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& || towrcstle.

    “ you’re     familiar, ” she doesn’t mean to be so forthright, not intentionally. it’s just … well, he’d caught her eye, and if she doesn’t find this out now, she’d be bothered by it for the entirety of the day, which she’s sure would then irritate her partners, and that just wouldn’t do. “ you wouldn’t happen to be the man in that one cereal advert, would you … ? ”

                         WHAT HAPPENED TO THE   universally accepted concept of leaving people sitting on benches well enough alone? He huffs, folding the paper he had picked up on his walk over, well, trying to fold it, more like crinkling it, and, after a few moments wrestling with it, to get it to a state that looks presentable, he finally accomplishes his goal and is in a much more irritated state than he had been in at the beginning.       ❝ Cereal advert? What cereal advert? ❞

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nice.

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& || dominatrick.

       ❝ you do have a hand. — actually two, as i recall. ❞

                    ❝ ---------- ❞

                                ❝ RIGHT,   can you pass the SUGAR, please? ❞

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casecraving:

my mind rebels at stagnation. give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and i am in my own proper atmosphere. i can dispense then with artificial stimulants. but i abhor the dull routine of existence. i crave for mental exaltation. that is why i have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it –

                          for i am the only one in the world.

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& || ???

       she’s been observing them – and him, sniffing around        in the business of lions in a way that instantly makes        her both curious and wary – from the midway point of        someone else’s fire escape, keen eyes given a clear line        of vision through the windows to complement the micro-        -phone bug she planted last week, connected to her own        small earpiece. 

       it’s when she sees him start to bolt that she loses her visual        focus, cursing under her breath – but she barely hesitates        before vaulting over the edge of the fire escape ( landing        catlike to keep her bones from jarring too hard when she        reaches the ground ). barely hesitates ( just long enough        to assess for risk, he’s unarmed, strong but i have surprise        and he doesn’t ) before a leather-gloved hand curls into the        front of his coat, shoves him back against a wall to cut through        his momentum, other hand pressing a gloved index finger firm        against his lips.

                    ‘ not that way. ’ a warning hiss, scarce audible to anyone                         else – only thing immediately notable from the voice a re-                         -maining hint of a scots accent that, while travel has warped                         and bastardized it in places, breeding in other accents from                         other parts of europe and further afield still, is still just perce-                         -ptible. he has no reason to trust her, arya knows – she holds                         him fast, flush to the wall’s surface, even through her own                         aversion to touch, to keep him from lashing out at her, and                         hopes that the startling will be enough to freeze him for a few                         seconds more. the hand lifts away from his mouth, and gestures                         down the street along which he’d been about to flee – pointing                         two more heavyset guards, eyes small and vicious ; emptyheaded                         lackeys, she knows the sort, capable of following orders and not                         much else, but dangerous, and larger than either of them. ‘ you want                         to get out of here in one piece, follow me. no questions, no bullshit.                         understand? ’

       she doesn’t quite know why she does it ( doesn’t know why        she cares, he’s a stranger and nothing to her ), only that there’s        the instinctual sense that he’s an innocent in all this, comparatively,        tangled up in something he wasn’t prepared to handle to its con-        -clusion – and if there’s any moral she still holds to, it’s protecting        innocents from them.

                                 BEFORE HE CAN BLINK,   three things happen all at once. ONE: he decides to move, quickly, quietly, just get the hell out of dodge before something terrible happens. TWO: something bursts into his peripheral vision sending a shock of startled horror through his heart and causing his feet to falter. THREE: he is roughly slammed against the wall he had just been leaning against, air evacuating his lungs as this blitz of girl roughly pushes her finger to his lips, cutting off his cry of alarm. Good thing that last bit happened, though, because if left to his own devices he surely would have given himself away. 

                ‘NOT THAT WAY,’ she says. Had she been watching him, or, better question, who is she? She’d dropped from the sky, quite literally, and, as he blinks, eyes slowly retreating back into his skull after bulging out of their sockets in surprise, he can easily see that he’s never seen her before in his life. ‘Come on, John, you can do better than that.’ Sherlock’s voice echoes through his thoughts like an unwelcome party guest, reminding him that he’s been given the tools of DEDUCTION so he should bloody well try and deduce. Before he can begin, she removes her finger from his lips and points in the direction he had just begun to travel, and, to his chagrin, he sees that it would most certainly have been an erroneous decision. 

