Yes,” she swallows.

“Great. I’ll take it to go,”

She slightly deflates, but Harry thinks he’s reading too much into it.

“Actually,” he corrects anyway, just in case he isn’t. “I think I’ll stay for a while,”

Alani flashes a warm smile and nods in the direction of the counter. “Right this way,”

Harry sheds his windbreaker onto the back of the seat, revealing a black and white Rolling Stones t-shirt that makes Alani’s blood pressure rise. A sign, she thinks.

“What do you want in your coffee?” she questions carefully.

“Nothing,” he responds, shaking out his damp hair gently. “Or actually, uh, butter...if you have some,”

Alani blinks, not sure if she’d heard correctly or if there had been some transatlantic miscommunication.

“Butter?”

“Yeah,”

“Like the—”

“Spread, yeah,” Harry confirms. “It’s weird, I know,”

She lets out a light-hearted laugh and nods. “It’s a...unique request,”

“I thought the same thing at first,” Harry confides. “It’s not bad, actually. But maybe I’ve just been in L.A. for too long.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She offers a polite smile and heads to the kitchen where the cook and two other waiters talk amongst each other. Alani is grateful that the restaurant is slow this morning because she knows that it means minimal interruptions to her time with Harry. To ensure this, though, she asks one of the other waiters to cover the podium and returns to Harry with his coffee.

“One butter coffee, free of judgement,” the waitress announces, setting it down.

Harry grins softly, stirring the drink with the spoon Alani provided. “You can judge, it’s alright,”

“I just wanna know why,”

The coffee had been part of a fad diet while on tour in order to boost Harry’s energy on stage and stay trim for the hundreds of photo-ops he would be a part of. He doesn’t know how to communicate all of this to Alani, however, not sure how much she knows about that part of him, so he shrugs and tells a simplified version of the truth.

“I read about this trend a while back, it's called bulletproof coffee. Supposed to get your energy up and I needed it for my job,”

“Which is…” Alani trails off, downplaying the knowledge that she had acquired from Google.

“I make music,” is all Harry says and he takes a sip of the drink to avoid elaborating.

“Anything I would have heard?”

He swallows hard and listens to the faint rumbling of thunder outside before replying. “Possibly,”

“Try me,” Alani challenges.

He narrows his eyes and takes another sip of coffee. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself first?”

“What do you wanna know?”

Everything, Harry responds internally, though he reigns it in. “How you got into waitressing,”

Alani sighs, resting her elbows on the counter across from him. “There’s not much to tell, it’s a family business. What I really wanna do is write,”

“Music?”

“Articles. I’m studying Journalism at UH,”

Harry hums in response, filing the detail away in the back of his mind. “Sounds interesting. You ever publish anything?”

“Not yet,” Alani shakes her head gently, toying with the sleeves of her green University of Hawaii crewneck. “Hopefully soon, though,”

Harry racks his brain for something else to say, but before he can, Alani speaks up again.

“Is it my turn to ask something now?”

He offers a curt nod and stirs his coffee.

“What kind of music do you write?”

Harry chooses to be vague again. “Different stuff. Pop, usually. Been messing with some classic rock, though,”

“Explains the shirt,”

He peers down at the design on his tee and agrees. “Yeah, I guess so,”

“Do you like it?” Alani asks, her eyes begging to make contact with his again. “Writing music, I mean,”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms, tapping his spoon against the rim of the mug. “I really do,”

Alani’s heart pounds. This is her chance, a moment to finally secure her breakthrough piece. She doesn’t know how to approach it, so she opts to dive right in without looking back. The worst he can say is no.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“That’s cheating,” Harry teases lightly. “It's my turn,”

She pouts playfully, but obliges. “Fire away,”

Harry doesn’t know which question to ask first, but when he glances down at the crescent moon inked on her wrist, he decides to start there.

“What’s with the moon tattoo?”

Alani isn’t sure what she expected him to ask and wonders what purpose such a detail could possibly serve him, but she answers anyway.

