#[Security Tapes] - Mr. Baker | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

datheetjoella · 4 years

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Fantober 2020, Day 14: Emergency

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free! Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: T Part: 14/31 (read the full collection here) Word count: 1,622 Tags: Alternate Universe - Future Fish, Firefighter!Makoto, Baker!Haru, Fluff, Light Angst, Acquaintances to Lovers Read at: AO3, FFn, or right here!

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The second Makoto was about to sink his teeth into the chocolate cornet he bought at the bakery this morning, the signal went off. He dropped his lunch to the table and sped downstairs on muscle memory alongside his colleagues. They slipped on their protective suits and leapt into the truck. With blaring sirens, they rushed to the fire in the hopes of putting it out before it got out of hand.

Over the past year he spent as a firefighter, Makoto had grown accustomed to this. Although he'd been quite panicky at his first couple of fires, that quickly had to change in order to protect not just himself, but also his colleagues and their community. The reason he aspired for this profession was to keep people from harm's way, so he had developed the cool, level-headed demeanour this job required.

But this fire was different. The moment he heard where they were headed, blue eyes flashed through his mind and the anxiety crawled back with a vengeance, adrenaline levels spiking.

Every morning before work, Makoto visited Nanase's Baked Goods and Pastries, a small family bakery located on a street corner between a florist and a clothing store. The bread and sweets they sold were absolutely delicious, so he got both his breakfast and lunch there - and sometimes, an extra muffin as a treat. But now, this routine was endangered.

While the others voiced worries of the fire expanding to the stores beside it, Makoto was more concerned about the kind lady behind the register who always rang him up with a smile and the baker around his age who solely came out of the back to restock the shelves. The thought of anyone being hurt in a fire was awful, but especially if it were people he knew, or who he frequently saw but hadn't had the pleasure to get to know yet.

Makoto clenched his fists and willed himself to calm down. He needed to be ready to come to their aid if necessary. Collected and focused.

The fire truck arrived at the scene in record time, for the bakery was only a few blocks removed from the station. A large cloud of smoke wafted from the shop, but flames didn't lick out of the windows. Maybe it wasn't too late to prevent escalation.

The firefighters leapt out of the truck and, after assessing the situation, began to hose down the building. Along with one of his colleagues, Makoto went over to the small crowd of people that were gathered at a safe distance from the toxic fumes. His heart sighed in relief when he spotted Mrs. Nanase among them, but her face was contorted with fear and she clutched at her chest. That was when he realised the young baker wasn't beside her.

"Is anyone still inside?"

"My son, Haruka," Mrs. Nanase said, "He yelled at me to go and I thought he was following me out. It wasn't until I got outside that I saw he wasn't with me. I wanted to go back to get him but-"

There was no more time to waste. Makoto and his colleague put on their masks and entered the bakery. The front of the store was clear, but the door to the back was slid shut and smoke emerged from the crevices. When they opened it, they were hit with a thick wall of ash clinging to the air and could barely peer into the kitchen.

Through squinted eyes, Makoto could make out the source of the fire: one of the large ovens was engulfed in orange and yellow flames, blackening the heat-resistant metal. But he didn't see Haruka anywhere.

"Haruka! Are you here?"

A small cough broke through the crackling and Makoto's eyes scanned every corner of the room. Someone was lying on the floor next to an extinguisher, face covered with their shirt and Makoto dropped to his knees. When they cracked open an eye, Makoto confirmed it was Haruka; he'd recognise those immensely blue irises anywhere.

"I found him," Makoto said to his colleague and he scooped the baker off of the floor. "I've got you," he told Haruka, who gripped onto him for dear life and buried his face into his large coat, trying to stifle more coughs.

While his colleague confirmed there was no one else inside, Makoto took Haruka out of the danger zone, out of the claws of the smoke and blaze.

An ambulance had appeared in the meanwhile and he carried Haruka to it. The instant she spotted them, Mrs. Nanase ran over to her son, crying out his name and thanking Makoto profusely for rescuing him.

Makoto would've loved to stay and make sure Haruka was alright, but duty called. He flew back to the truck and grabbed a hold of a hose to assist his fellow firefighters in securing the perimeter.

The fire was resilient but not as powerful as initially seemed. They had responded quickly, before the fire had taken over the entire kitchen and had it under control about an hour later. When his colleagues assured him they could handle it from there, Makoto went back to the ambulance.

Haruka sat at the rear end with his legs dangling over the edge, wrapped up in a blanket and sipping on a bottle of water. A weight was lifted off Makoto's shoulders at the sight of him: he seemed to be doing okay. His mother stood by his side, but when she saw Makoto walking over to them, she approached him first.

"I never knew you were a firefighter," she said, then she bowed so deeply her long dark locks nearly swept across the floor. "Thank you so much for saving my son. I'll forever be grateful to you."

"Thank you, Nanase-san, but that's not necessary at all. I'm simply doing my job," Makoto said with a smile. This was the most rewarding part of his work: not being thanked, but knowing he made a difference.

Mrs. Nanase copied his smile and said, "I'll leave you two alone for a moment." She winked and before Makoto's blood had the chance to rush to his face, she was gone.

Makoto stepped closer to Haruka, but despite having had conversations similar to this a dozen times prior, he found himself at a loss for words. On numerous occasions, he had thought about making small talk with the handsome baker, but he never imagined that the first time they would speak to each other would be in a situation like this.

"You're the man who saved me," Haruka said, voice a bit croaky because of the smoke he inhaled. "Thanks. I suppose I owe you a lifetime's worth of pastries now."

"That's not necessary at all, I'm simply doing my job," Makoto said again, awkwardly waving his hands.

"Heroic deeds deserve rewards, don't they?"

"Knowing you're alright is enough of a reward for me."

The instant the words left his lips, Makoto wanted to tape himself up into a box and ship it to the other side of the country. Before he could begin to apologise, though, Haruka smiled. It was tiny, a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, but it was definitely there and Makoto's chest filled with warmth. He spontaneously forgot what he was feeling embarrassed about.

"What's your name?"

"Makoto. Tachibana Makoto," he said, smiling a little too, "And yours?"

When Haruka frowned at him, he realised his mistake. "It's Haruka. Nanase Haruka," he spelled out and for a second, it was as though Makoto could read his mind. Idiot, it said. "But Haru is fine."

Makoto would've loved to chat about more nonsensical things and embarrass himself even further, but there were some important matters that needed to be addressed. "Say, Haru, what happened in there? Why didn't you follow your mom out?"