                Her voice once again cuts through the silence; it’s like a cats purr, soft, intrusive, somewhat alluring but in the way that makes you think you’d better walk the other way for your own good. A young voice, but hard. He makes a mental note of all that, more things to sift through when his heart isn’t threatening to jump out of his chest. After she finishes speaking, he freezes, realizing that he’s been presented with two options: he could follow her and trust her and maybe get out of this in one piece ( and, if he does, he’s going to give Sherlock a piece of his mind back at the flat -- standard reconnaissance indeed ), or, she’s working for the Lannisters -- the family they’re investigating -- and he’s walking into a beating, or worse, a trap. He’s got a split second to decide and, after a few more blinks he decides she looks nothing like the lackeys he’s observed so far and, she didn’t have to keep him from being caught so ------ 

               A deep breath and then a curt NOD. 

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       & || for dominatrick. 

                    ❝ WOULD YOU  pass the sugar -------- please. ❞

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      & || for bloodiedwolf.

                                 THE AIR IS DAMP,   it hangs heavily on the branches of the trees like sodden garments left out to dry, and the leaves drip ( drip, drip, drip ) with droplets of rain just ended. His nose is pressed to the drab grey cinderblock wall of an shabby estate in North London, and he’s trying desperately to regulate his breathing, so as not to make any undue noise. RECONNAISSANCE is hardly his area of expertise -- that’s more the forté of his friend ( who, conveniently, couldn’t MAKE IT today ), the one who can disguise himself as anybody and everybody. John’s just lucky if he can get out an alias without forgetting what it is halfway through... HENCE the ducking around corners and hiding in plain sight, if anyone would deign to look. He’d gotten the information he’d needed ( a name, an address ) and had narrowly avoided being pounded into dust by two blokes who looked like they could easily play catch with a fishing barge ---------- 

               The rustle of footsteps around the corner sets him on edge, his whole body tense and vibrating with pent up energy; if he’s got to make a run for it, he’d better be ready. The sound gets closer, and he glances to his right to see if there’s some sort of something he could pick up and use as protection. No, nothing. Well, his fists work fine, in a pinch, but he’d much rather run, in THREE, TWO, ONE................

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if you love john hamish watson raise your hand & give this post a like for a starter and/or plotting.

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              walk,   walk, fashion baby ----  *turns to the camera and poses* ........ this has been a very important post that serves no purpose whatsoever.

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moraliiity:

                ❝ if all the world hated you and believed you WICKED, while your  own conscience  approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends. ❞        independent || private john watson from bbc’s sherlock. written by kylie.

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wingshead:

“I really like you, but you are a terrible person to talk to about personal stuff.”

“We should talk soon because I almost bought a toe ring the other day.”

“You know when you go to the ATM and get money—is there an actual guy that stands there and gives you money?”

“You sound like a tampon commercial. ”

“I once forgot to brush my teeth for five weeks. I didn’t actually sell my last car. I just forgot where I parked it. I don’t know who Al Gore is and now I’m afraid to ask.”

“We can just sit back and take it easy. But instead we’re going to lean forward and take it hard. ”

“Good, I hate paperwork. I hardly ever do it in my bed on a Saturday night listening to old Spice Girls CDs.”

“If all goes well, this might be one of the last times I get to speak to you.”

“It was a pizza stuffed with little pizzas. And the crusts of those little pizzas were stuffed with chocolate.”

“There has never been a sadness not cured by breakfast food.”

“I got you a going away present. I’m finally deleting you from my phone.”

“I’ve been reading up on nipples.”

“Everything is amazing. Today is perfect. And I love you.”

“You can trust me because I don’t care enough about you to lie.”

“Time is money, money is power, power is pizza, and pizza is knowledge, let’s go!”

“First rule. No conversation lasts longer than 100 total words. I have used 9. You have used 20.”

“Remember when last year no one got flu shots because there was a rumor they’d turn you European?”

“You poetic and noble land mermaid.”

“I formally retract my hug.”