“Oh, well,” she begins, tracing her index finger over the outline. “It’s kinda the meaning of my full name. It’s Mahealani, Hawaiian for ‘heavenly moon,'”

Fitting, Harry comments to himself. Every detail he learns about her makes him want to learn that much more, from her favorite foods to the last thing she thinks about before falling asleep. Studying her expectant eyes, he suddenly remembers that it’s his turn to respond.

“That’s cool,” is all he says.

Alani doesn’t know what to make of the faraway look in his eye, but she decides to pose her most burning question while he appears to be in good spirits.

“I know this is gonna sound totally out of the blue,” she starts, working past the lump in her throat. “But when you mentioned how you write music, I was just reminded of this assignment I’m working on in my class,”

Harry waits for her to continue, nursing his now lukewarm coffee.

“I’m supposed to write a piece about someone who I don’t know that well,” she continues. “You know, to practice our interviewing skills. And, well, I was just kind of wondering if you might be interested in helping me out—being the subject, I mean,”

Alani had every intention of telling Harry the truth, about how she really planned to submit the article to Rolling Stone in hopes of securing an internship before her college graduation next Spring. But as she started speaking, she quickly realized how it would come off: a complete stranger asking for personal information to submit to a well-known publication. She knew that there was a chance he would shut down and never return, so she lowered the stakes and hoped that this route would be less risky. Was it ethical? Alani hadn’t decided yet, but she would work out the details later. After six failed articles and two years of rejection, she saw a ray of hope and wasn’t going to let it slip away.

Harry ponders her offer for a moment, which confirms that she had recognized him. Normally he would be off-put by such a request, and to a certain extent he is, but there is something sincere in her voice that he trusts deep down. Before he agrees, however, he decides to fish around a bit to test her reaction.

“You know who I am,” he says gently. “Don’t you?”

Alani’s heart drops into the pit of her stomach, not sure what to say next. She hopes with every fiber of her being that she hasn’t upset him, or worse, ruined her chances, so she decides to offer some truth to throw him off her scent.

“My sister recognized you,” she explains. “That day you came in with your friends. I thought they were your bandmates at first,”

This lets Harry know that she isn’t a total stalker, which is comforting, but he wouldn’t have been minded if she were a fan simply engaging in conversation.

“Oh,” he laughs weakly.

“I totally understand if you say no,” Alani offers quickly, trying to smooth things over. “I just thought it was worth a shot. And that it might be more interesting than interviewing our produce guy,”

Harry decides to give her one last scan for any sign of insincerity. He’d always felt that his gut instinct was strong and it hadn’t led him astray thus far.

“An interview?” he clarifies.

“Just one,” Alani promises. “An hour, tops. And you can proofread all of it once I’ve finished, too.”

Harry waits a beat, already knowing his reply, but he wants to see how she will react to his silence. She doesn’t budge, almond eyes set and determined.

“Okay.”

next chapter

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles x oc #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #ybmh #she's here she's here she's here!!!!!

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chiantidinner · 3 years

Text

IZZY

《 Whether solving crimes with a dominatrix was a much terrible idea than introducing her to Scotland Yard, Sherlock didn't know – but figured the contemplation was held too late as the clicking of her heels echoed the hallway. 》

"Lestrade." Sherlock gave a subtle nod as he made his way into the Detective Inspector's office and sat sulkily onto a chair in front of the desk, "I'll have you know I don't enjoy stepping out of the flat for less than a seven. Don't disappoint me or I'll make my way back to the confines of Mrs. Hudson's tea and biscuits."

The detective inspector in question gave a long sigh and ran a wrinkled hand across his face as he watched his bizarre friend brood in the chair. "Yes, this – " His reply was halted as he laid eyes on a skinny but still attractively curvaceous figure in the doorway, quickly flashing Sherlock an open-mouthed confused look.

