#recruiter told me 'KEEP THAT HAPPY SPIRIT IT WILL TAKE YOU FAR' YES BUT APPARENTLY SO DOES A BBA

[prorevenge]

Dapper Dan fails to think things through.

Warning: this is a very long story.

I graduated uni a few years back and immediately started looking for a job in my chosen field - marketing.

Marketing entry level roles were thin on the ground, so when I found a role which was hybrid of marketing with sales support, I took it.

The company was a medium sized business which specialized in recruitment, contractor hiring and head hunting. They also subcontracted work for a recruitment technology provider, which matched up perfectly with one of my other passions - technology.

I absolutely loved the role. I got to do all parts of the marketing and sales lifecycle, I got to work with suppliers, event organizers, clients, staff all across the company, meet new people and do really exciting things.

I had two managers - the one who managed the sales team and the one who managed marketing.

The marketing manager was a kindred spirit; the sales manager was oldschool sales. An arrogant and headstrong late-forties man who lived for making deals and boasting about them. Shiny shoed, silver-tongued. I’ll call him Dapper Dan. We were not friends.

For about 18 months, things went swimmingly. I’d do marketing half the time then divide the rest of the time between sales support and billable work. Billable was building custom careers / job sites to host the recruitment system front end. A steep learning curve but with the help of some web dev friends I got pretty familiar with simple site builds.

Being tech-aligned meant I was always looking digital first, bringing the company into the age of social media, SEO / SEM, website optimisation and multi channel marketing.

Dapper Dan sneered at such things. He saw digital as a waste of money. However, we were always able to justify the spend on digital by offsetting the billable website work.

The marketing manager eventually moved on to bigger and better things. Rather than promote me or hire in a replacement, the company moved the marketing responsibilities to Dapper Dan.

Dapper Dan’s changes were immediate and far-reaching. He removed the digital budget. He required that 50% of my time would be sales support, to ‘better enable the sales team’. He incorporated the billable work with his own team’s revenue. He rewrote my annual objectives to align purely with sales targets, rather than marketing. When I voiced my objections, he took me aside for a ‘friendly chat’ and told me if I didn’t like it, I could always leave.

Naturally I went and complained extensively to the departed marketing manager over drinks. After listening sympathetically for 45 minutes, she held up a hand, said ‘Stop’, and shared some life advice. ‘Each job pays you twice. You get your money now, that’s your wage. You also get experience now, that’s how you get paid in the future. So. Are you still getting paid? Yes? Are you still learning? No? Figure out how to keep learning, or leave.’

Taking the advice to heart, I busted my ass for the next year. I worked on digital outside of office hours. I made friends with the tech provider’s support and dev teams. I went to developer group meetups, attended conferences, studied for and acquired industry qualifications. I joined the national marketers and digital marketers group. I dug through blogs, articles, emailed people, took every opportunity to cross skill, upskill, to learn.

And I sat with a smile on my face in the sales meetings as Dapper Dan delegated dumb do-work to me so his team of sycophants could make the company’s growth figures look spectacular. Spectacular they were, to the point that the company was acquired, and Dapper Dan betrayed me.

You see, managers have the discretion to assign a pool of shares to high performing staff. The shares have no real value and can’t be traded, but in the event of a management buy out, they would suddenly have value - and quite a lot of value.

Dapper Dan felt it appropriate to reward every SALESperson in his team with a generous parcel of shares. As a SUPPORTperson, I would not be the beneficiary of such kindness. I’d had a verbal agreement with the previous marketing manager that the pool would be shared across the entire team so was pretty shocked to discover I’d been excluded from the pool.

I queried him on it, per the previous agreement, and he said (verbatim) ‘Well, an verbal agreement is only worth the paper it’s written on. You don’t make any sales, you haven’t built the business, you don’t get a cut’.

'If you didn’t like it,' he reiterated, 'you're welcome to leave.'

That is EXACTLY what I decided to do. Except I didn’t tell him.

The way the contract handover works in this instance is that all staff cease employment with company X on one day. The following day, they commence employment with company Y. Annual leave is paid out and begins to re-accrue at the new employer. Other arrangements - salaries, incentive arrangements, length of service - may be transferred to the new employer.

About six weeks before the handover, Dapper Dan passed me my new contract. I waited a week, came back with some enthusiastic queries on the new benefits, which took him two weeks to follow up.

Three weeks away from drop date, everyone’s frantically running around getting all the deals as close as possible to closing and employment contracts are the last thing on his mind. I go back to him, I tell him I have a couple more things I need to check out and I’ll email them through to him before I sign it.

A week passes, I fire off a couple of really complex questions around the transfer of benefits. He obviously forgets about them, then in the week of the handover, catches heat from the HR team about the outstanding contract and pulls me into a meeting room to berate me about not having signed the new contract.

I explain I’m waiting on his feedback on those specific points before I’ll commit, that I don’t want to be disadvantaged moving into the new role, call out the lack of a share option as an example. Clearly frustrated, he drops the words I’ve been waiting for. ‘If the signed contract is not on my desk on Friday, don’t bother coming into the office Monday.’ He paused for dramatic effect, and reiterated ‘I mean it. You won’t have a job.’ I replied that I completely understand and that I’ll have everything he needs on his desk by close of business Friday.

On Friday afternoon, Dapper Dan leaves the office early to attend his normal ‘client networking’ visits which typically involve long lunches and alcohol.

At 4.45pm I save the final set of forecasting and reporting to the share drive, send an email to the IT team passing over access to the Marketing lastpass account which contains the global database of usernames and passwords for all digital assets (including client sites), an Excel workbook containing my reporting macros and the location of all my documentation. I redirect my phone to Dapper Dan’s desk number, lock my laptop and leave it on his desk along with my ID card.

Over the weekend I update my work history and add my contact details to my LinkedIn profile, switching it to 'Actively Searching' mode. I figure my holiday pay will cover me for a couple of weeks of downtime before I have to go diving back into the workforce.

On Monday, I’m enjoying a long walk in the spring sunshine with my dog, who’s incredibly happy that his human has not disappeared down the driveway at 0720 per normal. We stop for coffee at a local cafe and my phone begins to ring. It’s one of the sales drones at old company; I ignore it and thoroughly enjoy the freedom of being able to amble through a park without anywhere to be. The phone buzzes another eight or ten times by the time I get home. The poop has well and truly hit the windmill.

I check my voicemails, ignoring those I know from my previous employer and returning the phone calls of two ex-clients to let them know that my contract has ended and to check in with Dapper Dan for work in progress - or contact the technology provider for support requests.

Shortly afterwards I got a call from a bemused contact who works at the technology provider who’s been fielding support calls that I’d normally handle. He listens with increasing interest as I explained the situation, then tells me he’d call back shortly.

Ten minutes later he’s back with the Head of Product on the line, asking about my lunch preferences. She arranges to meet me at a nearby Thai place. Over a delicious red duck curry, she cheerfully describes the wonders of a career as a contractor. She also mentions the day rates for highly qualified, industry-certified staff, mentioned that Tech Provider were really struggling to find such staff and gives me the number of a senior manager who may or may not have been on Tech Supplier’s preferred supplier list. I call the recruiter on the way home.

Meanwhile, my collection of voicemails from Dapper Dan was growing by the hour as he came to grips with the breadth of the problem that he’d generated. At some point in the late afternoon, HR must’ve clicked to what had happened and I received a polite SMS from the personal number of the regional HR Directory asking if I was available for a quick chat.

I call through and discussed the options presented to me by Dapper Dan on Friday, and that I felt I had no option but to follow his instructions. They probed for more information and it became apparent they were unaware that Dapper Dan had pulled an ultimatum without first engaging HR. They then informed me that to benefit from the sale of my shares, I would need to transfer to the new company and remain in their employment for a full year.

When I explained that I had no such share options, there was a full four second silence. It transpires that this, too, was not adequately communicated to HR. I mentioned that I’d appreciate it if Dapper Dan could discontinue his voicemails to me as I found them unprofessional and had no intent of recommencing employment under his management. We ended the call politely, I wished them all the best and regretted the conversation had to happen under such circumstances.

My contract for Tech Provider came through via the PSL agency at 11pm that evening and was signed and returned the following day.

I was deployed to client site that Wednesday.

Post Departure... I met up with one of the old IT team at a conference three months after it all went down. He was ecstatic to fill me in on what had happened.

The first notice anyone got of it was the service desk asking who they should route my LastPass account to and why I’d be passing it around. One of the techs came up to my floor to find me, then found an empty desk. Asked around for where I’d moved to and noone knew. That was the first call, from one of the Sales drones trying to locate me.

The tech went to Dapper Dan’s desk and found my laptop with my ID and post-it note taped to it. He put two and two together, went back downstairs and checked the access logs and realised the last time I’d logged in was Friday. He then locked my account for security purposes and went to HR to check if there was a leaver form.

HR checks, no leaver form AND a great big red cross next to 'employment contract received'. HR calls Dapper Dan, who’s not in the office. Dapper Dan says ‘No, contract should be on my desk, it was on there on Friday, I’m out on the road at the moment, give me till lunch time and I’ll sort it out’. Obviously thinking that I’m grandstanding. Starts to call me and leave messages then gets progressively agitated as he realises I’m not coming back.

When he gets into the office, he can’t find the contract either so he goes to HR and ‘explains’ what has happened, says I have been stonewalling them and it’s cool, he’ll get it sorted, it’s between me and him. HR says erm, no, this is our thing now, and the HRD sends me the SMS.

Shortly after my phone conversation the HRD walks into a sales meeting and very abruptly pulls Dapper Dan out. They disappear into a meeting room where it may only be assumed that Dapper Dan was required to spell out exactly what had occurred and address the comments that I had made. I suspect he came completely clean at that stage.

Dapper Dan was subsequently reamed as only HR and senior management can ream a manager who’s f*cked up. He was demoted, decoupled from Marketing, his budget reduced by half and a new, separate Marketing function created.

His team were collectively put under review and forced to carry out their own reporting, tracking and metrics, which lacked the coherence and consistency that I’d been able to deliver. This reduced the capacity of the team. A couple of them left and they missed out on some key deals.

In the fallout they completely dropped the ball on the client website builds. They went to market to try and find a resource who could fulfil these builds, and Dapper Dan was reportedly astounded to discover that experienced technical marketing staff are both hard to find and expensive to recruit.

They were unable to fill the role and the builds were taken back inhouse by the tech provider, who now had an experienced resource to deploy (me). I ended up working on three of these at full utilisation rate, which was paid by the new company. I’m pretty sure Dapper Dan would’ve seen the funding arrangements for these and would know my day rate - which is substantially higher than his.

Much later... As the sales lead, Dapper Dan had to bear the displeasure of his superiors for the full twelve months before he could claim his share payout. It would’ve been a really, really shitty twelve months for him. He resigned within two weeks of the anniversary of the purchase, and the company enforced a six month notice period and another 12 month no-compete clause. Any benefit he would have received from the share payout would have been consumed over that 12 months unless he switched industries or moved cities. Last time I saw he was on the job market.

As for me? Happily living the life of the contractor. I get paid for the hours I work and I work the hours I want.

My old marketing manager is now VP of something at a large multinational. I’ve used her speech several times when giving young, frustrated staff career advice.

TL;DR Old school sales manager attempts to call my bluff. Hilarity ensues.

(source) (story by DanishProtestPig)

#prorevenge #by DanishProtestPig #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #revenge story

[maiden-of-wolves]

Ariel & Fox - Persistance

“Meeting” Scene Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

This is a bit of a side-track where I brought in my Herald/Inquisitor Venna to talk with Fox; then with Ariel. I felt like I needed to balance out that last part since Ariel’s acting strangely in this AU.

After sending for Ivan to join him at Haven, Fox went into the small tavern to find Venna. He cheerfully waved off Varric’s invitation before tapping the Herald on the shoulder. His voice was low and serious, though the smile didn’t leave his face. “We need to talk.”

That wasn’t good. Venna quirked a brow as she glanced over at him. She hadn’t seen Fox this serious since they first met him. “Sure,” she answered. She’d have to toss the game to talk, but she’d barely put down anything. “Don’t hold anyone up, Varric,” she insisted, gesturing to the dwarf with a smirk. “I’ll be back later. Divvy up the hand and my pot.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back, but not quick enough for a round.”

“Alright,” he sighed. A quick look around the table and he added, “you heard the Herald. Pot and cards up for grabs.”

Venna stood and laughed at the chaos of arms and cries of ‘not fair’ or something of the sort echoed across the tavern. She headed to the door where she saw Fox waiting. “What do we need to discuss, Fox?” she asked, curious, but not yet letting her concern bubble to the surface. For all she knew he just needed her to get a specific ingredient.

Fox gestured for her to walk with them and took his time phrasing what he wanted to say. “Ariel is unwell. It’s a condition familiar from the Circles in Minrathous and Asariel.”

Venna walked with him without hesitation, though the fact that he seemed to be at a loss for words was concerning. She kept stealing glances at him, even in between the small nods of acknowledgement to passing soldiers or support staff that knew her personally. What he finally said was unexpected, to say the least. Her brows shot up at the news. “She’s sick? I thought… she’s been isolating herself. How did she come down with something new?”

“It is… Something you do not catch from others. Like wasting sickness, it comes from the Fade or from within. Regardless, it can coerce her, much like a demon, to cause harm to herself. I have written my mentor for treatment, but it will take time to arrive.”