Haruka averted his eyes, fingers fumbling around his bottle. "One of the ovens suddenly malfunctioned and caught on fire. It was pretty small, so I thought I could put it out myself. I closed all the doors and windows to stop oxygen from getting to it, but when I tried to use the fire extinguisher, it didn't work. The smoke built up quickly and it was very disorienting. Before I knew it, I couldn't find the door anymore," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused."

Makoto shook his head. "It was brave of you to try to put out the fire yourself, but it can be dangerous. Fire can spread really fast and inhaling a lot of smoke is bad, so for your own safety, it's better to get out of there when you can if the fire is too big to manage. I understand the bakery is very important to you, but nothing is more important than your life."

"You're right. I'll leave the extinguishing up to you professionals from now on," Haruka said, "Again, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, your intentions weren't bad," Makoto said with a slight smile, "But from now on, I'll take care of the fires if you take care of the baking. Because that is something I better stay away from for my own safety."

"Deal," Haruka said, but then he looked away again, abashed, "And maybe I can cook you dinner sometime too? To thank you for saving me."

An adorable pink blush lit up Haruka's cheeks and Makoto's stomach made a backflip of giddiness.

"I'd like that a lot," Makoto said, and he already couldn't wait.

Their dinner date took place the next weekend, and the weekend thereafter, until they ate together almost every day. Although the stove never malfunctioned, Haruka ignited a fire in Makoto's heart that was beyond extinguishing.

#i'm sorry i'm stupid #makoharu #makoharu fic #my fic #fantober2020 #colourful days with you

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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Saying ‘Go Back,’ Trump Fans the Flames of a Racial Fire https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/14/us/politics/trump-twitter-race.html

Trump KNOWS EXACTLY what he's doing by FANNING the flames of RACIAL HATRED. HE'S BEEN DOING IT HIS WHOLE LIFE!!!

Trump Fans the Flames of a Racial Fire

By Peter Baker | Published July 14, 2019 | New York Times | Posted July 15, 2019 |

WASHINGTON — President Trump woke up on Sunday morning, gazed out at the nation he leads, saw the dry kindling of race relations and decided to throw a match on it. It was not the first time, nor is it likely to be the last. He has a pretty large carton of matches and a ready supply of kerosene.

His Twitter harangue goading Democratic congresswomen of color to “go back” to the country they came from, even though most of them were actually born in the United States, shocked many. But it should have surprised few who have watched the way he has governed a multicultural, multiracial country the last two and a half years.

When it comes to race, Mr. Trump plays with fire like no other president in a century. While others who occupied the White House at times skirted close to or even over the line, finding ways to appeal to the resentments of white Americans with subtle and not-so-subtle appeals, none of them in modern times fanned the flames as overtly, relentlessly and even eagerly as Mr. Trump.

His attack on the Democratic congresswomen came on the same day his administration was threatening mass roundups of immigrants living in the country illegally. And it came just days after he hosted some of the most incendiary right-wing voices on the internet at the White House and vowed to find another way to count citizens separately from noncitizens despite a Supreme Court ruling that blocked him from adding a question to the once-a-decade census.

His assumption that the House Democrats must have been born in another country — or that they did not belong here if they were — fits an us-against-them political strategy that has been at the heart of Mr. Trump’s presidency from the start. Heading into next year’s election, he appears to be drawing a deep line between the white, native-born America of his memory and the ethnically diverse, increasingly foreign-born country he is presiding over, challenging voters in 2020 to declare which side of that line they are on.

“In many ways, this is the most insidious kind of racial demagoguery,” said Douglas A. Blackmon, the author of “Slavery by Another Name,” a Pulitzer Prize-winning history of racial servitude in America between the Civil War and World War II. “The president has moved beyond invoking the obvious racial slanders of 50 years ago — clichés like black neighborhoods ‘on fire’ — and is now invoking the white supremacist mentality of the early 1900s, when anyone who looked ‘not white’ could be labeled as unwelcome in America.”

Mr. Trump ritually denies any racial animus or motivations. His fight against illegal immigration, he says, is only about securing the border and protecting the country. He regularly boasts that unemployment among Hispanics and African-Americans has hit record lows. Last week he thanked Robert L. Johnson, the founder of Black Entertainment Television, for crediting his stewardship of the economy.

“I am the least racist person you have ever met,” he has said more than once.

But he does not go out of his way to avoid looking like he is, and his string of Twitter posts on Sunday left his own advisers unable or unwilling to defend him. None of six spokespeople for the White House or his campaign initially responded to requests for comment.

One of the only administration officials who was already booked for the Sunday talk shows, Mark Morgan, the acting commissioner of Customs and Border Protection, made clear he wanted no part of it. “You’re going to have to ask the president what he means by those specific tweets,” he said on “Face the Nation” on CBS.

Republican lawmakers, by and large, did not rush to the president’s side on Sunday either, but neither did they jump forward to denounce him. Deeply uncomfortable as many Republicans are with Mr. Trump’s racially infused politics, they worry about offending the base voters who cheer on the president as a truth-teller taking on the tyranny of political correctness.

Only in the evening did Mr. Trump respond to the furor, saying that Democrats were standing up for colleagues who “speak so badly of our Country” and “whenever confronted” call adversaries “RACIST.”

At that point, Tim Murtaugh, a campaign spokesman for Mr. Trump, responded to a request for comment, saying, “The president pointed out that many Democrats say terrible things about this country, which in reality is the greatest nation on Earth.” He did not explain why Mr. Trump told American-born lawmakers to “go back” to countries they were not from.

Other presidents have played racial politics or indulged in stereotypes. Secret tapes of Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard M. Nixon show them routinely making virulently racist statements behind closed doors. Mr. Nixon’s Southern strategy was said to be aimed at disenchanted whites. Ronald Reagan was accused of coded racial appeals for talking so much about “welfare queens.” George Bush and his supporters highlighted the case of a furloughed African-American murderer named Willie Horton. Bill Clinton was accused of a racial play for criticizing a black hip-hop star.

But there were limits, even a generation ago, and most modern presidents preached racial unity over division. Mr. Johnson, of course, pushed through the most sweeping civil rights legislation in American history. Mr. Bush signed a civil-rights bill and denounced David Duke, the Ku Klux Klan leader, when he ran for governor of Louisiana as a Republican. His son, George W. Bush, made a point of visiting a mosque just days after the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, to emphasize that America was not at war with Muslims. Barack Obama invited an African-American Harvard professor and the white police officer who mistakenly arrested him for a “beer summit.”