The woman in the doorway stood still; stance steady and confident, eyes flicking from one man and onto the other, sparkling with what seemed to be amusement, and mouth curling into her usual teasing smirk. It was only when the sulking man stood up that she stepped into the room. "Ah, yes." Sherlock flashed a small – more smirk-like – smile to the former dominatrix and quickly turned to the still shocked and most definitely confused Lestrade, gaping up at the two. "Ms. Adler, this is Gary Lestrade; Lestrade this is Ms. Irene Adler."

"Or Izzy, that's her nickname, apparently."

Upon hearing the last remark, The Woman's stoic, blank mask cracked — eyes widening and narrowing ever-so-slightly across the brow. Though the glint in her light blue orbs betrayed her attempt to compose herself as she glared at the infuriatingly heedless detective. She didn't ask where he got the information – not that she actually wanted to know, but figured he read it somewhere in her file – and actually feared he might erupt into convulsing laughter.

"It's Greg," The grey-haired man abruptly corrected Sherlock and held his out hand for the woman, straightening in his seat but not standing, then addressed her rather more sheepishly than Sherlock would have been... comfortable with, "It's lovely meeting you, ma'am."

Irene finally turned her gaze to the man in front of her and shook his outstretched hand, managing to reply in a purr and a feline grin, "The feeling's mutual, detective inspector."

"Yes, enough with the pleasantries. What was that you were about to say, Gavin?"

***

"I never expected you to be one for nicknames."

Irene raised one perfectly-shaped brow as she set her beige coat down on the arm of Sherlock's leather chair at the detective's – rather poor, she'd say – attempt at small talk, "I'm not."

The detective lowered his mane of dark curly hair as he leaned down and opened his laptop; cocking an eyebrow and slightly pursed his lips, emitting a disagreeing and derisive sound at the back of his throat.

"... Izzy," Sherlock voiced the name slyly and irritatingly leisurely, as if mocking it by the movements of his lips, and risking a glance back to the woman who took her place in his chair. Irene shot him a glare – well, to his back, much to her dismay.

Her distasteful frown then suddenly got replaced by a mischievous little smirk. Gracefully standing from her seat and waltzing in front of the detective, taking the seat in front of him as she purred, "And what do you deduce about that, Mr. Holmes?"

The brilliant man in the seat glanced up from his laptop and saw the challenging glint in the eyes of the dominatrix in front of him. He narrowed his eyes, straightened, and raised his chin as an acceptance of said challenge. He then took a deep breath,

"Izzy is obviously not something that's used presently – and most likely never will; judging from your reaction earlier – therefore, used and made in and from your past; before you became a dominatrix. This was also made by somebody close to you, as most nicknames that begin with the first syllable of the name and end with -ie's are. Parents, a friend, a former lover, perhaps? And don't even try to trick me into believing you have a sibling, obviously you don't."

The detective halted at his deductions and squinted his eyes at The Woman,

"But you weren't only surprised that I had learnt your nickname, you were also angry with me – or irritated. Deem the latter. You wouldn't be cross with me only because I revealed it to Lestrade. No. You're clever enough to realize he won't tattle, but rather, you were cross because you didn't want to hear that name again. And that leaves us with the conclusion that things didn't end well with whomever made it for you. Now; onto who. A friend: You're a dominatrix who is currently on the run and in hiding, and if you do have 'friends' you wouldn't be sitting in my flat now, would you – ?"

"I can leave you here and prove you wrong... but then again, maybe you aren't."

"You won't and I'm not. For a former lover: again, you're a dominatrix; you wield whips and handcuffs in order to derive clients' secrets and use them for your own pleasure and protection. Even if you did have former lovers, you aren't sentimental – a nickname from a past lover wouldn't ensue such a reaction. So, this leaves us with the parents."

He couldn't help the smirk tugging the corner of his lips,

"Tell me, Ms. Adler, when was the last time you met with your dear mum and dad?"

Behind the impressed glint in Irene's eyes and the slight parting of her lips, there was also the faintest hint of irritation Sherlock couldn't help but notice. I've struck a nerve, he thought rather smugly and felt the smallest of grins occupy his features. He shrugged his eyebrows upwards, as one would when expecting a reply.