Venna’s mind struggled to put together the pieces. How had she missed this? “What are the signs?” she asked, though didn’t give him any time to answer before she spoke up again. She reached up to tangle her fingers in her stray strands of hair from her bun and furrowed her brow. “I… feel quite upset that I didn’t see something so wrong. Should I spend time with her? I was respecting her privacy and she seemed happy that she completed a project recently. She’s a little cavelier with her health, but other than that she seemed alright.”

“Time with her would be good, but she must have something to do. She believes life to be all accounted on some kind of ledger and will be angry that you’re ‘charging her’ with your help.” Fox held up his hand to stop any interruption. “I know you’d never consider it such, it is part of her sickness. It’s not about happiness or finishing projects. There’s no sense to it, at times.  The signs are…” He sighed. “People hide it because of the ledger. She said she had it, I think not expecting me to know what it was.”

Venna looked very confused by his description. Even though he’d held up a hand to stop her she was a bit too off-kilter to have tried to interrupt. It did help to have her refocus on what he was saying. “She must have really broken down if she told you about it, by your account. What happened?”

“I can only speculate. She thought I was angry with her, threatening, as the trigger, but many things lead to it. Homesickness, poor physical health, she was being treated for it before, at her home. I don’t know with what, but some of the treatments can have withdrawals, like Templars without lyrium - that could well have caused it.” He tugged on the edge of his braid. “I’ve set a few cats to watching her - ensure she sleeps the night through.”

Venna nodded through his description, trying to wrack her brain for memories that would have tipped her off. “Well, she was very intimidated by Bull, despite apparently being glad we recruited him and speaking highly of him. Not sure if it was the height or what. Always walked on eggshells and jumped when he called to her. But I do remember, especially when she first came here, that she would always ask for things to do. And she became terribly upset when she couldn’t read or write. Perhaps it’s just been building since then…”

“It comes back to that ledger. She believes she does not deserve basic kindness and consideration and the illness becomes worse when she cannot ‘pay back’ that ledger.” Fox sighed. “I’ve seen a great deal of it, I’m afraid.”

That sounded like a very stressful way to live. Venna wondered idly for a moment or two just how she got that mentality instilled. Fox said it was an illness, apparently of the mind or spirit given the symptoms, but it seemed like more than that. “Would it be worth trying to talk to her about it, do you think? Ariel doesn’t do things for others expecting repayment. Though I suspect she may have been if I asked her to do it, considering your ledger explanation. Would it help to tell her it’s okay not to keep account?”

“I haven’t a clue, to be honest. I wouldn’t have even known of the tincture if not for my mentor worrying on my behalf when I was transferred to Minrathous. My studies were all on elemental magic or fear.” He sighed again and tossed his braid over his shoulder before he pulled it out. “All I know is that saying things are alright or will be better or that ‘it’s just an illness you’re actually fine’ will only make it worse.”

“Well, thank you for sending off for the tincture,” Venna sighed, wondering how in the world Ariel had kept this from her. Her mind was already engraving the ‘do not say’ list into her brain. “You said she’s sleeping? The cats would tell you otherwise, right?”

“Still in her cabin, at least. My ability isn’t complex enough to have one come tell you, unfortunately.” Fox shrugged. “As I said, my studies were focused elsewhere.”

The Herald laughed at the idea of the cats actually talking. “I’d be thoroughly impressed if you could actually get a cat to speak Common!”

Fox chuckled in return. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes,” Venna admitted. “But that thought was too amusing to not share.” She offered him a broad smile for a moment before letting it slip away. “Thank you for telling me about Ariel. I think I will let her sleep tonight. I’ll bring her a banquet tomorrow. She does seem to perk up about food. Sweets in particular, but those are rare around here.” A small part of her wondered why she was telling him so much about her friend, but it seemed harmless so she let it go.

“If my mentor sends any advise on what to say to her, I will pass it along,” Fox said.

Venna left him with a low nod of understanding and semi-formal goodbye. She had a game to get back to, and it seemed that Ariel would be safe enough on her own for the time being.

The morning came without any further unexpected interruptions. Well, aside from the now normal constant inquiries on Venna’s time. She had to tell Leliana that she was going to be unavailable for a little while and to take any inquiries for her until then just to get a moment’s peace. Wandering down to the temporary kitchens she scrounged for leftovers from the breakfast she’d partaken of a couple hours earlier.

“Anything sweet left over from last night?” she asked one of the attendants.

“I dunno…hold on,” one answered, shuffling around in the prep-stations and looking through several small containers. Finally something garnered a small ‘ah!’ from them as they pulled out a singular round cookie. “With a dash of spice. It’s from yesterday should still be good.”

“Great! Thank you~” Venna replied, happily taking the offered confection.

Several people offered to help her carry the plates she had balanced along her arms and held on her palms but she gracefully avoided their hands and insisted that she could handle it herself. She got a bit of a confused look from Cullen, but once he realized where she was going with all that he actually asked his lieutenant to take over for him for a moment and hurried to catch up to her.

“Are we bribing Ariel with food now?” he asked, small smile and lighthearted tone making it plain that he was joking.

“In a way…” Venna admitted, not sure if Ariel would appreciate her telling the inner circle about her illness. “She’s not feeling well, or so Fox tells me. I thought she’d appreciate breakfast in bed.”

“That’s more than just breakfast,” he noted, still lighthearted but the smile had vanished. He was concerned. “Has she not been eating again? She looked alright the other day when she was poking around the blacksmith for leather scraps. Certainly had a lot of energy to be ‘discussing’ the matter with smithy staff.”

Venna wasn’t sure how to reply. There wasn’t a good answer without explaining her illness. “Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t,” she finally answered. “But these plates are getting heavy, Cullen. I should get moving.”

“Of course,” he replied with a nod, letting the discussion drop. “Should I at least come with you to get the door?” he asked after a moment of eying her plates. “Since it’s not that far,” he added quickly, since it seemed as if she didn’t want to keep him.

Venna knew that she could open the door on her own with a little touch of magic, but doing so with just the movement of a chin would be difficult and she had a feeling that she’d need to conserve her energy for Ariel. “Yes, thank you,” she accepted after a moment. “But please return right after. I’m sure the recruits are already goofing off without your oversight.”

The Commander knew she was teasing at that one. Their recruits might not have been the best soldier stock to be pulling from, but the majority were very dedicated. This was to protect their loved ones, their homes. Passion was not something they lacked. He offered the Herald a smile and followed behind her for the time being.

When they reached the cabin door Venna stood aside and nodded to the door.

Cullen knocked at Venna’s gesture, but there was no answer.

“Ariel? I’ve brought food,” Venna called. “Can I come in?”

There was still no answer. Both the Commander and the Herald exchanged concerned glances. Venna gestured to the door again and Cullen opened it for her. Peeking her head in, Venna immediately noted that Ariel wasn’t at her desk. A few moments more examination revealed a suspiciously large bundle of blankets on her bed, however, which answered the question of where the woman was. “I think she’s just still asleep,” she sighed.

At that, a rather fluffy brown and white cat strode up to her and meowed loudly. It sat politely on its haunches, eyes gleaming as it flickered its gaze between the plates. “Oh, so you’re hungry too, hm?” she asked it, a small smile parting her lips. The meowed again in response, insisting with a few smaller mews afterwards.

Cullen struggled to tear his gaze from the bundle of furs on the bed. No one slept in a ball normally. Those that did were terrified or inconsolable, at least, and either of those was of great concern. “Do you need help putting those down?” He offered to Venna once he finally pulled his gaze away, trying to keep his mind focused on something that he could deal with.

Venna shook her head, carefully stepping around the cat. “No, I can split them up,” she replied. “Thank you, Cullen.”

He nodded, but hesitated in leaving. While Cullen knew he probably wouldn’t be of any assistance, he tried to think of a way to help. He could fight a physical demon, but trying to console someone? Especially if that someone was a mage with a knack for dodging questions she didn’t want to answer with biting, sarcastic commentary? That was… not his forte. Hopefully Venna was better at it and Ariel would feel better soon. That worry relinquished for the time being, he nodded to Venna and took his leave. He was careful with the door for once, doing his best to close it as quietly as possible.

Venna sighed when she was left alone with Ariel. “Are you awake over there?” she asked. There was no response as she set down two of her plates on the desk. Venna had to adjust one so the food wouldn’t slide off. Her desk was messy enough without breadcrumbs or patty grease.

“Are you dead?” Clearly the new question was made in jest as she wandered over to the bed.

It wasn’t until she was almost to the bundle that it shuffled a bit and a muffled sound came out that was short enough to have been a ‘no’.

Venna sat down on the corner, quickly joined by the earlier feline companion. He, Venna noticed, stretched lazily and then promptly snatched a slice of bacon from one of the plates she put down. Thankfully he also went to the floor to eat so she didn’t have to shoo him to prevent pieces of meat sticking to the furs on Ariel’s bed. “Am I going to have to talk to you through three layers of blankets?”

Another noise filtered through the blanket, long and low like a drawn-out groan. Slowly, the base of the mass moved and hands slipped out. Some shuffling seemed to decrease the size of the lump and finally Ariel sat up, hugging the blankets around her shoulders.

Even though she knew it probably wasn’t the best response, Venna couldn’t help her immediate expression of concern that verged on pity. “Well, you look like shit,” she said, managing to offer a smile to make it clear that she was just teasing her.

“That’s helpful,” Ariel muttered, “‘cause I also feel like shit. So for once, my insides match my outsides. There’s harmony in the universe.” The sarcasm was heavily-laden with her depression, but at least it was a relatively normal response from her.

Venna licked her thumb and reached out, wiping at Ariel’s face. “Did you cry all night? You’ve got tear streaks…”

“Not all night,” Ariel answered, brows furrowing as she pushed away Venna’s attentions after the first few wipes. “Maybe. I dunno. Not like I was paying attention to the time.”

The Herald sighed again. She had a feeling there were going to be a lot of those in this interaction. “I brought a bunch of food,” Venna reminded her friend. “Can you eat with me? Your cat’s already started.”

“It’s Fox’s cat,” she answered, though her eyes did shift to the food.

Okay, so that wasn’t an inroad. Surprising, considering how much she had seemed to love interacting with the animals around Haven. Venna tried a different tactic and reached over to the closest plate to pick up a biscuit. “Bread’s still soft. They made it early this morning.” To emphasize the description, she bit into it and the remaining edge of the baked good flaked slightly while she chewed.

Ariel couldn’t deny that she was hungry. Still, she only reached over to a bacon slice and brought that back to her mouth. “I can’t have the bread,” she said before biting into the bacon. Even though she was talking, it wasn’t clear if it was even aimed at Venna.

“Why not?” The Herald asked. “I thought you loved bread.”

“I’ll get fat,” she answered flatly after swallowing her first bite. Without elaborating, she continued to eat.

“From one biscuit?”

“You brought four plates,” Ariel retorted.

“No just of biscuits,” Venna reminded her.

“Then I’ll eat the meat.”

“Would you turn this down, then?” Venna asked, pulling out the cookie she’d gotten. “I saved it for you. It’s from last night.”

Ariel eyed the treat, focus finally clear and sharp for the first time since they’d begun talking. The Herald waved it around like one would a cat toy and Ariel’s eyes followed but she didn’t say a word or move otherwise.

“Well....” Venna began, a tiny smile twisting the corners of her lips. “If you’re not going to eat it…” She let her words trail off and slowly brought it close to her own lips.

But when she opened her mouth to bite it had been snatched out of her (admittedly quite loose) grip. There was no teasing commentary as Venna watched Ariel enjoy her treat. The first bite had taken out half the cookie already and she greedily stuffed the other half in her mouth as soon as she’d swallowed the first mouthful.

“I take it that means it’s good?”

“It’s sweet. Tastes like cinnamon, too…” Ariel murmured through pursed lips so she wouldn’t be subjecting Venna to the sight of food as she chewed. “Like Mom’s snickerdoodles…”

“Snickerdoodles?” Venna echoed, quirking a brow. “That’s a strange name.”

“I know, right?” Ariel answered, finally able to swallow the rest down so she could speak properly again. “Dunno what the story is behind the name, though.”

“Sometimes you don’t need to know,” the Herald said with a small shrug. “It’s a cute and funny name for a tasty treat. Sounds just fine to me.”

“I guess…”

The pair settled into a semi-comfortable silence. Venna had already eaten, but she would periodically take bites from a biscuit to encourage Ariel to do the same. While she often eyed the bread, she never took one. Instead, she nibbled plaintively on more bacon slices.

Once it became clear that Ariel was merely humoring her, Venna sighed and spoke up. “Why are you worried about getting fat?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if I’m hungry?” Ariel replied back.

“No. Because you will almost always eat if given food.”

“Which would make my ‘worry’ about getting fat not so much of a worry as an inevitability.”

Venna outright rolled her eyes at that. “Not with how hard you work yourself. But why does it matter to you if you do? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t!” Ariel found herself snapping. She put the slice that she was eating down on the plate gently, taking in and slowly releasing a breath. She hadn’t meant to snap. “You’re always like this,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her friend’s general body shape. Venna opened her mouth to ask what Ariel meant, but her friend barrelled onward. “Thin. Pretty. Beautiful, frankly. I’ve seen you eat a plate piled high with goodies and there wasn’t so much as an inch difference in your waist or thighs.”

At first, Venna wasn’t sure what to say. Certainly the truth of ‘it’s just the way I am’ wasn’t going to help. After a few moments, however, an idea came to her. “Meanwhile, you can cry your eyes out or get covered in dirt and all you need is a hankerchief.”

Ariel tilted her head and nibbled on her lower lip in thought. “I don’t understand—”

“And that!” Venna gasped, gesturing at Ariel’s face. “Your little head tilt is unusual and really cute!”