Mr. Trump’s history on race has been well documented, from his days as a developer settling a Justice Department lawsuit over discrimination in renting apartments to his public agitation during the Central Park Five case in New York. Jack O’Donnell, the former president of Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, later wrote that Mr. Trump openly disparaged others based on race, complaining, for example, that he did not want black men managing his money.

“Trump has not only always been a racist, but anyone around him who denies it, is lying,” Mr. O’Donnell said on Sunday. “Donald Trump makes racist comments all the time. Once you know him, he speaks his mind about race very openly.”

Mr. Trump, he said, regularly trafficked in racial stereotypes — Jews were good with money, blacks were lazy, Puerto Ricans dressed badly. “White people are Americans to Trump; everyone else is from somewhere else,” Mr. O’Donnell said. “He simply denies the reality of how we all immigrated to the United States.”

Mr. Trump propelled his way to the White House in part by promoting the false “birther” conspiracy theory that Mr. Obama was actually born in Africa, not Hawaii. He opened his presidential bid in 2015 with an attack on Mexican “rapists”coming across the border (although “some, I assume, are good people”) and later called for a ban on all Muslims entering the United States. He said an American-born judge of Mexican heritage could not be fair to him because of his ethnic background.

As president, he complained during meetings that became public that Haitian immigrants “all have AIDS” and said African visitors would never “go back to their huts.” He disparaged Haiti and some African nations with a vulgarity and said instead of immigrants from there, the United States should accept more from Norway. He said there were “very fine people on both sides” of a rally to save a Confederate monument that turned deadly in Charlottesville, Va., although he also condemned the neo-Nazis there.

He is only saying what others believe but are too afraid to say, he insists. And each time the flames roar and Mr. Trump tosses a little more accelerant on top. The fire may be hot, but that’s the way he likes it.

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veale2006-blog · 6 years

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THE TRUTH BEHIND THE JFK ASSASSINATION

November 22, 2018 53 Years later we still search for the truth!!!

John F. Kennedy was far from perfect, in his personal life, or in some of the decisions he made as president. However, unlike most presidents, he had some good ideas, and he had plans to enact them. For example, he had plans to abolish the Federal Reserve system, which prints worthless money backed by nothing, and charges interest on it, making us a debtor nation to a group of international bankers. He wanted to use United States Notes, and he signed a presidential document, called Executive Order 11110, on June 4, 1963.

This gave JFK, as U.S. President, legal clearance to create true money, that would belong to the people, and eliminate the Federal Reserve Bank, and their false money. Kennedy had already begun issuing U.S. government money that was free of debt to replace the Federal Reserve dollars we have been using. A number of "Kennedy bills" were indeed issued - with the heading "United States Note", instead of "Federal Reserve Note" - but were quickly withdrawn after Kennedy's death. Records show that Kennedy issued $4,292,893,825 of true money. It was clear that Kennedy was out to eliminate the criminal Federal Reserve System. It is interesting to note that, only one day after Kennedy's assassination, all the United States notes which Kennedy had issued were called out of circulation. All of the money President Kennedy had created was destroyed, and not a word was said to the American people.

A "KENNEDY BILL" ISSUED IN 1963, WITH "UNITED STATES NOTE" REPLACING "FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE"

In 1962, the Joint Chiefs of Staff presented Kennedy with Operation Northwoods. Operation Northwoods would have had our own government inflicting terrorist attacks upon US citizens, and blaming it on our enemies, to justify wars and political assassinations. Kennedy rejected it. He planned to abolish the CIA's right to conduct covert operations, and eventually dismantle it. Kennedy said he would "splinter the CIA into a Thousand Pieces". Kennedy's intent to abolish the Federal Reserve Bank, his rejection of Operation Northwoods, and his plan to eliminate CIA covert operations planted the seeds for the CIA's assassination of him.

Lee Harvey Oswald was linked to virtually every group that had a reason to want Kennedy dead. In the years before Kennedy's death as a Marine, Oswald worked as a radar operator at U-2 spy plane bases. After leaving the Marines he defected to the Soviet Union. While in Russia he married the niece of a KGB colonel, and he lived in relative luxury, likely in exchange for false or already outdated information on the U-2 that he passed to the Russians. Oswald apparently pretended to be a traitor to America, while actually working for the CIA. On returning to the U.S. Oswald propagandized for Castro's Cuba out of a New Orleans building he shared with a CIA/FBI agent trying to overthrow Castro named Guy Banister. Delphine Roberts worked for Banister. She said that, "Mr. Banister had been a special agent for the FBI and CIA." She saw her CIA agent boss meet with Lee Harvey Oswald in September 1963. This story was supported by her daughter, who also met Oswald during this period. Oswald also distributed Pro-Castro leaflets in New Orleans in 1963, with the address of his CIA contact Banister stamped on them. There was a three-page letter from CIA Director John McCone to Secret Service Chief James Rowley in which McCone acknowledges Oswald worked for the CIA, and was in Russia for that purpose, not as a defector. It discussed how this information should be withheld from the Warren Commission. Allen Dulles' advice to other members of the Warren Commission was that CIA operatives consider it their patriotic duty to lie under oath if necessary to protect "Company" secrets. A Dallas deputy sheriff, Allen Sweatt, was quoted as saying that Oswald was being paid $200 a month by the government at the time of the assassination, and had been assigned an informant number. In October 1963 Oswald moved to Dallas where he got a job in the Texas Book Depository for $1.25 an hour boxing and shipping books.

It's beyond strange how someone who was so clearly connected to the CIA would just happen to get a job working at one of the best sniping points in Dallas, by which the President's open car motorcade would just happen to pass a few weeks after he started working there. Oswald was set up to be the fall guy. On November 22, 1963 at the book depository, around 12:15, secretary Carolyn Arnold saw Oswald in the second floor snack room, where she said he went for a Coke. He was sitting in one of the booths alone, as usual, and appeared to be having lunch. She testified: "I did not speak to him, but I recognized him clearly. I remember it was 12:15 or later. It could have been 12:25, five minutes before the assassination, I don't exactly remember." At the same time, Bonnie Ray Williams was on the sixth floor until 12:20, and he saw nobody. Down on the street, Arnold Rowland saw two men in the sixth floor windows, presumably after Bonnie Ray Williams finished his lunch and left.