“I am not a sore loser. It’s just that I prefer to win and when I don’t, I get furious. ”

“This will be blown way out of proportion! You have my word on that!”

“Your heart’s in the right place. Your heart and your butt.”

“Right now my gut is telling me we’re going to listen to Mariah Carey the whole way home.”

“The hug machine is here! Smiling on all cylinders!

“It’s my favorite kind of battle. Two men enter. One me leaves!”

“Well, I think you have several options. They’re all terrible. But they’re options.

“I only tell the truth when it makes me sound like I’m lying.”

“I am 100 percent sure I am 0 percent sure of what to do.”

“No one achieves anything alone.”

“Is that a drawing of my reproductive system saying ‘Let’s Do This’?”

“You are so brilliant and kind and stupid-hot!”

“I don’t entirely understand the behavior of young people. Recently we engaged in something called a group hang. It was like a date but there were seven other people there.

“I’m allergic to sushi. Every time I eat more than 80 pieces, I throw up.

“I don’t know if you know this, but things with fat in them taste way better than things that don’t!

“When I get bummed out I take my shirt off because the bad feelings make me feel sweaty.”

“Breakfast food can serve many purposes.

“Thinking about my future. I am deeply ridiculously in love with you. And above everything else, I just want to be with you forever.

“Seriously, did you eat farts for lunch?”

“Take the easy way out. I always do. It’s easy!”

“I love this idea and I love me for thinking of it.”

“I am big enough to admit I am often inspired by myself.”

“Number one is being able to run 2 miles in under 25 minutes. That’s a typo right? That’s not humanly possible.”

“First of all, you did the right thing by hiding underneath this table.

“My official statement is that is, overall, a bummer.”

“In a few minutes, we’ll walk in there, we’ll give him our demands, and then BAM — I start crying.”

“If I had to have anybody tell me that I have cancer, I would want it to be me.”

PARKS && RECS MEME (P2.)

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& || withabox.

       AH, A BRISK HANDSHAKE FROM DOCTOR WATSON, ( what a name ! ) and though his speech could be a little more thought out - though the Doctor was one to talk - he did not mind and the smile did not diminish, not a single WATT as it curved along his broad chin like a bright sunflower. It did not occur to the Doctor that candidates for a job to ‘make nice’ was severely UN-DONE. So he was as happy as Larry ( if Larry was very, very happy and looked about like he was an innocent puppy ) – the Doctor had no clue about appropriate behavior in this situation.

    The Doctor replied, his hands whirling about in exaggerated patterns, and he toned it done a little to answer John’s question ( which was slightly funny. ) The Doctor DID have a doctorate. Okay, he hadn’t picked it up yet, and it WAS in Glasgow in 1888. Sort of. Of course he’d also had various honorary ones, and his doctorate that wasn’t ….exactly…from THIS planet. But he did have medical knowledge and scientific aptitude at his fingertips. Yes – better go with Glasgow.

                                 “ Glasgow. In Scotland. ”

   His hands returned to his knees with a SOLID pat. And he glanced around the room; taking in the many chairs for people to wait ( though it was only Dr Waston and he who sat there ), a desk, a fan that was currently whirring and making all the sound, bar the men’s voices and the background noise. A silence fell between them, awkwardly for a moment but then the HAIRS on the back of the Doctor’s neck stood up, and he tore his eyes away from a knitting magazine on a nearby table to the door through which they would be called.

   Green eyes widened and his head SHOT UP like a meerkat, mouth setting into a hard line. Something was going to happen ( probably a THING )  and HE HAD TO BE READY FOR IT. The Doctor stood up, just in time for the door to CRASH OPEN ; wood splintering everywhere. The Doctor launches to the side, a hand delving into John’s jacket as he did so  ( to TUG him with him ) as they dive under the desk. The Doctor was up again very quickly. Ah, that was ONE ANGRY SLITHEEN. Which is not a good thing. Quick as lightning – the Doctor’s hands delved into his pocket, pulling out the sonic and brandishing it, as if it would do ANY good whatsoever – the Slitheen stepped through the HOLE in the wall, the calcium based life-form jerking his head around till black, wide eyes focused on the Doctor. He gave IT ( for the Doctor did not know whether it was a she or a he ) his best glare, brow knitted, eyes flashing as he stared the creature down. He needed to move it away form the other door, to allow Dr Watson to get out  but the Doctor could not let the creature leave.