Ariel’s face flushed and the biting got worse. “I don’t mean to—”

She refused to let her friend talk. “And even though you nibble away at your lip it always looks perfect.”

Ariel started to look away and Venna grasped her face just tightly enough to force her to look at her but hopefully not so tight as to scare her. “People are who they are,” she said quietly, watching Ariel’s eyes to make sure she wasn’t frightened. She leaned forward, putting their foreheads together for a moment and closing her eyes. “Just because you aren’t like me or anyone else here doesn’t mean you’re any less pretty or worthwhile.” Ariel didn’t say a word, the only indication that she was even breathing was in the feel of her breaths on Venna’s collarbone. “Okay?” Venna asked, leaning back and offering her friend a smile.

Ariel couldn’t find the words, so she simply nodded. She tried a smile, but it was a tiny thing with no teeth. A strangled laugh escaped her throat as she pulled up her hands to rub at her eyes. The sheen that had developed was quickly wiped away.

After a few moments of shared relief, Ariel leaned over and grasped a biscuit. She looked over at it, as if evaluating whether it was actually a good idea.

Venna’s brows shot up, but she wasn’t about to actually comment for fear of setting them back.

Screw it! With an oddly triumphant expression, Ariel took a big bite of the baked good. A smile spread across her lips and her eyes closed. It was a stupid thing to be so happy about, she knew, but for once that didn’t stop her enjoyment.

The Herald chuckled before reaching out and patting her head. A little awkward to do given that Ariel was two inches taller than her and that was entirely in the torso, but she managed. “I’ve got to get back before Leli’s overloaded with requests,” Venna said with a small sigh as she put her hand down. “Varric’s got another game going tonight. I know you don’t win much, but it’s supposed to just be fun. You’ve been missing out on a lot of good stories.”

“Have I now?”

“It’s supposed to be Bull’s turn tonight.”

“Turn for—”

“Stories, of course.”

“Oh, so I’ll miss the great Varric Tethras spinning wild tales?”

“Not if you start coming regularly.”

Ariel could only offer a huff of a laugh at that reminder as she finished her biscuit. She went quiet and focused on her desk for a few moments before shrugging off the furs and getting out of bed. “I have a project to start on,” she said, pausing only to take stock of where the cat was and leaning down to pet him as she walked by. “But I think I’ll go.”

“You think?” Venna pushed, standing up but not yet following as she watched her friend.

“You’ll be there, right?” Ariel asked in return, turning around to look at the Herald.

“I do my best not to miss them. Don’t slip out if you don’t see me. Sometimes I’m late.”

“Sure…” Ariel didn’t seem at all convinced and wondered if maybe Venna thought she would stay no matter what if she just showed up. For now, though, she settled back down in her ever-familiar chair. She scanned over what she’d written in Trade the evening before. It seemed so sure and crisp. Much different than her normal chicken-scratch.

“You’ve already gotten Trade down, huh?” Venna asked, having leaned over the side of the tower of books next to her.

Ariel jerked, taking in a sharp breath at her appearance. It didn’t make sense why, and she inwardly chided herself for it. “Not really,” she admitted, looking to Venna. “Just enough to get the point across, maybe.”

“But all you had were the lessons you took notes on from Josie and Leliana, right?”

“And those took weeks. I didn’t want to take any more of their time since they both have so much to do anyway.”

Venna bit back the comment she wanted to make about her not being a burden. That wouldn’t help. “But didn’t you also give Leliana that cipher?”

“My writing, yeah.”

“She often references its continued success at the war table.”

Ariel blinked, expression shifting into confusion. “Really?”

“Yes,” Venna assured her with a smile. “It’s given us a extra layer of protection and she says that later, when we’re larger, it’ll help weed out spies because it takes a while to learn.”

“Huh…” Ariel leaned back in her chair, uncertain how to process that. “Well, I’m glad it helped, I guess?” she offered after a few moment’s thought.

As she went back to her writing, she realized that she was working slowly. It wasn’t simple like last night and she wondered why. Maybe she didn’t care so much how it turned out? Was she more focused?

“What is this project, may I ask?”

“I wanted to write down everything I knew,” Ariel answered simply. “In case anything happens to me.”

It was Venna’s turn to be confused. Fox’s description of her illness echoed through her brain suddenly. The illness can, like a demon, coax her into harming herself. But surely Ariel wouldn’t do that. There was no reason to and she was giving her something to focus on. “Why would anything happen to you?”

“Because there’ll be a battle. And I’m not good at battle.”

“Other people are,” Venna reminded her gently. “You’ll be alright. We’ll make sure of that. But I appreciate the thought. If you’ve been exposed to too much magic we’ll just consult that until you’re better. It will be helpful.”

“That’s me,” Ariel replied. “A helper.”

Venna wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not. “I’m going to leave these plates here, okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” Ariel replied, though she didn’t pause from her concentration on her newest project.

“That way you have no excuse for not eating.”

“Right.”

“Alright then. I will see you at the game tonight. Tavern, like always.”

“Yup.”

Even when Venna reluctantly moved to the door Ariel continued working. She only moved when Venna waved at her from the door, but it was only to wave back with the hand that wasn’t writing. It was only when Venna sighed that Ariel stretched to grab a biscuit from the plate that was balanced on the stack of books next to her. At least that was a good sign.

#my writing #co-authored #tk-duveraun #Fox #OC: Ariel Grace #OC: Venna Lavellan

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 8

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 8 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

A/N: For everyone who needs a pick-me-up today re: Leonard Snart, here's a happy chapter.

———————————————————————————-

He calls Lisa. "Lise," he says.

"Tell me you've made up with Mick," she says, right off.

"Can't say that, but I'm working on it. If I wanted to subtly tell someone he's both priceless and a hard-headed idiot -"

"Get him a diamond," Lisa says immediately. She likes shiny things; that's why she's his go-to on these things. "Hardest substance, that sort of thing."

"I get him diamonds all the time."

"Diamonds you then sell," Lisa points out. "Get him a special one. Ooh, then run a lightshow through it! Images of fire."

"...that would be cool," Len admits, but now he’s thinking of other uses for a diamond. Yes, a diamond will work just right for what he’s planning. "Is there a diamond large enough for that, though?"

"Sure, there's plenty of them," Lisa says. "Actually, I think I saw a flyer just the other day...lemme just dig it up...ah! Here it is. Kandhaq Dynasty diamond, one of a kind, coming to the Central City Museum next month. Positively gigantic, and it's in Central. Your favorite."

Len smiles. "Perfect."

He plans his next heist with care, though he recruits whoever's willing to do the job instead of going through his and Mick’s usual careful recruitment process. The people don't matter – he's planning on paying them off with the proceeds of other jobs anyway. The diamond, whether they sell or keep it, will be Mick's to decide on.

That's what you do with gifts.

The day of the heist is beautiful and everything's working shipshape and on time. They've stopped the convoy with the diamond en route to the museum, he’s got the nitrogen to freeze open the door, the guard has been disabled but not hurt, it's all good –

Until something goes wrong.

A burst of red light and yellow lightning comes out of nowhere, zipping down the streets horizontally, moving too fast for the eye to get a proper fix on, and it comes right at them. Something - Len can't tell what - shoves them all down, causing total confusion, only to leave them alone and spirit away one of the guards when he’s (unnecessarily) shot by one of Len’s now-panicking crew.

Len hates waste, but he knows when a job’s gone bad. Time to go before whatever that was comes back.

He pulls his crew out of there and hustles them back to the warehouse they’ve been using as a home base.

“Now,” he says, looking at all of them and seeing the guilty looks on their faces that suggest that this turn of events isn’t as much of a surprise to them as it is to him, “why don’t you fill me in on what I’ve been missing in Central these past few months?”

“You were out of town,” one of them says with a shrug. “If you’d been here, you’d know –”

“Which is why you should have told me,” Len says, his voice hard. “Now’s the time to make up for your earlier missteps. What is it?”

They don’t know.

All they can tell him is that it’s a new phenomenon that’s been seen around Central, a flash of light, a flash of lightning, that goes around and messes people up. Mostly criminals committing crimes, actually; never fatally, just shoves them really hard or delivers them places they don't want to be, like the CCPD.

They tell them that there’s been a lot of weird stuff happening in Central, actually, ever since the Particle Accelerator explosion nearly a year ago – people gone strange, things happening without explanation, abilities that defy logic – and then this started and now everyone's on high alert.

This new phenomenon, only a few weeks old.

This burst of lightning that seems to be stopping crime all over the city.

They call it the Streak.

It's an awful name. Who the hell thought of that? For shame.

Of course, Len's crew also think that this Streak is some sort of new force of nature, like a will-o-wisp gone mad, which is obviously ridiculous. Their own testimony reveals that this Streak is stopping crime, and stopping crime means deciding what is crime, and deciding means sentience.

And sentience, as far as Len knows, means human.

Len pulls the footage from local security cameras and – yes. There it is.

Len’s got a good eye, and he can figure out what the others haven’t yet.

The Streak’s not a phenomenon.

It's a man.

Just a man, though admittedly one moving faster than the limits of reasonable possibility.

No, wait. Len's wrong. This is not just a man.

This is a superhero.

Len feels the adrenaline rush of a new challenge. He can’t help it; he loves it, he loves the idea of it, he loves the sheer ridiculous reality of it. A brand new puzzle to solve, a new obstacle to overcome, a new hurdle to jump, a new game to play. All brand new and interesting and exciting, and, best of all, this new puzzle is a superhero just like in the comics Mick loves so much. How wonderful.

How perfectly timed.

Len can’t wait to play this brand new game.

But only if he has Mick by his side.

And for that, he needs to get that goddamn diamond, and no Streak - superhero or not - is going to stop him.

"Lisa," he says into the phone.

"Yeah?"

"How's Mick?" Len had sent Mick over to keep an eye on Lisa, nominally, though in reality Lisa was babysitting (Mick-sitting?) to make sure Mick didn't notice what was going on until the job was done.

"Still moping, but he did make me dinner yesterday. So – improvement? Or possibly he just couldn’t bear to see me order cheap take-out again."

"Well, I mean, I guess that's something...? Anyway, I've got something of a research question for you, best engineer that I know."

"I’m the only engineer you know. Yeah?"

"What do you do if you've got something moving too fast?"

"Apply duct tape."

"Lise."

"Not an option?"

"No. Too fast for that. Far, far too fast."

"Hmm. Get something cold, then."

"Cold?"

"Yeah. Atoms go faster when they're heated; they slow down when they're cold. Like the heat death of the universe – colder and colder, slower and slower. Why do you ask?"

"Thanks, sis," Len says instead, and hangs up.

Wasn't that asshole Bertolli trying to sell STAR Labs stuff a few weeks back? No one had taken him up on it – Bertolli is a known rat, selling decent shit sometimes, but he'd turn the info that you had bought it into his next sellable commodity, and at any rate no one wanted anything to do with STAR Labs after the Accelerator.

But he'd said something about temperature themed weapons...

Sure enough, Bertolli is still selling, and starting to get desperate with it, offering to take Len back to his warehouse. Len’s not sure why the guy needs a warehouse when he only has a few items, but whatever.

Two guns – but the first one Len sees and goes towards isn’t cold, no.

It’s a heat gun.

Perfect.

Len’s still smirking when he tries out the cold gun. It works like a dream; far better than any of his other plans to stop the Streak, though some of the others were probably worth elaborating on further eventually.

“So, how many people know about this?” he asks.

“Just the two of us,” the guy says, and his voice is strangely shaky.

“Boss! He has a gun!” Kiki yelps.

Len spins and points the cold gun at the goddamn rat, who is in fact pulling a piece out. Not just a piece. Standard issue Santini, as recognizable as a cop’s gun.

This is an ambush.

“No,” Len says. “Just me.” And then he fires the blast of cold straight at Bertolli, grabs the box with the heat gun, and hightails it the hell out of there just in time before a positive hail of bullets pour through the door, spraying all over the area they were both standing a minute before.

Yep, definitely a Santini ambush. Practically a classic - as usual, the Santinis never had any intention of letting their rat survive their baited trap. And they wondered why people didn't like working with them...

“You mentioned the gun but not the guys outside?” Len asks Kiki as they go out the back door. He wonders idly how he’s pissed off the Santinis today.

“Forgive me,” she says miserably, bowing a little. “I did not think to check beyond the immediate area–”

“It’s okay,” Len says. Mick always had someone run a full perimeter check, or did it himself, but it’s unfair to compare. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yes, boss.”

Time for a test drive.

Oh, look, a local theater with a daily matinee showing.

Perfect.

Len goes to the museum to case out the diamond. He makes sure he’s as obvious as obvious can be – he even takes the goddamn McFeeny Cow Savior tour twice, and no one takes that damn thing twice, so if that doesn’t get the police called on him, nothing will.

Sure enough, the police come, and with them –

The Streak.

Len retreats, smiling, to the theater, which is just letting out.

Turns out that Len’s suspicions are correct – as soon as he gets inside the theater, the Streak comes for him, slowing down enough for Len to see him clearly. Yes, the Streak is indeed a man.

Apparently a young man. In a red suit.

God, seriously? A superhero in a red suit? Can you get more cliché?

If the kid’s been reading the same comics Len has, then – and here Len raises his gun, smiling – Len’s going to have a hell of an edge.

The theater really does make a perfect spot for a superhero ambush. Multiple exits, plenty of people all going in different directions – based on the speed Len’s estimated the Streak is running at, he can’t empty out the whole place without losing his focus. Therefore, if Len is firing at people, the Streak will prioritize saving them - and if he’s focusing on other people, he can’t focus on attacking Len, giving Len plenty of time to study his reactions and figure him out.