Kennedy's motorcade was running late. He was due at the Trade Mart at 12:25. If Oswald was one of the assassins, he was pretty nonchalant about getting himself into position. Later he told Dallas police he was standing in the second floor. A maximum 90 seconds after Kennedy was shot, patrolman Marrion Baker ran into Oswald in that second story lunchroom. He asked Oswald's boss, "Do you know this man? Is he an employee?" He told Baker that he was. As Baker moved on, he told Oswald, "The President's been shot!" Oswald reacted as if he had heard it for the first time.

What the Official Party Line would have us believe is that after firing 3 bolt action shots in 6 seconds, Oswald then left three cartridges neatly side by side in the firing nest, wiped the rifle clear of fingerprints, stashed the rifle on the other side of the loft, sprinted down five flights of stairs, past Victoria Adams and Sandra Styles, who would have, but never saw him, and then showed up cool and calm on the second floor in front of Patrolman Baker within 90 seconds of the shooting the president. Was he out of breath? According to Baker, absolutely not. Was Oswald a "patsy", as he claimed? Most certainly. Whatever can be said of Oswald, one thing is certain: he either knowingly or unknowingly was a pawn for those responsible for assassinating Kennedy.

Jack Ruby, Oswald's assassin, had been stalking Oswald from the time immediately following the assassination, to the moment he shot him. Phillip Willis took a series of 12 photos of Dealey Plaza, where Kennedy was shot, in the minutes before and after the assassination. Mr. Willis' photos and testimony before the Warren Commission appear in the Warren Commission's report. He was not questioned about the eighth photo, a shot of the Book Depository entrance shortly after the assassination. As Willis later pointed out, one of the men in the photo "looks so much like Jack Ruby, Oswald's soon to be assassin, it's pitiful". F.B.I. agents questioning Willis agreed with him that the man bore a powerful resemblance to Ruby. When Willis mentioned this to the Commission, no interest was shown. When the photo was published in the Warren Report, a considerable part of the Ruby lookalike's face had been cropped away.

What was the final straw that pushed our own government to assassinate Kennedy?

On October 11, 1963 John F. Kennedy signed national security memorandom no. 263, which ordered 1000 American advisors home from Vietnam by December 25, 1963, and that the remainder of the U.S. military be withdrawn by 1965. Kennedy's and Johnson's Secretary of Defense Robert MacNamara has said that Kennedy was going to pull out of Vietnam after the 1964 election. In the film "The Fog of War", not only does McNamara say this, but a tape recording of Lyndon Johnson confirms that Kennedy was planning to withdraw from Vietnam, a position Johnson states he disapproved of. The day after Kennedy's funeral, on November 26, 1963, Lyndon Johnson signed national security resolution no. 273, which completely reversed Kennedy's plan for a withdrawal from Vietnam. Then Johnson fraudulently used the gulf of Tonkin resolution as a blank check to fund the massive military buildup in Vietnam, an agreement Johnson apparently made with the CIA in exchange for them taking out Kennedy, and handing the presidency to him.

"THE WINK": CONGRESSMAN ALBERT THOMAS KNOWINGLY WINKS AT A SMILING LBJ AFTER THE ASSASSINATION

There is evidence that Lyndon Johnson was directly involved. Johnson was seen ducking down in his car a good 30 to 40 seconds before the first shots were fired, even before the car turned onto Houston street. Lyndon Johnson was acting as if he knew bullets would soon be flying, ducking down repeatedly before the shots went off. At the ceremony of Johnson being sworn in as president, Congressman Albert Thomas was photographed knowingly winking at a smiling LBJ, while JFK's grieving widow stood next to Johnson.

The night before the Kennedy assassination Johnson met with Dallas tycoons, FBI moguls and organized crime kingpins. Johnson's mistress, Madeleine Duncan Brown recalled that "Johnson emerged from the conference to tell her, "'after tomorrow those S.O.B.'s, the Kennedy's, will never embarrass me again - that's no threat - that's a promise.'" "They had this lodge outside of Dallas and they met there on November 21, 1963. Johnson chose different people to do certain things for him, and the group included Oswald's assassin, Jack Ruby. Brown described Ruby as the "in man" in Texas who could be trusted to arrange call girls, drugs, gambling fixes and even contract killings.

According to Madeleine Brown, the group at the meeting included J. Edgar Hoover, Clyde Tolson, John J. McCloy, Jack Ruby, numerous mafia kingpins, several newspaper and TV reporters, and Richard Nixon." Oddly enough, over ten years later Richard Nixon was forced to resign because of the John F. Kennedy assassination. The break-in at the Watergate offices of the Democratic National Committee would have never become the issue to topple a President, except for the need to protect just WHY the crime had been committed. The Democrats had obtained photographs which showed Nixon "associate" E. Howard Hunt to be one of the three tramps arrested and then released in Dealey Plaza.

This is why Hunt led the break-in at the Watergate. He was protecting his own posterior. Rather than risk exposure of a far worse scandal, Nixon resigned, turning over the White House to Gerald Ford, the Warren Commission member who would later admit that he had altered the official location of JFK's back wound for the commission. Johnson was still irate when he called Madeleine Brown the morning of the assassination, telling her the Kennedy family would never embarrass him again. Brown highlighted how people who were set to testify against Johnson for indictment proceedings, related to illegal kickbacks Johnson was receiving from agriculture programs before the assassination, were mysteriously set-up in homosexual scandals or found dead, having allegedly shot themselves five times in the head. "Had the assassination not happened the day that it did, Lyndon Johnson would have probably gone to prison - they would have gotten rid of him - he was so involved in this."

Immediately following JFK's assassination in Dallas, government agents fanned out through the crowd, and confiscated all the films that were being taken of Kennedy's motorcade. One exception was Abraham Zapruders home movie. This film was purchased by Time magazine. Time magazine promptly altered key frames,and eliminated others, in order to obstruct and eliminate key evidence of a conspiracy. Those home movies that were seized by the government that afternoon, were never seen or heard again. Regis Kennedy, one of the FBI agents who was gathering up those home movies that afternoon, was supenoed by the House select committee on assassinations, to explain what happened to all those home movies. On the very day he was to testify to that committee, he was found murdered. Over 200 key witnesses to JFK's assassination, who could have testified to the truth of what happened that day, have died under mysterious circumstances, or have been outright murdered.

THE THREE TRAMPS. RAOUL IN FRONT, STURGIS AND HUNT IN THE REAR

So exactly who shot JFK? The same hit men the CIA planned to use against Cuban president Fidel Castro, including the famous Watergate burglars E. Howard Hunt and Frank Sturgis, were brought into Dealy plaza on November 22, 1963. Immediately after JFK's assassination, law enforcement officers conducted a search of the area behind the grassy knoll, from which many witnesses heard gunshots and saw smoke just after the shots rang out. There were several railroad boxcars in this area. Some of these witnesses saw men running from the fence behind the knoll toward the boxcars. As a result three men were found in one boxcar.