             “ Oh, hello ! ” There was no joy in his tone.  “ Glad I caught you. I heard about the job opening. The Doctor; at your service. Fancy letting me know why you’re not on Raxacoricofallapatorius? Sol 3 is a long way from home to you.  ”

                                   HE HAD BEEN READY TO   continue the conversation, really, he had. For all the strangeness of the meeting, and the strangeness of this Doctor John Smith, there was something about the man that PULLED a reluctant approval from his very English reserve. The words are just about to leave his mouth, ‘Glasgow? Really, then, the University of Glasgow is very impressive’, but the bloke’s drifted away, his gaze falling somewhere... else. 

                 John can’t help but feel a little miffed. And he was going to say something about it too, he really was. He was going to turn to the strange young man and say, ‘Look, I don’t know where you come from, but around here, people generally don’t drift off in the middle of conversations’, but he never got the chance. IT ALL HAPPENED SO FAST. 

                 The man bolted to his feet, as if he’d been shocked or something of that calibre, and before John could even shoot him a quizzical glance the door in front of them burst into splinters. Wooden shrapnel flies everywhere, and John feels a yank on his coat -- he flings himself to the ground, arms covering his head and nose to the ground. It’s like he’s back, back in Afghanistan, with bombs exploding and men screaming and it shouldn’t happen here, in a hospital, in the middle of LONDON for goodness’ sake! He cringes, the echo of an explosion pounding his head into the floor ( but then he realizes that the echo isn’t an echo, it’s a memory, and nothing more -- there hadn’t been an explosion, there’d been... well, he isn’t sure ). It’s only after a second of cringing and regulating his all of a sudden hyperactive breathing that he hazards a look at the damage done. He certainly isn’t expecting the culprit to be.... GREEN. 

                 He’s still laying on the ground, neck craned and legs splayed at the awkward angle they had been jostled into in the dive, but looking up he can see two things: Doctor John Smith with a small little doohickey that makes a funny noise and has a green light at the end, and the THING standing directly in front of them. It’s gelatinous, and did he mention green?, and nothing like John’s ever seen before.  Bulbous eyes blink as the other man, the Doctor, as he’s just introduced himself ( ‘A little pompous, don’t you think? He isn’t the only doctor in the room...’ are the thoughts that cycle through John’s head at that particular moment ), says a word that doesn’t sound English, or even like it comes from Earth, and then croaks out the following phrase:    ( ‘Doctor, I have heard of you, and my brothers warned me you might come. But you are too late -- it has already begun!’ ) 

               Well if that isn’t one of the more sinister things he’s heard this week... but more troubling still, is that the thing TALKED. Mouth hanging open, John scrambles into a sitting position, backing up until his head hits the row of chairs pressed up against the wall, spitting out sawdust and splinters all the while.        ❝ What the HELL is THAT? ❞ 

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( i really love our thread. i really love your writing. that's all. )

   ACTUALLY LOUNGES IN YOUR ARMS AND HOLDS YOU CLOSE TBQH. i love it too and i love your writing and i’m so happy we’ve got things going here and on other blogs and yes. dana bless you.

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& || romanaofheartshaven.

   AHA, now, that’s exactly what she was looking for; the flicker of fire behind his sullen guise, this armor that he had become accustom to wearing.  There was a weakness in the chain mail, and all she had to do was USE it to her advantage.  Romana didn’t want to hurt him - quite the opposite, really. But John gave the impression that he thought her to be like all the rest.  ALL the rest, that had inevitably failed to help, to garner any results, or proved themselves to be of hardly any use whatsoever.  He was used to being coddled by therapists - he would soon see that she was NOT at all the coddling type.

   He was trying to PACIFY? To make peace? How disappointing.  Clearly he thinks her easily DISTRACTED - it was hard for the therapist not to find that a little bit INSULTING.  It was her job to get to the root of her patients problems, and that involved some PAIN.  The road to HEALING, was never an easy one.  For some, she took the coddling approach, and it could be effective, but with someone like John HAMISH Watson, it would do nothing to dent his STEELY pride.  The trauma was just too DEEP.  