Len aims his shiny new toy cold gun at the various fleeing people, focusing more on testing the Streak’s running capability than on intending to cause actual injury; after all, these people did nothing to him, and he has no intention of causing collateral damage when he just ripped his crew a new one over doing the very same thing to that guard – and then killed one of them who tried to back out, which seriously, the guy should've known better than to try. At least Len got lucky and the asshole didn't turn ghost over it.

Playing with the Streak's the most fun Len's had in months.

It’s great fun.

Well, it’s great fun until someone tries to shoot him. And misses. What the hell?

“Behind you!” calls a ghost lingering in one of the seats, not one Len knows. “The usher!”

Len turns and aims at the now-fleeing would-be assassin, some amateur asshole with another Santini gun, and this time he aims so that the Flash won’t be able to speed the bastard away in time.

That bullet tore Len’s fucking coat, and he’s not dying before he makes up with Mick.

…also, Lisa would kill him if he made up with Mick as a ghost. Not that he can become a ghost. But Lisa would still kill him if he got injured, because he wouldn't be able to keep himself from making the joke about it.

Len waves at the helpful ghost in the seats, who beams and waves back, then heads out of the theater before the Streak can get over the surprise.

Len’s gotten everything he wants out of that particular encounter, after all. He got to try out his new gun, he incurred no collateral damage (except the guy that shot him, fuck that guy), and, best of all, he’s now got a solid grip on what makes the Streak – the kid seriously needs a better superhero name – tick.

“What’s a good place to destabilize a runner?” Len asks a passing ghost as he meanders away from the theater through the alleyways of Central City, twist and turns that make it impossible even for a speedster to find him.

“Uh, a carousel?”

“Does Central even have one of those?”

“Man, I don’t know, I’m from Chicago.”

Len frowns at him. “Why’re you here, then?”

The ghost shrugs. “Dunno. Felt like it.”

Len shakes his head. Weird. He’s never met an out of town ghost in Central before; usually they stick around where they died and he only sees them when he goes to where that is. Mick excepted, of course. As always. “What’s your regret?” Len asks, curious.

“Not saying good-bye to my wife,” the ghost says promptly. “We lived together, worked together, owned our business together, did everything together – and then I took a different way home one night, to surprise her, but it was late and the road was wet and, well. That was it.”

Len might be feeling a bit sentimental about partners right now, so he tosses the guy some life, just enough to strengthen him for visibility. Enough for a goodbye.

“Use it well,” Len tells him, and his voice echoes a little strangely, but the guy straightens up and nods, his eyes avid, turning and rushing away.

Okay, that was definitely weird.

Ugh, Len doesn’t have time to deal with his curse taking a brand new twist. He’s got a partner to win back.

“Julie?” he asks the air, wondering if she’s near enough to – ah, there she is.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Place to destabilize a runner. Find me one while I get the diamond. Feel free to take a poll.”

Getting the diamond from the museum is easy. See, Len might prefer complicated plans that let him get in and out with the goods clean and without any evidence that he was ever there, but he didn’t start out that way, and he knows the value of a good smash-and-grab as much as the next guy. If you don't care who sees you do it, then it's always the easiest way to go about it.

Len’s not bothering with finesse this time.

Because damnit, he is getting that diamond.

Len’s fall-back plan – bribing the museum curator to put the diamond on display despite Len’s obvious attempts to case the place and then going to grab it later in the evening – works like a charm.

The whole thing goes easy as pie, actually. His cold gun lets him smash through the doorway like he's going through glass – he freaking loves this gun and he’s going to keep it even if he doesn’t have to fight speedsters after this – and a few words and an intimidating stance are enough to get the guard turning and bolting.

The diamond is just where it was supposed to be.

By the time he smashes the glass and grabs it, Julie’s back.

“Majority say a train,” she reports. “Consistent pattern, but unstable enough – you could knock him off his feet.”

Len smiles. “Perfect.”

Normally Len avoids the train-tracks, which are a rich gathering place for suicides and crashes and misery, but he’s feeling pretty damn pumped up today.

He’s got the diamond, he’s got the cold gun, he’s got the heat gun, and he’s about to bag himself a superhero.

Mick’s gonna be so proud.

The Streak comes after Len, just as Len knew he would. Not one for forward thinking or pre-planning, this Streak.

Len destabilizes the train and watches with amusement as the poor kid rushes to get everyone off the tracks, stopping afterwards just long enough to catch his breath – and for Len to freeze him in place with a well-placed shot of the gun.

Now it’s time to end it.

Though Len’s gotta admit, now that he’s managed to freeze the Streak in place, he feels kind of bad about just offing him, then and there.

Kid’s probably got a ton of regrets, what with signing up for superheroism. If Len kills him, odds are he’ll just have to put up with him as a ghost, and that’ll be a pain. Maybe he should let him go.

Besides, if he lets him go, he can bring Mick with him next time he wants to face off against a superhero. Mick’ll enjoy that even more than the diamond and the heat gun.

Well, maybe not more than the heat gun.

But how to let the kid go now while still saving face?

“Let him go!” a voice shouts behind him.

Len turns – and stares, jaw falling slightly open.

“This is a prototype cold gun,” says the kid wielding the lumpy, massive, unshapely device. There’s a handful of others standing behind him, helping him hoist it up. “Four times the size, four times the power. Unless you want a taste of your own medicine, I’d back the hell up.”

Julie floats over to examine it. “It’s a vacuum with some LED lights,” she reports.

“Definitely,” another ghost says. “I worked a story that sold these. Definitely a vacuum.”

“Lemme see,” another one says, floating up. “Oh, wow. Is he really trying to use that as intimidation? He’d better roll a nat-20, that’s all I’m say.”

“You like D&D?” Julie says brightening. “That’s awesome!”

Right, Len needs to get out of here before he gets distracted arguing with ghosts, and possibly helping people roll up new character sheets. Now is not the time.

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” Len points out to the kid. He’s walked enough newbies through the process that he knows that the kid’s first few attempts are highly unlikely to be fatal.

Even if he wasn’t talking about shooting Len with a vacuum cleaner.

The kid swallows, but barrels on forward on nothing but sheer bravado. “There’s a first time for everything, Captain Cold.”

Captain Cold?

Who is -

Holy crap, is that supposed to be Len? Is that his supervillain name? He has a supervillain name!

Okay, that’s just plain awesome. Len clearly needs to keep these stupid idiots alive just long enough to get Mick his own superhero name.

Supervillain name.

Whatever.

Oh, what the hell, he’ll give the kid his nat-20 roll. “You win, kid,” he informs the Streak. “I’ll see you around.”

He turns to go.

“Hey, leave the diamond!”

Len shoots the kid with the vacuum a skeptical expression. “Don’t push your luck.”

And then, diamond and guns in hand, he goes home.

There might be a bit of a spring to his step. He’s not admitting anything.

The way the ghosts crowd around him to try to get high off the cheeriness he’s letting off might be admitting something, but he shoos them off when he gets to the front door.

It occurs to him that he didn’t use to have quite so many ghosts crowded up to him – and they’re not unquiet ones aiming for a handful, they’re friendlies, just wanting to grab energy emanating off of him. He’s not sure when that happened.

Well, whatever. He’ll worry about it later.

Right now, he’s got Mick to think about.

Len licks his lips and goes inside. Mick should be back by now.

Sure enough, Mick’s in front of the TV.

“Mick,” Len says.

“Hey, Captain Cold,” Mick says, turning to smile at him. A real smile, with a spark of amusement in his eyes; it’s been too long since Len’s seen that. “You end up beating your superhero?”

“He lives to fight another day,” Len replies. “Mick. Can we talk?”

Mick’s brow wrinkles. “If it’s about the jobs –”

“It’s more than that,” Len says, and brings out the heat gun, popping open the box and placing it on the table in front of Mick.

Mick leans forward to examine it. “This is…”

“A heat gun,” Len says. “Heat, to match my cold. It, uh, shoots fire. Via high powered waves of heat. It’s for you.”

For all of his protestations to the contrary, Mick’s not actually all that slow. “You want me to be a supervillain with you?”

“I want you to be by my side again,” Len says. “I want you to be by my side, always, for better or for worse, through every screw-up, your mistakes and mine. I want to have every part of you. I want to share your life, and you to share mine.”

Mick swallows. “Lenny,” he says, obviously going for humor. “That sounds a bit like –”

Clearly, Len’s going to have to be blunt about this.

Len gets down on one knee.

“Len!”

“Mick,” Len says, aiming for calm and probably missing. The only thing he knows about Christian wedding traditions he knows from television, but it’ll have to do. He pulls the diamond out of his pocket and offers it up. “Wanna – would you,” he corrects himself, “do me the honor of marrying me?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mick says with feeling, which is less good than Len was hoping for (yes, let’s do this thing) but not as bad as he was fearing (I don’t think this is a good idea, maybe we should rethink the whole partnership thing). “You remember that I’m dead, right?”

“So what?” Len says. “I found your original birth certificate. We’ll just tell them you look real good for your age, and skip the part with the death certificate. People do it with identity theft all the time.”

“Your marriage proposal involves identity theft?”

“Well, yeah. As you said, you’re dead; it makes things tricky. You gonna give me an answer or what? My leg’s killing me here.”

“Oh, for the love of – yes, yes, get up already.”

“That’s a yes to the marriage, right?” Len asks, getting up, Nora stepping forward out of the wall to grab his hand to help hoist him up, stealing just enough energy to take his hand. He only has eyes for Mick, though.

“Yes,” Mick says, flushing. “I guess. Since you went supervillain for me, you moron.”

“I thought I was an idiot?”

“You’re both,” Nora opines, then smiles. “Congratulations, both of you. You’re handling it much better than the time I proposed to my husband.”

“...this is better?” Mick says dubiously.

“You said yes,” Len points out. He’s grinning and can’t seem to stop. “Went pretty well in my book.”

“She said husband,” Mick argues. “So he said yes, too.”

“Oh, he did. After about five minutes of hyperventilating,” Nora says, smirking. “He’d planned a nice, quiet proposal after a romantic dinner. I ended up finding the ring first, so I did one of those big surprise proposals – you know the ones, with a flash mob and the local cheerleading squad and all that.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Nearly gave him heart palpitations. It was amazing.”

“I can’t have heart palpitations,” Mick points out. “I’m dead.”

“Dead and engaged,” Len says.

Mick’s face melts into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Dead and engaged. Guess I am.”

“And no one can say I didn’t get you the biggest rock.”

“Wait. Is that why you stole the stupid thing?!”

“I was making a point.”

“About what? You being an adrenaline junkie klepto? I already knew that!”

“You being as hard-headed as a goddamn diamond, that’s what!”

“Hey, you’re the one who just offered to marry me.”

“And I meant it, too. Doesn’t mean you’re not a stubborn little –”

“Oh, just kiss already,” Nora says.

#dccoldwave #leonard snart #mick rory #lisa snart #captain cold #heatwave #my fic #deadfic #nora allen #barry allen #the flash

[the-apocryphal-one]

I binged all of the anime because I got a fourteen day free trial for it and if I start slacking on watching something I never finish it because I get distracted easily and don’t want to get charged.  I’m a cheapskate.  So yeah, I didn’t take it in small chunks like I probably should have.  

BUT ANYWAY, it forced me to watch Chiaki die again.  Except this time it’s worse!  And then we see her wondering what happened to her video game buddy as she’s rapidly bleeding out on the floor and he’s unsympathetically staring at her.  THAT’S ALWAYS FUN.

From what I can tell, the anime’s kind of controversial with fans, and I can definitely see why.  The brainwashing thing was cheap.  I don’t actually dislike the idea, but it was made far too potent an it should have been.  Junko could have used a combination of brainwashing and pushed them over the edge with her own ideological indoctrination.  

But one really big issue I had with it and don’t want to give a pass, was it made the ending of the second game almost completely pointless.  There was always a threat of every character (barring the player character) around you dying, regardless of who they are, or how helpful to the plot they may or may not be.  With the last episode, they just toss that out the window and go “Everyone’s alive!  Don’t ask us to explain it.”  The second game’s cast surviving still retaining their old personalities and memories through pure force of will?  Okay, fine, I’ll take it.  It’s not too out there and it gives us more closure.  Like you said, it’s cheesy, but I’ll take it.  It doesn’t really take away too much from the ending of the game.  But the anime just revives everyone?  SERIOUSLY??  And not only that, they killed off Kyoko just to bring her back to life?  Why?  What was the point of that at all?  I remember how Monokuma and Makoto in the first game keep saying how it wasn’t like some manga or anime, and once someone was dead, they stayed dead, and everyone had to deal with it.  Oh, the irony!   Death isn’t treated at all like it was in the games and considering how much of a big part it played in them, that’s kind of a big deal.  I’m all for happy, even if at least somewhat unrealistic, endings and usually don’t get as upset over “Disney endings” as other people, but even I have limits on how much I’m willing to roll with.  I can see people arguing with “they deserved a happy ending,” and I won’t deny that at all, but this was a little too much for me.  I can understand why people like it but it’s just too happy for me.  With any media as dark and grisly as DR3, I don’t like happy endings like that too much.  And then they didn’t even bring back Chiaki?  Come on, if you’re going to bring everyone back to life, why leave out Chiaki?  Oh well.  At least we have Ibuki.  I’m still going to pretend it didn’t happen.