They were arrested. These men came to be known as "The three tramps". They were arrested right after the president of the United States was killed, but strangely enough the police did not book, photograph or fingerprint them, and they were released. One thing they didn't expect however, was that as the police led the three derelicts through Dealey Plaza to the sheriff's office, they were photographed by several press photographers. When allegations of a CIA connection with Kennedy's death emerged, these photographs received wide publicity in newspapers, television and in the April 28, 1975 issue of Newsweek magazine. Two of the derelicts or "tramps", as they had come to be called, bore striking resemblances to Nixon burglars E. Howard Hunt and Frank Sturgis respectively, who both worked for the CIA. The 3rd tramp is often referred to as "Raoul", and is a bullseye for the Martin Luther King assassination suspect circulated by the police after King was killed. James Earl Ray would later claim he was set up by a man named "Raoul".

STURGIS AS TRAMP IN 1963, AND AS NIXON BURGLAR IN 1973 HUNT AS TRAMP IN 1963, AND AS NIXON BURGLAR IN 1973

A book titled Coup D'Etat in America, by Alan J. Weberman and Michael Canfield, came out with compelling evidence that two of the three "tramps" arrested in Dallas on November 22 were E. Howard Hunt and Frank Sturgis. When Coup D'Etat in America came out, Hunt sued for millions of dollars in damages, claiming he could prove that he had been in Washington D.C. that day, on duty at CIA. It turned out, however, that this was not true. So, he said that he had been on leave and doing household errands, including a shopping trip to a grocery store in Chinatown. Weberman and Canfield investigated the new alibi and found that the grocery store where Hunt claimed to be shopping never existed. At this point, Hunt offered to drop his suit for a token payment of one dollar.

But the authors were determined to vindicate themselves, and they continued to attack Hunt's alibi, ultimately completely shattering it. Using the principles of Bio-metrics, lines and angles are measured and compared to create a template. The templates are then overlaid for matching. When the pictures of two of the derelicts were tested bio-metrically against Frank Sturgis and E. Howard Hunt, they came up as 100% perfect matches. It would seem beyond a shadow of doubt that both Hunt and Sturgis worked for the CIA not only as Nixon burglars, but also as part of the team the CIA sent out to assassinate JFK.

Assassinating Kennedy, and putting their man Johnson into the presidency helped the military industrial complex and the shadow government reassert their power, and that will help you understand what's been going on in America ever since Kennedy's assassination. These treasonous murderers are opposed to everything the United States is supposed to represent, such as truth, freedom and justice. This is why they go to such great lengths to keep their methods of operation, their true purpose, and even their existence, under a cloak of secrecy. If Americans knew the truth about all of this, they would rise up in anger, and hold them all accountable. As long as these forces remain in control of the government, the coverup will continue.

The truth behind the JFK assassination will never be told by the establishment. You and I are subject to their corrupt and unjust court system, while they are above the law. International bankers and all of their branch organizations are at the head of this shadow government, and the assassination of president Kennedy was nothing short of a coup, implemented by them. Their pawns in the media keep the American people from learning how their government has been overthrown by them, and they have been, more or less, in complete control of the U.S. government ever since they assassinated JFK on November 22, 1963.

We must always seek the truth for the truth SHALL MAKE US FREE!!

Have a blessed day and never forget the LIES THE GOVERNMENT CONTINUE TO COVER-UP!!! May Yeshua the Messiah bless you, Love, Debbie

JFK Assassination Conspiracy Documentary | Best Evidence New 2016 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRwFBKwQDSM

2015 Unfortunate Truth JFK, 9/11, and Beyond - The World We Live in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0bOm5c43js

JFK "TRUTH" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvxJXzVBZrs

The Truth About Rafael Cruz And The JFK Assassination https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpZ1_zwfTMQ

Why The CIA Killed Kennedy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLHRUV01PR8

JFK - The Speech That Killed Him https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8HTr-F-FVM

Finally, The CIA Admits Covering Up JFK Assassination / 2015 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmXIFm5OODE

George Bush / CIA / JFK Assassination (Dark Legacy) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCuTwqr5qng

JFK assassination .C.I.A agent tells all https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tl5AV4jHvc

JFK Secret Societies Speech (full version) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdMbmdFOvTs

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ao3porcelainstorm · 4 years

Text

poison ivy & stinging nettles 17

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Chapter 17- Rue

~~~

'Tis the damn season.

~~~

December 26th- 1 am

As it turned out, Hades was a woman. Or so she proclaimed herself over the DJs speak system to a screaming crowd. The music was turned back up, drunken party-goers mashed into one another on the massive dance floor.

StyX certainly lived up to its reputation of leading people to darkness.

Sherlock had bribed a bartender in a back alley on a smoke break to let them in. Fortunately, he was able to find John suitable clothes for the scene, his own jacket and shirt blending in with the well-dressed clientele.

“So Jessica owns this place?” John asked his friend, trying his best to avoid staring at the nearly naked dancer on a nearby platform. “Not what I expected for her.”

“Last time I saw her she was throwing herself all over Amelia,” Sherlock mused. “Granted, she was diligent in her work. Here’s hoping she got the binge drinking under control.”

He scanned the room, looking to the edges for where an administrative suite might be located.

“Don’t you two stick out like a couple of sore thumbs,” a female voice laughed behind the men.

“Miss Reynolds,” Sherlock turned with a smirk on his face.

“Long time no see, Mr. Holmes,” she gestured over her shoulder for the men to follow her to a secluded hallway. “Moriarty mentioned you would be stopping by.”

The music was non-existent by the time they stepped into Jessica’s office.

It was a neatly organized, modern space, with no trace of the lewd debauchery outside.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was going to be kidnapping your girlfriend,” she continued with a low sigh. “Have a seat.”

Two black seats were in front of her large glass desk. She turned and started to rummage through a filing cabinet before taking a seat in her chair.

“He left this,” she slid an envelope across the desk.

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock demanded, eyeing the envelope. “Why would he help you set all of this up from your father’s accounts?”

“He’s laundering money through the bar,” she explained so casually, it almost didn’t seem like she was referencing a very serious crime. “I have one of my security guards pass his guy a large duffel bag every other week, and he makes sure my shithead of a father stays out of the picture.”

“He’s dead then,” John stated and she shrugged.