"One of them is dead and the other still lives, although rather unhappily." She spoke out more hoarsely than she would have liked, "I’ll leave you to decide which is which."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it once more as he heard the husky, soft purr of a voice from the woman upfront,

"But, Dear God, you sure know how to impress a girl."

This turned out way longer than expected, whoops!

I even initially intended this to be adlock!crack but then I figured maybe a real, serious adlock fic (that actually includes both characters) would do good lol.

Anywho, I hope people found this small fic enjoyable! I'd really love to do more. :))

#adlock #adlock fanfic #irene adler #bbc sherlock #sherlock #detective lestrade #greg lestrade #benedict cumberbatch #lara pulver #rupert graves #adlock au #kind of #EDIT: i edited it a bit so that future readers won't sturggle through the hassle of reading through unnecessary sentences lol

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seeingteacupsindragons · 3 years

Note

This person also tries* to do reaches and provides *proofs* and...do not even hesitate to give FALSE proofs (no no, I read the og the sentence wasn't in)

One of their meta starts with "Sherlock is a womanzier and Miss Hudson was supposed to be his love interest" I know when a post begin with this, the following can only be worst but I was curious. And I won't lie, this *conspiracy theorie*, beside that I have proofs, official, that 70% of this person's arguments are incorrect, it made me very uncomfortable for...a few days.

Since that time I also stopped sckroling through tags.

Sorry to make you seeing things like this but I read all your metas and theories and a big majority turns out to be correct over time, so I have great respect for your opinion.

This person is either trolling, very young, or could benefit from a proper reading tutor if they were so inclined to one. Possibly a combination. I got a reply also indicating someone else knows who it is, and one of my poor friends decided to go looking for them and found them quite easily, so. They seem somewhat infamous.

I would also place money on the possibility that they have me blocked. I have no idea who they are and have the willpower not to check. I bet they're related to that person who vandalized the YuuMori TVT page that I had spend a day fixing. Irritating, that.

Ms. Hudson help.

I like to think of it this way: I tend to believe that Takeuchi-sensei is a good writer and Miyoshi-sensei a good artist with a solid grounding in visual rhetoric, and that they have communicated very well. When this bears out correctly, I look like a genius. However, when people believe that they are bad at their jobs and therefore will be inconsistent, they guess things very incorrectly, because their founding belief in their abilities is off.

(I think also people make false assumptions about things and when they guess wrong, they become convinced the author is bad instead of their reading being off, and then this effect snowballs as a series continues).

It's actually very hard to write good meta on a poorly-written series, or on an inconsistent one. It's constantly applying bandaids to authors who don't care about slicing open another wound on you. Maddening.

(I wrote Supernatural meta once, okay, I Know)

I also try to be careful and hedge my best and not speculate too much and when I do clarify that's what I'm doing.

I'm just very attached to canon, so I want to be very clear what's canon and what is not, which sometimes requires also screen-shotting things even in Japanese and explaining my best for an English audience what it means, sometimes, but I do, you know, try to provide enough info that people can follow and believe me.

This is the method I prefer to ground myself in. I think it bears out well. And, of course, I think I'm quite smart, quite well-read, and well-trained in reading and writing and very skilled in both, so I'm good at noticing things and writing convincingly.

Anyway, that's my philosophy I take when writing about the series. I'm glad plenty of people appreciate it.

#fandom wank #Yuukoku no Moriarty #Moriarty the Patriot

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shrlxcked-a · 3 years

Text

experimcnts ╳ molly

THREE MONTHS CLEAN.

Three months since he had seen her. It had been the hardest three months of his entire life.

Getting clean was never easy, but this time had been a Hellish level of difficult. He had been through this at least two or three other times in his life, relapsing back onto the drugs and then getting clean. He had never used quite as heavily or extensively as he had the past two years. He had literally been on the verge of suicide, burning up with such an intensity that no one could bear to witness. Which made the withdrawals so, so much worse. It had been so severe that he had gone onto prescription medication to control the symptoms.

But perhaps the greatest detail of significance: He had done it alone.