   “ — DO YOU KNOW WHAT I  think, John? You’ve made no attempt to hide your disdain for my profession, so why on Earth come?  You made a promise, I understand that bit completely - but you’ve been through this process before to no avail.  Why force yourself through another BOUT? No one knows yourself better than you do… and I DOUBT anyone could TRULY force you or DEMAND you to do anything that you were uncomfortable with.  So, here is my conclusion,” she reaches for the file laying idle on the coffee table between them, flipping through, continuing, “you WANT the help, Doctor Watson.  I think part of you is desperate to find someone who understands.  A stranger, who will more than happily sit here with you in silence if you wish, instead of painstakingly trying to psychoanalyze you.”    

                              SO IT’S TO BE LIKE THAT, THEN,   is it? Once again he’s struck silent, lips pursed as he leans to the side, staring the woman in the eye and not backing down for one single second. She thinks he’s so easily read, does she? Thinks she can see right through his nonexistent façade? He’s not trying to be difficult, he simply has nothing to talk about. His body language does nothing to disguise his frustration; there’s the clenched jaw, the sullen posture, the tapping of his finger upon his leg. 

                He can remember that first therapist, the one had had gone to after his return from the East -- she had told him his leg wound had been psychosomatic. And she had been right, but he hadn’t listened to her. He’d listened to someone else, actually. And he had kept on listening to that particular person for a very long time; he had grown comfortable with listening to what that person had said, and managing what that person did, and trying to help that person and, by doing so, help that person help him. But he had never gained a single good thing from listening to a shrink. He doesn’t plan on changing that any time soon. 

                     ❝ FINE. If you want to sit in silence, I’m more than happy to oblige ----- ❞    Perhaps that sentence was a little ridiculous; he realizes as soon as the words have left his mouth that him sitting in silence is more detrimental to his pocketbook than it is to her practice. But if it denies her the satisfaction of checking him off her ‘to fix’ list, then he won’t let it be said he missed the opportunity. 

                He stares her down, and stares, and stares, the second ticking away at the slowest rate they possibly could... There’s a bit of a draft, coming from the open window, and he’s tempted to look over and study the view rather than the infuriating woman sitting across from him, but his stubborn will won’t allow it. He continues to stare. And stare. And stare some more. The tension grows within him, boiling and bubbling up until ---- 

               In a sudden exhale he gives in. Furious with himself, he growls,        ❝ Very well, I can’t sit here for forty five minutes in silence. That’s worse than talking. ❞

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& || dominatrick. 

 ❝ I never doubted you’d be right, Miss Adler. ❞ the voice heard on the opposite end of John Watson’s late night disturbance was another CONNECTION of hers, blatantly stating that she had been in Baker Street would be utterly MAD; it was odd enough that she had risen from her grave. Had it been her on the line a plethora of theory would possibly flood the doctor’s desolated mind with IDEAS that don’t belong. It wasn’t that John Watson couldn’t piece the PUZZLE, it was that she gave her WORD. In this game of life & death, he remained a part of the puzzle neither solved entirely. Nobody ever seemed to stay DEAD in England’s nothing but LIVELY landscape. (  London’s bleak skies was something Irene Adler could have done without. ) 

     ❝ You can consider your debt paid. I hope to see you again, Miss van Cleef. ❞ she recedes from the view after a smile is exchanged. If Irene had known his number within a week or so of her arrival, you’d be entertained with what else she had abrade. Even though she had lost her PROTECTION, she was a woman with precautions. And a woman of her NATURE had to be assured to have stalwart aid need there be a lack of amenities in an unfortunate event. The thought of her proclaimed LOSS bitterly churns the inner workings of her being, but there remains an odd TRANQUILITY, an intrinsic value she was blessed with. A quintessential balance of both IRE & composure. But that’s all old news.  