“As I’m sure you’ve done a full inventory of my life, he isn’t the best person,” she replied truthfully.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sherlock examined the envelope in the light, checking for any stray hairs or fingerprints.

“Because, despite how it looks on paper, I’m not a bad person,” she answered earnestly, leaning back a little in her chair. “Neurotic? Definitely. A little unstable? My therapist thinks so. But I do have good intentions.”

“If you had good intentions, you wouldn’t have gotten in bed with Moriarty,” Sherlock scoffed, peeling back the edge of the envelope. “He’s a maniac.”

“He has good business acumen,” Jessica frowned. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I needed my father's money to finally get my own. If he’d been indicted, it would have been locked up in legal fees and government agencies for years.”

“A nightclub is getting your own?” John snorted.

“I hire homeless folks,” she explained, narrowing her gaze at him. “People coming back into work, retirees who need a little spare income, addicts looking for a second chance. I’m on track to donate a quarter of my profits to local domestic abuse programs. I’m not a monster.”

“God, you sound just like-,” Sherlock stopped when he pulled out the card inside.

Written in neat script was a small snippet of dialogue from Hamlet.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love,

remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you,

and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays.

O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There’s a daisy. I

would give you violets, but they wither’d all when my father

died. They say he made a good end.

“Ophelia,” Sherlock’s words were barely above a whisper, passing the paper to John.

“Wear your rue with a difference?” John looked at his friend. “Why is that underlined?”

“It’s the implication that I have different rue than the speaker,” Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rue for you and rue for me.”

“You can’t tell us anything about Moriarty’s whereabouts?” John demanded, waving the card toward Jessica.

“I can’t,” she replied softly. “He just told me that you’d be by after giving me the envelope. It was one of his security guys that mentioned Brenner.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Sherlock stood up abruptly, racing toward the door of the office, his mind moving at top speed.

Ophelia. What did he know about the character?

It inspired Amelia’s middle name, no coincidence there.

Flowers. Intentional.

Ophelia went mad after Hamlet killed her father. She goes to the river and drowns.

But it isn’t intentional, or so it’s implied it isn’t.

She’s pulled into the river after falling in.

But she doesn’t struggle and drowns in her misery.

There’s of course the medieval belief that Rue was a means of abortion.

No, Sherlock frowned. That was too barbaric for someone like Moriarty.

He’d pick his tortures carefully. Toying with his victims. He wanted to prove his genius. Show it off.

“Sherlock!” John caught up with the detective near the end of the block, grabbing his sleeve and shoving a phone in his friend's hand. “A body’s washed up. Molly’s meeting us in the morgue.”

~~~

Allison Nell, a 30-year-old real estate broker, avid swimmer. Newly engaged, but lost her fiancé during his deployment two weeks previously.

Suicide is the presumptive cause of death. Overdose of pills then wandered into the Thames.

“Why would you think otherwise?” Sherlock asked as Molly unzipped the body bag.

“Because of this,” she used a gloved hand to open a large incision in Allison’s stomach.

Pills.

Undigested pills.

Meaning they weren’t metabolized at the time of death.

“Toxicology shows a slight increase in the substance, but not a lethal dose. Or even a strong enough dose to render a woman of her size unconscious. It wasn’t the pills that killed her,” Molly explained, a small look of pity at the woman’s swollen, blue face.

“She drowned,” John lifted the police report and skimmed it over. “If she hadn’t passed out, why didn’t she swam to shore?”

Ophelia. A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind whispered.

“Was she wearing winter garments?” he directed the question to Molly.

“A large wool coat, and heavy winter boots,” she confirmed with a nod.

“She was pulled down,” he decided. Against his better judgment, his gaze fell on the woman’s face. “With the shock of the cold water, she would have tired out, especially so with the extra weight pulling her down.”

All he could see was Amelia.

“She could have been trying to come back,” John realized, his expression set miserably. “Second guessed herself...”

“She likely fell into the river after trying to get help,” Sherlock pointed to the woman’s address. “Ran out of the house, and stumbled along an embankment, and slipped in.”

The trio stood in silence, considering the sad fate of the woman in front of them.

His phone chirped with a text message from an unknown number.

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death

~~~

“He wanted you to figure out how that woman died,” John was summarizing when they returned to Baker Street near dawn. “To tie it with the clue from Jessica... why am I getting deja vu? Is he going to lead us on another round of crimes to solve?”

Sherlock tossed his coat on the hanger by the door, stewing over the text while the men made their way up the stairs to the flat.

“I just don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” John huffed from behind. “You’ve done this before. What’s the difference?”

Sherlock stopped short at the landing, gaping into the main living room of 221B Baker Street.

Photographs of Amelia were taped all over the room, plastering the walls and bookcases with candid images that seemed to range in date from her first few weeks in London to the day she was taken.

“That’s the difference, John,” Sherlock breathed, trying his best to steady his heart rate. “He wants to prove that sentiment is a detriment.”

“He’s trying to use her to distract you,” John translated. “He’s waiting for you to slip up, but what does that mean for Mia?”

Before Sherlock could reply, both their phones indicated new messages.

A video message, followed by a second text: “Happy Christmas.”

Amelia, looking fiercely defiant was slamming her hands against a metal wall, screaming a song out of tune. She was still wearing the jeans and oversized red sweater from Christmas Eve. Her blue coat was discarded on the floor.

There was no furniture or windows, so far as Sherlock could tell from the video.

“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong,” she screeched. “West Virginia, mountain mama take me home, country roads!”

There was a significant amount of background noise and the flicker of an unseen screen outside the view of the camera. She continued her rebellious shriek, clearly trying to be louder than whatever else she was exposed to.

The clip cut off from there.

“Alive,” John whispered first, his shoulders deflating just a little. "She's alive."

It certainly was a bit of good news in an otherwise depressing evening.

~~~

January 3rd

Nothing.

Sherlock rewatched the video religiously.

He’d left the photographs on the wall, walking through the room over and over, hoping for any indication of a clue.

Nothing.

John made sure he ate. Mycroft had called once, only to confirm that they had no leads either.

Even Jessica Reynolds texted him to inform him that Moriarty’s men hadn’t made their scheduled pick-up.

Lydia Brenner was almost hysteric when she called from a secured government line. She begged him to find her daughter, knowing full well what Amelia’s fate was otherwise.

~~~

January 6th

13 days.

He received another video message.

It had no sound and was short, a five-second clip of Amelia slumped over in a metal chair.

Same room.

New clothes.