For the things I liked, though…

Izuru Kamukura was really cool, and the writers did a good job of writing him.  He unironically said “memes” so that automatically makes him more likable. I’m aware of the actual meaning of the word, but considering how memes are the language of the internet, there’s no doubt the fanbase got a kick out of it.  I wish we saw more of him.  And I wish we got to see Hajime/Izuru more in the Future arc.  That would have been really nice.  I’d like to have seen the weird fusion of the personalities between Hajime and Izuru.  But how did his hair grow so long suddenly?  Was one of the things they did to him make his hair grow out?  And how did they make him lucky?  That’s some technology they’ve got if they can make you arguably luckier than Nagito through surgery.  But yeah, seeing Izuru was amazing.  All things considered, it makes a lot of sense why he’d be so bored and apathetic about everything.  Izuru’s great.

I like the “game” in the Future arc and the idea of the forbidden moves.  That was a really neat idea.  Kyoko’s forbidden move was pretty dumb because of how pointless it was, but the idea of it was really neat.  I wish Makoto & company wasn’t thrown into another killing game again, but they did something a little different than that so it wasn’t as boring as it very easily could have been.  I’m really glad that you told me to watch the two arcs at the same time because the color palette and overall tone is way too dark to sit through twelve episodes of.

I’m pretty split on the Despair arc.  I liked it starting out but when mind control started becoming such an important part of the plot, it started going downhill.  Like I said, I don’t think the idea of brainwashing needs to be taken out completely, just nerfed.  It would help Junko manipulate so many people to her side so quickly but wouldn’t be able to control their minds.  I thought brainwashing in DR2 seemed to be used interchangeably with “indoctrinating” but it can be used in this context too.  Being able to control people’s minds seems to not mesh too well with what Junko said on how she was able to convert people.  I went back and watched a few snippets of the sixth trial and while nothing too explicit, they don’t exactly seem to be implying the same thing.  There is one thing that blatantly contradicts the second game–in DR3, Junko is able to recruit Izuru by just taking advantage of his boredom, but in the second game, she says that she, quote, “broke his spirit.”  There’s no reason Junko would lie about that.  When she lies for kicks like that, she immediately confesses once she gets the reaction she wants.  You could stretch it but ehhhh.  I’d talk about a few other things that could have been taken advantage of, but the mind control brainwashing was one of the worst parts of the entire series for me.

On the other hand, the Despair arc added to Hajime’s character and added even more to his relationship with Chiaki.  I liked it a lot, and seeing them play video games with each other was sweet.  It was even sweeter when she hung outside of the reserve students’ part of the school waiting for him.  You’d think Hajime would have told her he wouldn’t be around anymore.  

I don’t have very much to say on the new characters.  I feel like I should have cared about them more, but they didn’t do much for him.  Yukizome was fine and had some nice moments with her students but that’s about it.  The “mastermind”’s idea was so dumb, it actually took me a while to figure out what was going on.  The only characters whose arc did something for me was Ruruka and Seika.  I think Sakakura being in love it Munakata was supposed to be a plot twist?  It was so obvious it’s hard to tell.  Oh, and Mitarai exists.  I cannot name one character trait he has because I forgot about him.

I know why they couldn’t, and why they didn’t, but DR3 should have focused on the pre-existing cast.  All of the characters are already set up.  Introductions were minimal, and people are familiar with them.  Newcomers would already be mostly lost (and from the reviews, they certainly were), so why not go all out?  Better completely lose everyone not familiar with the series than give us new characters who have to have their arcs go through so quickly.  So many new characters in just 24 episodes was way too much for me to remember.  Or care about them.  Or at least for me.  

I promise, I enjoyed the anime and I want to re-watch it in the English dub before my Funimation free trial expires since it’s apparently an official abridged kind of thing and Kyoko’s final line was an outtake.  That is way too funny to pass up.  There were a few big problems (there’s probably more but the mind control and the overly happy ending were the biggest ones for me) but it didn’t nearly destroy it for me.  I think the set up for the tragedy at Hope’s Peak pretty well.  The actual slaughter was a little bit rushed, but it was still good.  And gory, but it worked.  Izuru blankly watching everything go down just to get some kind of entertainment was…yeah.  It pretty much tells you all you need to know about him.  It makes perfect sense why Junko would lie about the Hope’s Peak Tragedy, and it certainly makes more sense for such an apathetic person not to do something like that.  When the explanation behind it was first presented to us, I thought Izuru just lost his mind just because he was nothing.  He was built to be nothing but a figurehead with a bunch of talents and he got sick of it.  I’m completely fine with the different explanation given to us.  I want to talk about what other stuff I like about it, but I just plain enjoyed it, and want to re-watch it soon.  After I watch the anime of the first game, of course.

I could complain about it some more but I don’t really feel like saying so many negative things about something I liked. XD

Glad you enjoyed the anime! I did too! And yeah, it is pretty divisive among the fandom, but don’t let haters ruin it for you and vice-versa. If you liked it, you liked it.

Yes how could they watching Chiaki die again sucked. And in such an awful way too. At least we got to see Izuru cry a little but that’s like the only happy part of it. That and the fact he didn’t kill her (like I and everyone else thought). Cinnamon roll did not deserve that :(

I’m actually kind of okay with the brainwashing thing? I do think it could have been done better, but we only have Junko’s word that she’s charismatic enough to turn people into a terrorist cult, and the class was so unified at that point she couldn’t have converted them one by one (look how fast they noticed Mikan was missing). Even Izuru didn’t buy that “despair = wonderful!” shtick and only hung around because he was bored. I think a mix would have worked better–like Mikan and Nagito are so unstable I can see Junko being able to push them over the edge, but people like Ibuki and Nekomaru? They’d probably have needed some kind of mind control.

They kiiiiiiiind of explain it with Hajizuru using his Ultimate Everything to bring everyone back and undo the brainwashing. As for Kyoko: @hopeymchope​​ actually wrote a post explaining that Kyoko’s fake-out death was meant to serve as a parallel to Chapter 5 of the first game. Rather than sacrificing Makoto to save herself, she sacrifices herself to save Makoto, and that showcases her development. And in that vein, yeah, I see why they did it. I just wish they hadn’t included so many other fake-out deaths, or that they hadn’t done it in the first place since they wrote themselves into a corner.

(I am right with you in the throes of saltiness that they didn’t bring Chiaki back. So salty I’m writing a fic that does hello shameless self-plugging)

The fanbase went nuts when he first said “memes”. There were memes about him saying memes (speaking of, that scene is even funnier in the English version). But yes, Izuru Kamukura ended up being one of the best parts of the anime. He was written really well and got some good character development. It shot him right up to one of my favorite characters. Not bad for a guy who got maybe five minutes of screentime in his source game.

Yeah, I also wish we got to see more of “fused” Hajime + Izuru. The little we did see was really cool.

Nobody knows how his hair got so long so fast. It just…exploded out of his skull. It is one of the unanswered mysteries of DR (along with how it always looks like it’s in a shampoo commercial. Seriously, those locks have volume). Ditto for how you magically implant luck into someone.

Monokuma Hunter was a neat game. I remember when the anime was still running, people had a lot of fun guessing the character’s forbidden actions. There were also some funny jokes about them (like Kiyotaka being the mastermind because Makoto couldn’t run in the hall). I think I like Future Arc less than Despair Arc simply because they don’t let you get attached enough to the newcomers, or else make it really obvious when they’re going to off someone.

I actually buy that Junko was lying (or at least exaggerating) about her abilities and how she swayed everyone in the second game, since her goal was to drive them into despair and possess their bodies. So making things look as bad as possible to further that goal is something I can see her doing. In a different vein, I took Junko’s line about breaking Izuru’s spirit to mean she thought she’d broken his spirit, and never realized he was more interested in watching the hope vs despair conflict than in despair.

Yeeeeeeeeees the Hinanami was so cute, one of the highlights of Despair Arc. And seeing more Hajime was great, especially pre-SDR2 Hajime! There’s an amazingly marked difference between how he acts when he thinks he’s a “nobody” and when he thinks he isn’t, cool to analyze. Hajime actually didn’t know he wouldn’t be returning from the project, so that’s why he didn’t tell Chiaki.

Yeah, a lot of the newer cast didn’t stand out to me. Just about the only ones I liked were Seiko and Koichi. Chisa’s okay at times, and…that’s it. Just wasn’t enough screentime for the others. Ahahaha yeah, Juzo being gay was supposed to be a twist, but half the fanbase had guessed it by then. Ryota is…ugh. Do not like him. And the less said about the mastermind the better.

I think Izuru does have some pent-up resentment over how everyone’s used him (his dialogue in Chapter 0 sounded pretty damn bitter). But I also like the fact they made him a neutral observer rather than snapping, it actually serves to contrast him pretty well with Junko. They’re both geniuses, perpetually bored, and seeking a way out of it–but whereas Junko gets off to despair, Izuru doesn’t. He doesn’t enjoy suffering, while she does, but he also doesn’t care enough to intervene. And while he can see the unpredictability of despair, he finds value and interest in hope too, while Junko just thinks that hope is stagnant. It made him a much deeper and more interesting character compared to the game, where he was more a “shadow” for Hajime.

The anime of the first game is...um...let’s just say it skips over a lot of things. It’s definitely not something I’d buy membership for, but if you’re already using your free trial...

There’s actually not a lot of places you can go from here, once you watch the dubbed DR3. There’s some supplementary material you can read if you want, but that was pretty much the last of the HPA arc. The newest game, NDRV3, did come out, but it hasn’t been released to the West yet–won’t til this September. So again, that’s an entire section of spoilers you need to avoid.

#dangan ronpa 3 #submission #answers

[fatherofsource]

the hospital between realms

The hospital between realms a place where anyone or things can be treated for all payment except death. It was pure luck that Rim Sang-Chul found the place but everything afterword was himself.

’keep running’ Rim ordered himself even as his legs ached. He the shouting of his chasers was good motivation. ’if they catch you your dead, worse they kill this child’ he looked down at the bundle in his arms some him asleep.

Ducking behind a stone tree Rim tried to catch his breath. He’s been running the last two weeks and he was on his last legs, if something didn't happen they weren't going to make it. ’I almost wish I believed in gods, ’ taking a few breaths he got ready to run and just in time.

”THERE HE IS!” cursing rim took off deeper into the stone forest. Weaving through the trees he avoids the projectiles aimed at him, sometimes by a hair with.

This didn't last long and he took a rock to the head. Stumbling Tim badly kept his feet underneath him. ” shit!” his vision was turning red. Blinking his eye he kept moving, he had to.

”ugh!” he stumbled now there was a burning in his ankle. He probably scraped it but there wasn’t time to check. ’now not the time!’ he thought to himself as he felt cool tear ran down his face. ”we're gonna make it, we're gonna make I-it” his voice broke with a cry.

”dear essences ”, he stood on the edge of a ravine one he could cross. He was crying in Earnest now he was gonna make it. He could hear the mob getting closer, they were gonna catch him and drag him back to that hell of a home.”not on the essences” he decided with a voice of steal turning his back to the ravin he could at the approaching mob specifically the one he had called a friend.

With a rude gesture to them, he stepped back letting gravity do its work. The wind ruffled his lavender hair as he fell as he watched the silver sky get farther and farther away. Holding the, infant closing his eyes he sung a lullaby for the last time. or so he thought.

potential manger found...transporting!

SMACK

Rim winced as he hit ground, ”that hurt a lot less then u thought.” opening his eyes he released he was no longer in the ravine, ”well we're still together!” rocking the sturring baby he looked around. ”You know I never thought about where I would go when I dead?”

You are not dead, you have been transported to the hospital between realms.

”oh, okay then...well thank you for the save. But why” he could be leave the voice that was coming from everywhere saved him just because.

You have potential to fill a vacant position in the hospital.

”i see!” he really didn't. But before he could ask more the child he carried woke up crying.” really now you wake up, after everything” he just couldn't believe it as he rocked the child. Rim quickly figured that he didn't need a change and he wasn’t hungry ’okay then why is he crying.’

As rim tried to figure it out he continued to rock him.”~time passes but my love never changes~” the singing seemed to help but he didn't go back to sleep but it would have to do.”so what position do you want me to fill?” the everywhere voice response promptly

manger

Somehow it sounds hopeful but he has one question, ”what if a say no?”

you will be transported to the other side of the ravine

Well, that was nice, ”all I have is on my person. Becoming the manager of this hospital seems like a good way to start over, so what do I have to do?”

Follow the glowing orbs

Before he could ask the happy voice what orbs, reveal glowing orbs dropped from the ceiling. Rim started in winder as the baby copied and reached for them. When the floated away rim was knocked from his trance and followed after them.

He wasn't sure how long he walked with his aching feet. But he knew two things, this place was like and it was dirty as hell. As forcing himself to move for so long he was glad to see the orbs stop in front of a door. Grabbing the handle he pushed the door open and almost shut it back seeing the mess inside.

Covering the baby's mouth along with his own. rim opened the door and was hit by a wall of dust and smells. The only clean thing in the room was a faint shining crystal on a filthy desk.

Place a hand on the crystal

Reading himself rim places the little one down before doing as instructed. ”o-” he fainted not a moment later.

”ugh” he woke sometime later to the tot’s wails. but try as he could he couldn't move his limbs much less stand. He tried to sing from where he was but barely a groan left his lips.’what am I supposed to do!’

Charge complete, generator at 5%, activating assistance nurses

Wonder what that meant rim continued to try and calm the baby only for three somethings to enter the room. They looked like the top half of skeletons, the fact they floated didn’t make them less creepy. For a moment rim thought he was going to have to fight them only for two to help him up while the third calm crying.” assistance nurses I’m guessing?” the two living benign were carried out of the dusty office. Carried through the halls noted leat ten more of the assistance nurse cleaning up.