      She’s been to many places & has seen many faces. But nothing seemed to compare to New Jersey, in particular. Zany auras, perhaps family. & she SURELY admired the Van Vleck House & Gardens, where she oft spent her time . There is no explicit elucidation as to why she’s spent most of her days & nights in that locale, then again – there’s also no place like HOME. Maybe that was it.  (| She hears the sound of a man’s footsteps rapping against the floorboards, & another soul in the room all together ; stilted breaths & precise movements.   ❝ Hello Dr. Watson. Looks like you’ve found me. ❞ Generally speaking, when a wanted WOMAN shows up ALIVE in the flat of a DEAD man, you’d assume there’d be a bit more distress in one finding out your mysterious viability. Especially when that one person is holding a gun & was TRAINED to use it well.

                       ❝ I’m rather alarmed. It’s not very nice to point guns at  your guest. ❞

 (  an homage to their FIRST meeting, perhaps ? )  She reminisces briefly, a very subtle grin forming as she collects this particular thought.  ❝ OH, how I miss him. A good man, that one. ❞ her fingers now explore the contents before the mantelpiece, a thumb lightly brushing against every curvature she’s yet to  MENTALLY & emotionally accumulate. She turns on her heel once to see the sight before her in all its glory; the doctor STIRRED – she knows; whatever’s going on in that head of his is  t a n g i b l e  to her hands. He hasn’t been here since then.

         ❝  Would you like to have dinner ? We have loads more to talk about. I think I could explain that over a  dazzling glass of wine. Your treat ?  I mean, takeout’s  fine, too. But, you’ll be answering the door. ❞

                                       IT’S ONE OF THOSE MOMENTS   where absolutely nothing makes even a lick of sense; the sight of her ( the WOMAN ) standing there, bold as brass, completely not dead, paired with the feel of warmed metal in his hand, then added to a shortness of breath and a frightening suspicion that even the ground beneath his feet isn’t as steady as it ought to be, all equals one of those moments. He’d experienced them often enough when Sherlock had been around; maybe they had been smaller, a bit more commonplace, but they had been VIVID and HORRIFYING, the way he had swept reality neatly under the rug and replaced it with some sort of freak show ------ truly, he had grown used to it. He had gotten used to expecting the unexpected, but now, with this, well, perhaps it’s been a little too long since his last surprise. Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like, which makes the way it feels now befuddle him that much more. 

                His arms had slackened, not to the point where his gun was at his side, but it was most certainly not aimed and ready any longer. It was pointing in the general direction of Irene Adler’s feet, or, where her feet had been before she’d shifted over to the mantlepiece. Her words fly past his ears without finding their mark. In fact, is it just him or has it gone all echo-y? The flat feels hollow, dusty, like a TOMB. And he’s trespassing on sacred ground.  

                But her manner, the way she acts like this is simply a prearranged meeting between friends, helps tug him back to the here and now. His breathing grows ragged as he blinks, staring at her in silence. HERE ARE THE FACTS: it’s nearly 0430 and he’s halfway across town in the flat he used to occupy with his now-dead friend, there’s a woman here who he had been assured was reported dead but very compelling evidence would suggest such reports to be in error, oh, and he’s still holding his gun. 

               He lurches forward, one foot finding purchase on a scrap of forgotten paper that had fallen off the desk ( still littered with Sherlock’s things ), and readjusts his position so that his gun is held high and at the ready. 

                       ❝ What the hell is this? How can you be HERE? Of all the bloody places in the world you pick this, here, and you pick now? You think now is a good time not to be DEAD? Well, Miss Adler, I’d have to say that this is certainly the absolute worst bloody time not to be dead and I ----- ❞         His words are flying like fire from his mouth, spittle and trembling hands adding credence to the observation that he might be a little... crazed. And more than a bit ANGRY. 

                Suddenly his eyes widen, an epiphany sweeping past him and making him feel woozy, lightheaded, all those sorts of feelings and more.          ❝ That’s it, I’m either --- going insane or ---- I’m dreaming. This is a dream, it can’t be real, there’s no way in hell this is real ----- ❞         He can’t hold back the bark of laughter as the gun and the arm holding it fall to his side and he runs a hand through his uncombed hair.        ❝ Is Sherlock here, too? Are we all here? Is this one big HAPPY REUNION? Should I call me old mates, y’know, the ones who died in Afghanistan, then? Are they in the loo, nipped out for a bit to eat? Or what? ❞