He threw his phone across the room with a shout, nearly decapitating John in the process.

~~~

January 11th

A single red rose was sitting on the fireplace mantle after Sherlock and John returned from a crime scene.

When the detective stepped forward, he must have hit a tripwire because the television flipped on a scene from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.

“I know you I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam. And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I know you, I know what you’ll do-,” and the scene repeated.

Over and over as Sherlock studied the simple flower.

“Briar rose!” John guessed, looking to his friend with a satisfied nod. “That’s the princess in the movie and the story. She gets locked up by the evil witch and rose thorns overgrow the grounds to stop people from saving her. She had to have true love’s kiss to wake up.”

"Why do you know this?” Sherlock quirked a brow, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“I have a sister,” John shot back, growing defensive. “She was quite fond of the movie growing up.”

~~~

January 12th

Briar Rose Gardens is where they found the next clue, as well as a dead body, frozen on the ground from the cold winter air.

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,

Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden,

Shall send between the red rose and the white

A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

King Henry the Sixth. More Shakespeare.

More flowers.

At this point, Sherlock knew he was playing by Moriarty’s hand, whatever that may be.

At least, however, he was familiar enough with the Temple Gardens, practically dragging John along to their next destination.

“Rose plant… rose plant…” Sherlock was frantically searching the dormant gardens for the horned plants.

“Sherlock,” John held up a small envelope, a large rose plant next to him.

It was an invitation; a date and an address.

Chapter 18

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock/OFC #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #john watson #watson #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #OFC #OC #sherlock/reader #reader #sherlock/OC

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wsdo · 7 years

Text

Lazy Sunday

Wake up in the late afternoon Call Parnell just to see how he's doin (Hello?) What up, Parns? (Yo Samberg, what's crackin?) You thinkin what I'm thinkin? (NARNIA!) Man it's happenin (But first my hunger pangs are stickin like duct tape) Let's hit up Magnolia and mack on some cupcakes (No doubt that bakery's got all the bomb frostings) I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gossling (TWO!) No six! (No twelve!) BAKERS DOZEN! I told you that I'm crazy for these cupcakes, cousin! (Yo where's the movie playin?) Upper Westside dude (Well let's hit up Yahoo Maps to find the dopest route!) I prefer MapQuest (that's a good one too) Google Maps is the best (true dat) DOUBLE TRUE! 68th to Broadway (step on it sucker) What'cha wanna do Chris? (SNACK ATTACK MOTHERFUCKER!) [Chorus] Hit The Chronic (what?) cles of Narnia Yes The Chronic (what?) cles of Narnia We love The Chronic (what?) cles of Narnia Pass The Chronic (what?) cles of Narnia Yo stop at the deli, the theater's overpriced (You got the backpack?) Gonna pack it up nice (Don't want security to get suspicious!) Mr. Pibb and Red Vines equals crazy delicious! (Yo reach in my pocket, pull out some dough) Girl acted like she'd never seen a ten befo' IT'S ALL ABOUT THE HAMILTONS BABY Throw the snacks in the bag (and I'm a ghost like Swayze) (Roll up to the theater) ticket buyin, what we're handlin (You can call us Aaron Burr) from the way we're droppin Hamiltons (Now parked in our seats, movie trivia's the illest) What "Friends" alum starred in films with Bruce Willis? (We answered so fast it was scary) Everyone stared in awe when we screamed MATTHEW PERRY! Now quiet in the theater or it's gonna get tragic (We're about to get taken to a dream world of magic!)

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sugar-coated-machinery · 2 months

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Security Log 073

Audio Transcript Pending....

[Shuffling of papers]

JaB: Ah! Yes, here we go.

JaB: This is James Baker, recording on [REDACTED] for Security Log 073.

[The clearing of someone's throat can be heard]

JaB: Yes. Well, while today was fairly quiet for the nightshift - mainly me making sure everything was set out for the morning and organized accordingly during my patrols as usual.

JaB: However I did find that Mr. Webb had accidentally stayed behind speaking to some of the robotic staff to make sure no mechanical updates were overlooked during their last maintenance shift.

JaB: As Mr. Webb didn't have a ride back home and lived only a few minutes away, I elected to briefly step away from my shift to drive him back home. I'd say the trip there and back took about 20 minutes at maximum. [another cough is heard, an awkward silence rings in the air before the speaker continues]

JaB: It was a rookie mistake on my end. I acknowledge shouldn't have left. I uh- [A sigh echoes through the tape, the person on the other end seeming to struggle with admitting what happened] JaB: I found multiple items moved and misplaced when I returned. Nothing was stolen or damaged thankfully - but it's all very eerie. I investigated as soon as I noticed, patrolling, checking tapes, everything I could think of really. JaB: Whoever it was, was smart enough to cut the tapes. Erase their tracks of being here. JaB: I'd like to request a further investigation. JaB: End of Log [There's a clicking noise as the tape ends]

#fnaf oc #fnaf oc ask blog #fnaf ask blog #fnaf #[security tapes] - mr. baker #Security Log Sunday

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jamlocked · 7 years

Note

Sheriarty for Prompt #4, "Who did this to you?" is everything I need in my life if you are willing to write it. 💜

Bit of a rush job I’m afraid, but I hope you like it!

Sherlock doesn’t like the hospital at night. It’s as quiet as Baker Street; that is, long stretches of silence, made alive by the hum of streetlights and city - or now, corridor lights and the distant ring of the phone at the entrance to the ward. Silence that is never quite dead. But it’s broken at home by the warm rumble of a passing car, or a voice raised loud enough to make it from the street on the other side of the flat, and through to his bedroom. Here, the voices are too close. The machines are less friendly than cars, with their beeps and buzzing, and the lights that never disappear. Though, he supposes, the lights are a good thing. If he can’t see them, it won’t mean anything good. But he doesn’t have to like them.

It’s also too warm. And Mycroft’s security - along with the Met guards Lestrade has provided - means there are too many people who could open the door at any moment, and disturb…he’s not sure. Not his thoughts; no one disturbs his thoughts when he doesn’t want them to. Disturb something. His peace? Something. He can’t think. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s the pain, when he tries not to take the drugs. Maybe it’s the memory of that long, long, second, between the crack from the barrel of her gun, and the white hot agony tearing through muscle and skin, thudding through soft tissue, ripping, and ripping, and ripping…

…he pushes the button along his morphine drip, eyes closed, sighing at the flood of relief. He’s not prone to ‘what if?’ because his brain is quick to discard useless speculation. What if she hadn’t meant to miss? What if she’d gone straight for the heart? What if …no. He’s not doing this. Just because he can’t think, it doesn’t mean he has to give in to the banality of fear. It’s just the wrong sort of quiet, that’s all. It’s too warm, and too…beepy. And he knows she won’t be back; there is no danger of another bullet, not here, not now. Not from her.