When Molly left him, finally, having had enough, he really thought he might slip into the deep end. But just the opposite had happened: he wanted her back so badly that he was willing to suffer through the process of cleaning himself up. Of getting help. He still remembered that day, when she said goodbye, and turned around and left. It broke him. The emotional roller coaster had a lot of ups and downs, but ultimately he had ended up destroying his entire flat in blind, drug-induced rage. He destroyed his ‘meth lab’, albeit a bit violently but it got the job done. He’d collected every syringe and every trace of recreation and burned it up. Everything, he destroyed it, in as dramatic a way as possible. Poor Ms. Hudson had been frightened out of her a mind a handful of times by Sherlock’s screaming and violent destruction of every drug paraphernalia he could find.

Then there was the mental recovery. Sherlock’s least favorite part. Arriving at the acceptance that he was mentally ill and not just using ‘for fun’ had been a long, well-traveled road. It was a long process that involved Mycroft and his parents. Working back through his memories, finding those traumas that were thoroughly buried in his mind palace, and facing them. A very rough, very exhausting and intensive process but when it was all said and done, it had been as though all the pain was lifted off his shoulders for the first time, without the use of drugs. That had been the moment that he felt totally, completely free of the urge to use, for the first time in his life.

So when he stepped onto her doorstep, Molly’s doorstep, clad in his suit and Belstaff coat ( a sight that had hardly been seen for the past two years ) he was, admittedly, nervous. The last time they’d seen each other had certainly not ended on a good note. Sherlock wasn’t sure if Molly even knew about him cleaning up. Perhaps Mycroft or John had told her, but there was no way to be sure. Not a single so much as text had been exchanged.

He knocked, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Her face. Her beautiful face. As she came into view, a soft, gentle smile pulled at his lips. He looked healthy. He looked like Sherlock.

❛ Hello, Molly. ❜

#experimcnts #╳⦁ ⎯⎯⎯⎯ STILL THE ADDICT. ╱ ❨ 𝗏��𝗋𝗌𝖾: 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇. ❩

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sparklyandhaunted · 3 years

Text

Ms. Hudson pushed gently on his shoulder and laughed. “Oh you do remind me of my husband – in the early years, before he went abroad and murdered some poor stripper.”

“Thanks?” John replied, and Ms. Hudson laughed more.

- Misdialed by DLanaDHZ

#sherlock #johnlock #lake house #reading ff

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221bsecrets · 4 years

Text

#215 - A secret lesson

(one-shot, 221 words)

Summary: John and Ms Hudson listen to Sherlock while he gives a lesson to Rosie...

John was going up the stairs when he found Ms. Hudson near their door.

“Ms Hudson…?”

She quickly puts a finger on her lips, motioning to John to stay silent and to listen! John came closer to the door and wait… then he heard it.

“One, two, three, one…” It was Sherlock's baritone voice, covering slightly a classical waltz.

The doctor turns to Ms Hudson with a big smile.

“Is he…?” He asks quietly.

“Yes,” She laughs silently, “For an hour or so… Poor little girl, he’s quite a despot!”

“Rosie darling, you must follow me! You can't do what you want! There are rules!” Sherlock patience was clearly near its limit!

“But… Papa! It’s boring, it’s better when we can dance like we want!” Rosie whines…

“I know honeybee, but must I remind you that you asked me to show you how to waltz because they decided to close the dance like in that old magicians’ movie!”

She giggles. “It's in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire! Daddy is right, you have no knowledge about popular culture!” And to think that all my friends swoon about him because he’s sexy – sooooooo gross!

“Ok, Rosie, one last time and we will open the door so I can dance with your lovely dad…”

John, knowing that he was discovered, chuckles, “bugger!”

Okie Rosie is younger than Molly and at that time Sherlock is older and anyway it’s not a classical dance like in Harry Potter but... but... it’s so damn funny! @barachiki this is super cute!

Beta read by @notjustamumj

#174 of my 221b series (only 6 to go!)

#221b #Parentlock #sherlock and rosie dance #sherlock #Sherlock_221b

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