There were three in the room he was carried into, it was cleaner than the rest of the hospital but still very dirty. He was laid on a mildly clean bed while the infant was rocked, the everywhere voice told him to rest he would need to regather streach before anything else.” all right, I’ll rest for now” the moment he closed his eye he was out like a light.

A week, seven days. That how long it took for him to from whatever the voice asked him to do. In that week he learned about the place he inhabited, the hospital between realms built by someone who didn’t wish to be remembered. He made it with one purpose treat everyone no matter what, nothing matters in this hospital for all. It was his life’s work but even he wasn’t unaware of it complete potential.

The voice was the hospital itself, it only gained the ability to speak after its creator’s death. It al encountered a problem afterward, it took much power to run the place. It took some time to find the right source of power spirit the power inside of people. It spent years with the help of its creator friend finding the best way to use this.

The crystal in the mangers office was that result, well part of it. A generator was built that would take the small bit of spirit and turn it into enough power to run the hospital.” so I’m a fuel source?”

No, people are something I don’t understand. Plus there are limits to what I can do.

He was fine with that, even the hospital between realms needed help. Somehow that made him feel better about staying here as it manger. “So what needs to be done?” he had asked even though he could barely walk.

recruitment, people feel better then they are treated by other people. Along with other jobs that need to be filled.

Rim nodded in understanding before asking what kind of people they need. Until he could walk once they planned, but Rim was upset that the hospital wouldn’t let him out until he got heather. It took him pointing out they had no food, and what was in the hospital was on the verge of becoming inedible. Not to mention the kitchen need many repairs along with other places. But the materials were needed, so he had to go and buy them. He was starting to see a problem the hospital had tunnel vision when it came to healing people.

I can only transport you to where a grabbed you

Apparently, the spatial information of the hospital was outdated, but that was fine rim could work with the valley. So after kissing the baby goodbye he was in the valley,” okay then” tightening the bracelet the hospital gave him rim got started climbing. At the top of the valley, he laid on the ground,” shit that was shit” he could barely feel his lungs and don’t get him started on his limbs.

He fell asleep in that spot only to be woken by something liking his face,” AAHh” missing whatever it was rim rolled to his hands and knees looking around. It was a pet judging from the collar and from how well feed and healthy it looked, the pet lived close by. That meant village or at least a camp where he could get directions.

It turned out to be a small city, he didn’t recognize the name. Then again he wasn’t sure how far he traveled while running from that persistent mob.’ i need a map,’ but he had no money so for now. “I have to solve that problem,” maybe he could find work in this city. Anyway, he needs to explore for now.

Hours passed before he found something helpful a poster, evergreen academy. “Holy shit!” he knew this school, it was known for its medical teachings. More so it was more than a million miles from his home village. ‘Well distance aside I can use this, I bet at least one graduate requires a job.’ looking closer at the flyer he found that date before realizing he had no idea what that day was.

Asking a helpful old lady he learned the date, he had three days before graduation. That was plenty of time to start fixing up the hospital. “There a garden so I should get seeds,” those were probably cheap and maybe he could find a job. He found his way to the shopping district of the city and while he didn’t find any seeds he did find something useful.

Garbage

Food garbage to be more specific, remain of fruits and vegetables that were used when cooked or sold. Parts that could be used to regrow whole ones.’ and he said listing to that useless!’ gather up all he could carry and ignoring the looks with practiced ease. Arms loaded he headed off into alleys away from the eyes,” I’m ready to come back”

The next moment RIm had returned to the hospital. An assistant nurse quickly relieved him of his burden.

Was your trip fruitful?

Rim nodded and gave the short version of what happened, then he explained the idea he had.

Yes, that can be done, but I do not know-how.

“I have an idea how it’s done,” he then explains what he knew as the asinine nurses headed to the mostly cleaned out garden. Following the instructions, it was given meanwhile Rim sighed. when the hospital asked what was wrong he explains what the lack of funds was causing. It didn’t know what the people of the current era valued. Rim assured I that would figure something out. For now, he was going to wash up then play around with the baby,’ he probably misses me.’

After washing up in the bathroom that still needs to be repaired but at least was clean. He got dressed in his only pair of clothes. He followed some glowing balls to where the infant was playing with an assistant nurse. He watched a bit enjoying the baby’s laughter, that when something accord to him.” I have given them their temporary name?!” rim culture dictated that a parent gave their child a temporary name until there 12 birth anniversary where they chose there own.

But before he could get the chance to think about that he had to run. “I shouldn’t think of that... she had wanted to call you sol. Causes your our little sun.”

#oneshot #my writing

[willsherjohnkhan]

Sherlock's Christmas Carol

Chapter 1: Preface from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol

***

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant, C.D. December 1843

***

Chapter 2: The Cabbie's Ghost

***

The Cabbie was dead. Of that there could be little doubt. Doctor John Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had seen to that.

He had shot the serial killer just as he had convinced his friend, Sherlock Holmes to participate in his sick little game of chance.

Sherlock could confirm absolutely that the cabbie was most definitely deceased, having observed him take his last painful breath.

For further details I would advise that you read the good doctor’s blog on the case titled ‘A Study in Pink’ for further details.

The fact remained the Cabbie was dead. Dead as a doornail.

***

Christmas Eve

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective had just turned into Baker Street. Usually he preferred to travel by taxi to get around London. But it was Christmas Eve, taxis were few and far between, while the trains and buses he knew would be packed to capacity. So that left him with only one option, walk.

He had just finished up with Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard on a case concerning the theft of a valuable and rare blue jewel, called The Carbuncle no less. A jewel that somehow ended up in the gullet of a goose set to become someone’s Christmas dinner.

Usually he wouldn’t go out for anything less then a seven. This case had barely been a four, and even that was stretching the definition. But it was Christmas Eve and it seemed that even the criminal classes had decided to take a well-earned break from their illegal activities.

Damn them!

But that wasn’t the only thing that had driven him to leave the comfort of 221B on such a bitterly cold day. He had had about all that he could take of everyone and their festive cheer.

Usually he could cope with it. But with the birth of the Watson’s offspring, everyone seemed determined to ratchet up their normal irritating behaviours to a whole new level.

He felt suffocated by all the cloying affections that had begun since the birth of the baby. And these cloying affections seemed to be spreading and infecting everyone with whom she came into contact.

Except him.

All he saw when he looked at their daughter was someone who spent her days eating, sleeping and excreting at both ends. Not to mention having a very healthy pair of lungs that she made sure got a regular workout.

He was certain that he was not the only one to be taken by surprise when John and Mary had asked him to be her Godfather. He was after all a high-functioning sociopath. And he had been reliably informed, on more than one occasion, that he didn’t possess a heart.

It was ridiculous, foolhardy. What they were asking of him definitely fell into the ‘not my area’ category.

But they had insisted. No one else would do.

Generally people viewed him as arrogant, rude, insensitive, and a freak.

And he was fine with that. Labels never bothered him.

He was about to enter 221B when he received a text. It was Lestrade. He read it, and rolled his eyes.

‘The Red Headed League. Really! Was he serious?’

Clearly John’s penchant for ridiculous titles was spreading.

He fired back a quick response.

Not worth my time. SH

Upon entering 221B Sherlock knew instantly that something was amiss. He made his way up the stairs to his flat. By the time he reached his door he already knew what awaited him.

“What do you want Mycroft?” he demanded even before he’d passed the threshold.

“Christmas, Sherlock,” the elder Holmes replied. “A time of good cheer.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Who sent you? Was it Mary?” Sherlock paused, looking his brother up and down very carefully.

Mycroft detested Christmas even more than Sherlock, for reasons only he knew. So it must be something very particular to bring him to Baker St at this time.

Ah!

A small smile escaped Sherlock’s lips. “Mummy.”

Mycroft immediately tensed, his eyes, almost but not quite meeting his younger brothers.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “For reasons that I will never understand,” he said. “She feels that it is very important that you attend the Watson’s little sware tonight.”

Sherlock gave another snort. “If she really thought it important enough, she would have come and told me herself.”

“She would have. But she and Daddy are seeing a play in the West End, something ghastly about three ghosts.”

Both brothers shuddered at the thought.

“Then I’m sorry that you have had to waste so much of your valuable time,” Sherlock responded. “Because I have no intentions of attending. Please send my apologies to John and Mary, I have another pressing case that needs my immediate attention.”

“What case?”

“The rather intriguing case of the Red Headed League. It looks to be rather… informative.”

Mycroft raised a sceptical eyebrow, but opted to keep his opinion to himself, knowing full well that Sherlock would be able to deduce them anyway.

Instead he tried another strategy.

“They’ll all be disappointed,” he pointed out. “Not to mention Mummy wont be pleased.”

“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock objected. “I spent Christmas with everyone last year. Or don’t you remember?”

Mycroft winced visibly. It was not a topic he wished to be reminded of. Which was precisely why Sherlock had mentioned it.

Seeing that Sherlock was resolute in his decision, he saw little point in pursuing the matter any further.

He made his way out the door. But before he left, he couldn’t help adding. “You’ll regret it brother mine.”

“Is that a threat, blood?”

“Not a threat Sherlock. Just an observation.”

With that Mycroft headed down the stairs and out the front door.

Sherlock followed him. He stood on the footpath watching Mycroft’s chauffer driven car make its way down Baker St.

Sherlock turned, intent on retreating back to the sanctuary of his flat when he was accosted by a couple of well meaning charity workers.

Under normal circumstances he would have been more than happy to offer a generous donation.

But of late, whether real or imagined, Sherlock felt that his select number of friends and colleagues were all conspiring against him to drag him kicking and screaming into the all too irritating tradition that was Christmas.

And now apparently his own family had been recruited to imbue him with some Christmas Spirit.

Traitors!

But all their efforts were in vain. All they had done was to give him further incentive to reinforce his resolve to remain at a distance from such annoying trivialities.

When the said charity workers made to follow him as he walked through 221B’s front door, he did not feel the least inclined to be giving like Old Saint Nick.

He felt more akin to the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge. And as such, he reacted accordingly. “Bah Humbug!” he roared before slamming the door in their shocked faces.

***

The flat was blissfully silent. Mrs Hudson had gone out to do some last minute Christmas shopping.

This was a relief to Sherlock, who now wished for the tranquillity of peace and quiet, with no irritating or unnecessary distractions.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and debated between starting an experiment on the toes he’d pilfered from St Bart’s morgue earlier in the day. Molly would likely slap him for that, once she made the discovery, so something to look forward to. Or have the leftover Chinese from last night.

His stomach quickly made the decision for him.

Making his way back to his chair, he sat down and began eating his meal cold. Heating it up in the microwave would require him to get up again, and he frankly wasn’t in the mood.

He’d only managed a couple of mouthfuls when he had the oddest sensation. If anyone had asked him to describe it, he would have said it was like someone had walked over his grave.

Which was ridiculous, because the dead do not feel. And he wasn’t six feet under, yet.

But he couldn’t suppress a shiver as the temperature in the room suddenly dropped by several degrees.

Putting the food down, Sherlock looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then he glanced over to the skull on the mantelpiece, only to be confronted with the face of the Cabbie.

“Why can’t people think?” it asked.

Sherlock blinked, and the skull was back.

Sherlock was a rational man, and so he put down what he had just seen as one of several possibilities: hallucination, exhaustion or being high. He instantly discounted the latter. He hadn’t taken drugs since the day Molly slapped him at Bart’s eighteen months before.

Sighing he got up, and went into his bedroom to change into something more comfortable.

He returned to his seat in an old pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, and his blue dressing gown. He leaned back; steepled his fingers under his chin and attempted to enter his mind palace.

Except that there was a problem. Every room he entered contained the same thing.

The Cabbie.

“Doesn’t it drive you mad?” it said.

Sherlock lowered his hands, he was clearly not going to get anywhere that way.

Without warning the TV, laptop and microwave turned themselves on.

Thirty seconds later they stopped.

All was silent.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. What was that?

He was certain he’d heard something.

Yes, there it was again.

Heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs to his flat. The steps were uneven, as though one leg weighed more than the other.

“Something wicked this way comes,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed when the Cabbie’s ghost materialised through the door to his flat. It was dragging a ball and chain.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. But it didn’t help. Standing right there before him was the Cabbie.

Impossible though it was. There he stood, dressed as he had been in life, though with the added addition of the blood that had flowed due to John’s well-aimed bullet.

Sherlock admitted, even if only to himself that he was a little unnerved. In his head he kept repeating to himself ‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth,’

Deciding to take his own sound advice, he took a deep breath as he glared at the spectre before him. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Ask me who I was?” came the unfazed response.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, already getting bored. Always the silly little games with this one. “Very well. Who were you?”

“You know who I was Mister Holmes. I’m the Cabbie from ‘A Study in Pink’”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, the whole thing was preposterous. The dead coming to life. And to top it off, the dead enjoy reading John Watson’s Blog. What next? There was only one way to find out.

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

“I’m here tonight to warn you,” the Cabbie began.

“Warn me of what?”

The Cabbie looked down at the ball and chain that bound him. “You have a chance to escape my fate.”

Sherlock snorted with disgust. “I am nothing like you.”

“We’re not as different as you’d like to believe,” the Cabbie replied. “We’ve both killed for the sake of those we love.”

Sherlock refused to dignify the statement with an answer.

The Cabbie continued. “You will be visited by three spirits.”

“Tell them not to bother, I wont be in.”

“Oh you’ll want them to come Mister Holmes. In fact you’ll need them to. Because without their visits,” the Cabbie warned. “You will be doomed to suffer a fate worse than death.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sherlock muttered.

“Do not take this warning lightly,” the apparition said as it began to fade. “They are coming.”

Sherlock remained seated, staring at where the ghost had stood for a moment or two. He then looked around him. All seemed normal.

Except for the clock, its second hand appeared stuck, unable to move forward. Like it was stuck in time.

Sherlock couldn’t keep his eyes off it. “Interesting.”

***

Chapter 3: The First of the Three Spirits

***

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

He’d not been aware of falling asleep. He put it down to being mesmerised by the faulty clock.

A quick glance confirmed that it was still stuck in time.

He got up and inspected the clock. He tried winding it up, shaking it. But the second hand resolutely remained stuck. By the time he’d checked his watch and mobile, finding that they too were likewise afflicted, he knew it was time for a rethink.

Frustrated he threw himself back in his chair.

And then a light breeze ruffled Sherlock’s hair. The detective frowned. All the windows were closed. So where could the breeze have originated?

He was about to get up from his seat when he spotted a figure standing before him.

The figure was that of a young man, early to mid teens, slight but athletic. Clearly loved swimming, apparent by the water dripping off him and onto the carpet. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be pleased.

But there was something else.

Sherlock looked deep into the boy’s eyes.

Correction. He had loved swimming, up until the day he’d been so callously murdered.

Carl Powers.

The boy that had started it all now stood before him. His wore an expression of sadness, fear and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

The ghost turned his head slightly on an angle. A frown marred his brow.

‘What do you have to be sorry for?’ his expression clearly read. ‘You didn’t kill me.’

He then reached out a ghostly hand to Sherlock, who without conscious thought took hold of it.

He was surprised to find it solid in his grip. The flesh a little cooler to the touch than was normal, but no more.

Carl pulled him to his feet.

Being a rational man, a man of science and logic, Sherlock decided there was only one way to deal with this whole bazaar situation. He was resolved to treat what was happening to him as an experiment.

And what was needed was data. Sherlock was determined to collate as much as possible.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked.

The ghost indicated the windows that faced out onto Baker St.

Sherlock looked at the ghost, then the windows and then down at what he wore.

“I’m not exactly dressed for going out.”

The ghost ignored him. He pulled Sherlock with surprising strength across the room and towards the windows.

Expecting the worst, Sherlock closed his eyes and braced for impact.

***

Christmas Eve - Past

After a couple of minutes Sherlock opened his eyes to discover that, not only was he no longer in Baker St. He was no longer in London.

He was in the country, standing outside his family home.

More remarkable then that, though it was snowing and he was standing there with bare feet. He didn’t feel cold.

He turned to the ghost. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “My parents are in London.”

The ghost inclined its head toward the street.

Sherlock turned.

Every car he could see moving along that quiet country road, he clearly remembered from his childhood.

Inexplicable as it was, they had somehow travelled back in time.

Carl pulled him towards the front door. As they passed through it Sherlock made sure to keep his eyes open.

***

The scene they walked into showed that it was clearly Christmas Eve. Mrs Holmes is in the kitchen busily making mince pies.

Sitting at the kitchen table is the young Sherlock. He is dressed as a pirate, but he isn’t charging about like he usually would. He is waiting.

And Sherlock knows who he is waiting for, his faithful companion, Redbeard.

He also knows what events are about to follow. Try as he might, he has never been able to completely delete these particular memories.

To have to relive them again…

He turned to the ghost to demand, “Why? Why have you brought me here?”

The ghost of Carl Powers looked at him with an expression full of sympathy. But it refused to answer him.

Because Sherlock already knows why he’s been brought here, to this particular time. He had already deduced it.

He was here to learn a lesson.

From outside can be heard the panicked voice of Sherlock’s father.

“Marion! Open the door. Hurry!”

Sherlock’s mother rushes from the kitchen to the front door and lets her husband in.

He staggers through the door carrying Redbeard in his arms.

“What happened?” his wife asked.

“We were walking through the woods when Redbeard spotted a rabbit up ahead. He tore off after it, but got in the way of a hunter intent on shooting the rabbit,” Mr Holmes explained.

Redbeard whimpered softly.

“I don’t think it’s too bad,” Mr Holmes continued. “But we need to get him to the Veterinary Clinic.”

“What’s wrong with Redbeard?” the young Sherlock asked as he walked over to his parents.

Mrs Holmes took a deep breath. “I’m afraid he’s been shot,” she said.

“No!” the boy cried, rushing forward.

Sherlock reached out to try and stop his younger self, but the ghost intervened. Its expression is crystal clear. He is not to interfere.

He is here to observe, to learn and to collect data.

That is all.

Sherlock reluctantly steps back.

Young Sherlock carefully wraps his arms around his beloved dog. Tears pouring down his face.

“What is all the racket about?” came the bored, languid tones of the teenaged Mycroft.

He stood leaning against the doorframe. Though young in years, his serious demeanour and exceptional intelligence aged him considerably. This was enhanced by his choice of clothes, a waistcoat and suit rather than t-shirt and jeans.

“Look after Sherlock, Mycroft,” his mother instructed.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes.

“I want to go with Redbeard,” the young Sherlock cried.

“No Sherlock,” his mother said as she pulled him to one side. “You have to stay here.”

“But Redbeard needs me. What if something happens to him?”

“Nothing will happen to him Sherlock. But we have to go now. The quicker we get him to the Veterinary Clinic, the quicker he’ll be home.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Sherlock watched his younger self, standing there, trying to be brave. At that time he believed absolutely what his parents told him. And he had no reason to doubt his mother now.

But that would quickly change.

Sherlock became aware that the ghost was watching him closely. He returned the ghosts look calmly.

A moment later the ghost took Sherlock’s hand and led him back through the front door.

***

They emerged into the consulting room of the local Veterinary Surgeon.

Redbeard was laid out on the examination table.

“It was for the best,” the Vet tried to reassure them.”

“But I don’t understand,” Mr Holmes said, his voice breaking. “The bullet… wasn’t deep… how?”

“The bullet nicked an artery,” the Vet explained. “It caused internal bleeding. His heart, big as it was, just couldn’t cope.”

Mrs Holmes stroked the loyal Redbeard’s head lovingly. “What do we tell Sherlock?” she cried. “I promised him Redbeard would pull through. That we would bring him home.”

“We tell him the truth,” her husband replied as he wrapped a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders.

“He wont understand,” she said

“I know.”

And he hadn’t, Sherlock acknowledged.

He reached out towards the ghost who took his offered hand.

There was no avoiding what was to come now.

***

“No! No! No1” screamed the devastated younger Sherlock. “You promised!”

“Sherlock, dear,” his mother tried to explain as she reached for him.

But he would have none of it.

He had never felt so betrayed.

Hurt and anger welled up inside him, and without warning he flew at his mother. His arms battering at her as he repeated over and over again.

“You promised he would be okay. You promised, you promised, you promised.”

Everyone stood in stunned silence. Even the usually disinterested Mycroft is shocked, if only temporarily by Sherlock’s ferocity.

After a few minutes an exhausted Sherlock wrenches himself away and flees to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

***

Christmas morning finds the rest of the family sitting around the kitchen table eating breakfast.

There is no conversation; no chitchat, no arguments. Instead there is an awkward silence. They do not meet each other’s eyes.

Their attention is focussed on the kitchen door.

They wait.

Eventually the young Sherlock enters.

It is immediately apparent to everyone that this is a completely different Sherlock from the one who fled to his room the night before.

That little boy would never be seen again.

It had been replaced by one who no longer wants to be a pirate.

This Sherlock views the world through cold and emotionless logic. He has vowed to have nothing to do with any form of sentiment. He does not require friends. And prefers to go forth into the world alone.

This Sherlock walks over to the table to grab a piece of toast before turning and leaving the room without a word.

The only one who appears genuinely pleased by this new development is Mycroft.

He rises from the table, smirks at his stricken parents, before sauntering out of the kitchen and going in search of this new and marginally improved younger brother.

Sherlock’s eyes have not left his parents distraught faces.

“I never knew,” he murmured.

But before he can make a move towards them, the ghost of Carl Powers blocks his path.

There is a question in its expressive eyes.

He waits patiently for a response.

Sherlock nods.

The ghost smiles softly. It reaches out a hand and places it against the high-functioning sociopaths heart.

Sherlock feels a tingling sensation.

Then oblivion.

***

Chapter 4: The Second of the Three Spirits

***

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open again. This was becoming a habit, he noted.

He was back sitting in his chair in his flat at Baker St.

Checking the clock, he noted that it was still unable to move forward.

Getting up, Sherlock made his way cautiously towards the windows. Pulling back one of the curtains he looked down on Baker St.

He noted people rushing madly about. Either making a last minute dash for the shops, or trying to get to the relative peace and quiet of home.

As he observed the ordinary scene below him, he reflected briefly upon the unsettling events that he had been obliged to witness once again. Though this time it had been through the eyes of a rational man, and not that of an emotional young boy.

He sighed, frustrated. What was the point? Hindsight? Perspective?

What had happened had happened, and what was done was done. There was no going back.

Was there?

He is pulled abruptly away from his thoughts by a strong gust of wind that tears through the room. The gust is so strong that it is able to pull the door to his flat wide open, with a bang and a crash.

Realising what is about to happen, Sherlock turns to receive his new visitor.

“Did you miss me?”

James Moriarty.

Though impeccably dressed as usual, the ghost nonetheless was not looking its best. But a bullet that enters your mouth and exits the back of your head will have that affect.

In a vain attempt to disguise the messy aftermath, adorned on its head like a crown was a wreath of holly.

Sherlock stood his ground and glared at the ghost.

The ghost glared back.

Growing impatient Sherlock demanded. “What do you want?”

One moment Moriarty is in the doorway, the next he stands before the detective.

Without warning that ghost has grabbed hold of Sherlock’s right hand and has pulled him in close, a manic grin spread across its face.

“Your on the side of the angels,” it says as it glances up towards the ceiling.

Sherlock looks up as they ascend at speed towards, and then through…

***

Christmas Eve - Present

To the living room of John and Mary Watson.

Sherlock immediately disengages himself from Moriarty’s grasp and puts as much distance between them as he can in such a confined area.

He walks around the room. It doesn’t take him long to figure out the main topic of conversation.

But the self-satisfied smirk that settles on his lips is more than efficiently wiped when he spots the ghost mouthing ‘Sir Boast-A-Lot.’

He mentally kicks himself for allowing such a weakness to be on display in front of one such as this spirit represented. Sherlock refocusses his mind back to the task that has been set before him.

There is a reason he has been brought here. He needs to find out exactly what it is. For that he was going to need more data.

So he began to circulate the room.

His parents appeared to be having a very earnest, heart-felt conversation.

“He should be here,” his mother said. “Why isn’t he here?”

“You know what he’s like,” his father noted calmly, as he tried to ease his wife’s growing agitation.

But it was to no avail.

“But why?” she cried. “Why does he choose to divorce himself from all forms of sentiment?” She turned pleading eyes on her eldest son. “Why?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Redbeard perhaps.”

He then went to get himself another drink. Anything to ensure that he didn’t have to bare witness to the aftermath of his pointed remark.

Sherlock glared at his brother, even though he was fully aware that Mycroft couldn’t see him. The urge to trip Mycroft up is almost overwhelming, but he manages to contain himself.

John and Mary are having a lively discussion.

“Ever since Amanda was born he’s been avoiding us,” John stated.

Mary, as always, did her best to defend his behaviour. “I think avoiding is a little… harsh. He did come to her christening.”

“Only because you promised to put another bullet in him.”

Mary shrugged, grinning sheepishly.

”Okay then. What would you call it?”

“It’s like the lead up to our wedding. You remember what he was like?”

“I know,” John replied trying to remain calm. “But he’s my best friend and our daughter’s Godfather. And he should know by now that he has nothing to fear. God knows all of us here in this room have proved his ridiculous theory about being alone protecting him and us wrong.”

Mary smiled sympathetically at her husband. “A genius he may be. But you know as well as I do he’s a bit slow when it comes to feelings. Feeling them and accepting them as a strength rather than a weakness.”

It was at that moment that Moriarty, who had been loitering on the other side of the room, decided to make his way casually over to the baby’s bassinet.

He leaned over to observe Amanda, who appeared to be aware of his presence. She began to fuss and fret as he started to sing to her.

“It’s raining. It’s pouring. Sherlock is boring.”

An intense need to protect engulfs Sherlock’s whole being as he observes the ghost interacting with his Goddaughter. He storms over to Moriarty.

“Get away from her,” he snarls.

The ghost straightens. It looks the detective up and down before petulantly stalking off to take up a position by the windows.

Sherlock checks to make sure Amanda is all right. As with Moriarty, it appears she can see him. She offers him a smile as she reaches out her arms towards him.

Sherlock lightly brushes his fingertips across her cheeks and over her eyes.

Instantly she yawns and goes back to sleep.

Reassured that she is safe, he continues with his investigation.

Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson are arguing as usual. Lestrade is defending him, Donovan insulting him and Anderson trying to give any number of implausible excuses for his non-attendance at the party.

Their argument is interrupted when Lestrade’s mobile rings.

“Lestrade. Yes. Where? I’ll be right there.”

He indicates to Donovan and Anderson that they are needed.

“Everything all right Greg?” John queried.

“Sorry John,” Lestrade replied. “We have to go. There’s been another attempted break-in of the vaults at the Bank of England. This time low tech, they’ve attempted to tunnel their way through. Sounds as though an innocent bystander accidentally came across them and was shot for his trouble. Poor bastard.”

As they headed out the door Lestrade turned back. “Merry Christmas.”

The conversation briefly turned to the bank robbery that had ended with such tragic consequences.

“Pity Sherlock wasn’t there to sort it out,” Mary remarked.

“Can’t see him bothering,” John responded. “It would have to be something really special to get Sherlock to worry about a bank robbery. And we know for a fact Moriarty isn’t behind this one.”

The conversation quickly turned back to happier topics.

Sherlock spotted that Molly was deep in conversation with Mrs Hudson.

He noted that this Christmas she had opted for a simple yet elegant short, figure hugging, and short sleeved black dress. Her hair was down, with no other adornments needed.

Molly sighed. “I’ll just have to drop his present off to Baker St in the New Year.”

“That would probably be best,” Mrs Hudson agreed.

Molly’s mobile rang.

She apologised to Mrs Hudson as she pulled her phone from her bag and checked the Caller ID.

“I need to take this,” she said as she moved to a corner of the room for some privacy.

Sherlock followed her.

“But Mike,” she protested. “Surely someone else could…” She stops as Mike Stamford interrupts her, what he tells her leaves Molly visibly shaken. Her face goes deathly pale and she has difficulty swallowing. “Yes. Yes of course,” she finally replies unsteadily. Her voice holds a slight tremor. “I’ll come right away.”

Sherlock frowns.

Molly never gets upset about performing an autopsy. She was too professional for that. She knew and understood that there was a time and a place.

But as he watched her, he realised he was clearly missing something.

But that professionalism was back when she informed the Watson’s that she too has to leave.

John can see she is clearly distressed. “Molly, are you all right? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine John, really,” she replies. But she cannot look him, or anyone else in the eye. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

When John attempts to question her further, she responds, “I have a promise to keep.” She then gathers up her bag and bids everyone a hasty goodbye.

He looks to Mary for confirmation. She nods, Molly isn’t telling the whole truth.

The ghost saunters over to stand next to Sherlock. He begins to sing again.

“I’m laughing. I’m crying. Sherlock is dying.”

Molly rushes past them looking for her coat before heading for the door. Sherlock reaches out to her. But his hand goes right through her.

Determined to find out what has her so distressed, he goes to follow her. But Moriarty pulls him back, shaking his head sternly.

Sherlock stands in the open doorway lost in thought.

He isn’t aware that John has moved until he goes to shut the door. John inadvertently placed his hand over the consulting detectives heart.

Sherlock gasps at the uncomfortable sensation. His eyes roll to the back of his head as darkness envelops him as he falls backward.

***

Chapter 5: The Last of the Spirits

***

Sherlock’s eyes snap open.

He barely has time to register that he is once again back at Baker St, before the tornado twists its way through it.

Sherlock drops to the floor and covers his head with his arms.

Around him the flat and almost all of the contents are systematically and ruthlessly destroyed.

As quickly as it starts, it’s over.

Sherlock raised his head, and cautiously got to his feet.

Without even seeing it, he knows that the final spirit has put in an appearance.

The unpleasant smell of rotting flesh is enough to convince him of that.

Looking around the ruins of what used to be his flat, he at first doesn’t spot it. Though the foul stench in the air tells him that it is near.

Making another scan of the room, his eyes fall upon his chair. It is in its usual spot in front of the fireplace. It is undamaged, and occupied.

Sitting in his chair is a cloaked and hooded figure all in black.

Sherlock slowly approaches. The closer he gets, the harder it is to suppress his sense of revulsion at the figure sitting there.

The spirit lifts its covered head. Its dead eyes are fiercely penetrating as they look right through him. Constantly assessing him.

Here is the only man in the whole of his career to date who has had the power to turn the stomach of Sherlock Holmes.

Charles Augustus Magnussen.

An unpleasant man in life, in death Magnussen is a hideous sight to behold.

Its rotting flesh desperately grasps at the bones of its skeleton. Stagnant liquid oozes freely through its overly moist pours. A putrid smelling mucus slithers from the bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. It snakes its way down to collect in any crevice it can find. The need for the hood and cloak apparent as they soak up the constantly spewing entrails.

To describe this ghost as grotesque would be a compliment.

Ghoulish suited it better.

Everything in Sherlock’s entire being was screaming at him to get as far away as he could from the repulsive spectre before him.

Not surprisingly it already knows what is going through his mind.

Its spindly long arms strike out, wrapping themselves around the detective.

As the ghost pulls the struggling Sherlock down through the floor, he can hear Magnussen’s all-knowing slimy, smug voice in his head.

‘Knowing is owning.’

***

Christmas Eve - Future

They emerge up through the ground. Sherlock immediately untangles himself from the loathsome Magnussen.

Looking around he realises that they are in a graveyard.

Snow has just started to fall and Sherlock becomes aware that he is shivering. Given that he is still dressed in old sweatpants, t-shirt and dressing gown, with nothing on his feet. That shouldn’t be a surprise.

Except that on the two previous occasions he had been spirited away, the weather had no affect on him.

He wondered whether his ability to feel it now was good, or bad.

He turned to the ghost but it gave no indication.

Fed up, Sherlock turned to make a quick survey of his surroundings to see if it could offer up some clue.

But it told him nothing. It was just a graveyard.

In frustration he turned back to Magnussen.

“This place has no significance for me. Why did you bring me here?”

The ghost points up ahead of the consulting detective.

Sherlock turned, to see a familiar figure making her way towards him.

Molly Hooper.

Sherlock quickly deduces from the streaks of grey through her hair and the lines on her face that he has been brought to the future.

Ten years in the future was his best guess.

Just as she comes level with him, Molly stops before one of the graves and begins to speak.

“If you could see me now, you’d probably laugh at me, talking to your grave,” she started off self-consciously. “Though it wouldn’t be the first time. John…” her words fade away.

The significance hits Sherlock hard, and his legs almost give way under him.

She is standing in front of his grave. And this time he really is dead.

Sherlock watched as Molly wiped away tears that had started to fall.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to visit you. I’ve wanted to, more than you can ever know. But it was just too hard, and the longer I left it the harder it became. So I took the cowards way out and I stayed away.”

She stops to compose herself.

When she speaks again there is a bite to her words. She is clearly annoyed with him.

Sherlock can’t help grinning, certain that if she could see him, this would be one of those times she would feel compelled to slap him.

“You’re a bloody fool Sherlock, do you know that,” she began. “What were you thinking? Were you high? And yes I know the toxicology report came back negative.” Tears started to flow again, but this time they were of anger. “Why did you have to go to that bank robbery on your own. Mycroft got the impression you were only saying you were interested in the case so that you could get out of going to John and Mary’s party. Greg confirmed that you’d sent him a text telling him it wasn’t worth your time.” She paused to blow her nose.

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured. “The Red Headed League.”

And then he remembered what he had witnessed at the party. Lestrade getting a call about an innocent bystander being shot.

The bystander had been him.

Which meant…

“I kept my promise to you Sherlock,” she said. “Remember? You made me promise that if you were to die, that I would be the one to perform your autopsy.”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. It had been a cruel request to make of her. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done more than she should for him.”

Yet he kept on asking, knowing she would agree to any request he made of her.

“Do you know what I discovered Sherlock?” she asked. “You had a heart Sherlock. I know this for a fact because I held it in my hands. It may have stopped beating, but I can assure you, you did have one.” Sighing she continued. “If only you’d learned to trust it. To not see sentiment, feelings and love as weaknesses but as strengths, you might still be with us today.”

Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to listen to what Molly had to say.

He found it curious that this ghost in particular was apparently so disinterested, which was at complete odds to how it had been in life.

He glanced over at the hooded figure, but it remained where it stood.

It then occurred to Sherlock that this time round he was on his own. This time it was up to him. How he chose to handle this situation could well decide his fate when he was returned to his own timeline.

His attention was diverted when Molly spoke again.

“I shouldn’t get at you for making a stupid decision. I’m just as guilty.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I was so devastated by your death,” she explained to his grave. “I reconnected with Tom. And this time I married him.” She looked down sadly at the wedding band on her finger. “You should never marry someone you know you’ll never love. Especially when you know he knows.”

Molly took a deep breath. “This is my first and last visit Sherlock. But know that you are always in my heart.”

She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then placed her fingers to his headstone. She then turned to leave.

Sherlock purposefully stood in her way. He needed to share the pain she was feeling. He wanted to understand it. He owed her that.

As Molly passed right through him, the pain he felt was excruciating. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. Not even when he lost Redbeard. It was like all his internal organs had stopped one at a time.

He lost consciousness as he fell forward towards his grave.

***

Chapter 6: The End of It 

***

Christmas Eve

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly. He raised his head to peer blearily about him. His eyes initially refuse to focus. So he rubs them with a weary hand, he then blinks once, twice. Finally he shakes his head in an effort to clear it.

He finds that he is lying on the floor in the living room of his flat. And the flat is in complete darkness.

Time has moved on.

Sherlock gets to his feet. His flat is back to how it was before the arrival of the ghosts. He checks the time, then hurriedly puts on his shoes and pulls his Belstaff over his dressing gown before rushing down the stairs and out the front door.

***

The Watson’s Christmas Eve party was in full swing when Sherlock burst through the door.

Everyone looked at the Consulting Detective in amazement.

There he stood in a full Santa suit, minus beard and padding. A sack full of presents over one shoulder.

Suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he apologised.

John walked up to his friend and hugged him warmly. “Better late than never mate,” he assured him.

Sherlock gave a small but genuine smile as he returned the hug, much to his and everyone else’s surprise.

“Can I take those?” John asked, indicating the presents. “I’ll put them with the others.”

Sherlock nodded, but quickly grabbed the big pink teddy bear before making his way over to the baby’s bassinette.

He leaned over, gently placing the bear next to Amanda, who squealed with delight.

As she had done when Sherlock had come with the Ghost of Christmas Present, Amanda stretched her arms out towards him.

This time Sherlock reached down and gathered her up in his arms. He gave her a brief, if awkward hug before placing her carefully back down.

As he passed Mary, he stopped to kiss her on the cheek.

He next walked over to his mother and had a quiet word with her.

Mrs Holmes eyes filled with tears, tears of joy as she and Sherlock embraced. He then shook hands with his father and brother.

Next he approached Lestrade, accepting his bear hug with good grace. He then shakes hands with a shocked Donovan and a pleased Anderson.

Mrs Hudson received a brief kiss on the cheek, and a kind word.

Sherlock swallowed nervously as he approached Molly, who had stood silently observing him as he made his way around the room.

He put his hand in the jacket pocket of the Santa suit and pulled out the little box he had placed there.

He stopped when they were standing almost toe-to-toe.

Molly looked up at him, waiting patiently.

“Molly,” he began.

‘You’ve always been the one to see right through me. No matter how badly I’ve treated you, you’ve always been there for me. I have no words to describe what I feel for you. I’ve always tried to dismiss them. It goes without saying that I’ll be rubbish at a relationship with you. I’ll disappoint, hurt and anger you more often than not. I don’t do romance. Don’t see the point of dating…’

Molly reached up and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Yes Sherlock,” she said with a smile.

“Yes?” he asked, momentarily confused.

Molly grinned. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He quickly removed the diamond ring from its box and placed it on her finger.

It was a perfect fit. Of course.

For those who witnessed this exchange, they would feel rightly confused by what they had observed.

All they heard of Sherlock’s declaration was ‘Molly’. The rest he had not spoken aloud.

It was fortunate for him then that the only person who mattered the most to him had heard his silent words loud and clear.

As it was, at that very moment the consulting detective and his pathologist were currently oblivious to everyone else in the room.

Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms. Resting his forehead against hers, he looked deep into her eyes as he whispered a heartfelt “Thank you.”

Molly wrapped her arms securely around him. “You’re welcome,” she replied.

***

So did Sherlock Holmes learn the lessons set him by the ghosts from the past, present and future?

I have it on good authority the Consulting Detective was never again visited by supernatural spirits. From what I hear the high-functioning sociopath was far too busy to fall back into his former destructive ways.

But he still behaves as is expected of him. All for appearances of course.

***

Chapter 7: Epilogue

***

Christmas Eve… Seven Years Later

“But Daddy!” Six-year old Elizabeth, looking beseechingly with her big, brown eyes while four-year old William’s aqua coloured eyes brimmed with fat tears that threatened to overflow at any moment as his little chin quivered tremulously. Both children aimed their well-honed arsenal towards their target, looking pleadingly at their father. “It’s a family Christmas tradition.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to his wife as she entered their children’s bedroom looking for support.

“Don’t look at me,” Molly said with a grin. “You’re the one who started it.”

Sherlock pouted.

“And anyway,” she continued encouragingly as she stretched up on her toes, placing one hand around the back of his neck before placing a soft kiss upon his lips. “I’m rather fond of this particular tradition.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically putting on a show of reluctance, which was marred when he scooped up his daughter in his arms. Lizzie squealed with delight as he flopped them both on the nearest bed. He dragged Molly who was carrying Will in her arms down next to him, before pulling her in close.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but eventually the two adults, with two excited children on their laps are settled on the single bed.

As Molly rests her head on his shoulder, Sherlock leaned down to press a gentle kiss on her forehead before reaching out for the book he had already placed on the bedside table.

“Are we sitting comfortably?’ he asked.

Everyone nodded.

“Then I shall begin.”

He opened the book and began to read aloud. ‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he choose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail…’

***

#sherlolly #fluffy #cute #a christmas carol