His eyes cast around in the dark. Lestrade’s team sent a card that he no doubt had to bully most of them into signing. Various ones from old clients, and fans of the blog. Flowers from his parents. And one rose, with a card. A single W. He looks at it for a long time, watching the darkness morph its shape into a moving shadow, growing against the curtains stirring from the breeze. It could be a hand. An arm. A face. He closes his eyes and lets the morphine work, cold sweat on his forehead and prickling behind his ears. When he opens them again, the rose is just a rose, and there’s a figure standing by his bed.

He smiles weakly. ‘Wondered when you’d show up.’

‘You know me, Sherlock. I know just the right moment for an entrance.’

He can’t dispute it. He can’t move either. His eyelids are heavy, and his brain is mired in treacled fog, every word a thick drip, drip, drip into his mouth, struggling to rise free.

‘Sure I didn’t let you out.’ Stupid morphine. Stupid, lovely, morphine. ‘You look better like this.’

‘Compared to what?’

‘The straitjacket. I sometimes feel bad about the straitjacket.’

The figure is silent for some time. For once, Sherlock is not sure exactly how long. Things are hazy, and he doesn’t know if this is sleep, or what. He could be dying, but things are not beeping enough for that.

‘I see,’ it says eventually, and sits down on the chair next to the bed. ‘You prefer to think of me unfettered.’

‘Always.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I suppose you don’t allow it often.’

‘Never.’

He gets the impression of a nod, from a head that is whole, and with hair slick enough to bounce light off. It shines in the darkness behind his eyes; gleams in the imagined reality of this awful room.

‘Why are you here? You did your job.’

‘Did I?’

‘You made me…you said the right thing. You made me come back.’

‘How very altruistic of me.’

‘I never lose to you. I’ll never let you beat me.’

There comes a chuckle, and maybe a spread of hands. His suit is very dark. It’s difficult to see. ‘And yet, here I am. Free and whole. And I have so many questions, Sherlock.’

Sherlock frowns. That’s not right. He doesn’t usually have questions; he’s the one who sits there with the answers, and refuses to give them up.

‘Then ask.’

‘There’s only one that matters. And I know the answer, but I want to hear you say it.’

His voice is different. Less the joking trickster, laughing in his sleeve. More a snake, fangs locked in, ready to squeeze just enough to let the venom slide free. Sherlock thinks there’s a voice somewhere in his mind, screaming to be heard. A hand waving three miles out to sea. Something.

‘Ask.’

He hears a soft intake of breath. The curtains ripple. And there’s a touch to his chest, fingertips only, drawing cool lines on his heated skin. He catches a word between his teeth, and bites on it. The fingers pause, half on the line of tape at the edge of his dressing, half on his body. And then the palm falls flat, covering his wound as gently as a priest lays his hand on the head of a sinner.

‘Who did this to you?’

Sherlock’s consciousness gathers beneath that palm, aching and throbbing around the edges of his punctured body. There could be so much pain. But it doesn’t push down, that hand; it covers, holds. Protects.

‘Mary,’ he says, whispered to the air. ‘Mary did it.’

And nothing moves, and nothing changes. It is not a truth he has to come to terms with, or convince himself of. And it’s safe, isn’t it, admitting it to someone who now only exists in his mind.

The touch disappears. The figure stands, disappearing thanks to his black-on-black suit. Sherlock is breathing harder, losing the fight to keep his eyes open. He barely registers the brush across his lips, and the whisper next to his ear. But the smell; he remembers the smell. That cologne, the hint of spice. The old-fashioned styling wax, which reminds him of wood, and takes him back to Oxford. And mint. Peppermint. Fresh, barely chewed. Jim.

‘You rest easy,’ is what he hears. ‘I’m going to make it alllllll better.’

‘But-‘

‘Sshhhh, Sherlock. Sleep now. And remember-‘ another brush, speaking so close he can imagine the soft pull of stubble against his cheek, ‘no one kills you but me.’

* * *

Sherlock wakes in the morning to find Mycroft in the chair, and the air filled with new things, yet to be spoken. The morphine has been turned back down, though he doesn’t remember doing it. The pain makes him begin to heave against the fog, pulling himself towards clean air.

‘What happened? You’re not saying something. Say it.’

Mycroft sighs, but it’s not impatient. He appears to be trying to pick his words for once. ‘It’s Mrs Watson, I’m afraid. Mary. She’s…’

‘Missing?’

‘No. We know where she is. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but-‘

He tunes out. He thinks, John. He thinks…he thinks nothing, he can’t, he can’t breathe. He thinks…of peppermint. Tastes it in the air. Breathes it over his lips.

‘Leave. Go and find John.’

‘I hardly think I-‘

‘Go.’

‘Sherlock, if you know something…’

Sherlock stares forward. The rose stands as it did last night, only it’s still just a rose. Straight, and blood red, and alive. The card that came with it has been turned the right way up, and he can’t believe he never saw it until now. Not a W. Never a W.

‘I don’t know anything. But you can take the guards off the door.’

Always, ever, an M.

#sheriarty #ficlet #sherlock holmes #jim moriarty #mycroft holmes #fic prompt

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rozalinne-blog · 7 years

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Toxic - Chapter 1

Jim Moriarty laughs, laughs loud and eager. His laughter is so evil that it freezes the blood. He enjoys it, likes blood and sweat mixed with tears, desperation on her face is the greatest reward.

The plan has begun.

221B Baker Street.

Sherlock playing his violin and John reading the newspaper in the mornings was commonplace. Mrs. Hudson arriving to ask Sherlock to stop playing so early. Same routine every morning. After the Jim Moriarty scandal on the throne wearing real jewels, there was no interesting case for the detective.

Jim Moriarty was excluded in a maximum security cell. Everything was under control. But there is always a but.

Sherlock's cell phone rings, John looks up at him.

"You're not going to answer?" He asks

"Busy" he said, leaving his violin.

John rolled his eyes and looked at the newspaper. Sherlock sat down in his chair, bored. There are footsteps on the stairs. Steps that Sherlock recognized. The door opens to welcome Mycroft Holmes.

His appearance was impeccable, a gentleman.

“What brings you here? I'm busy" Sherlock said before letting him speak.

"I think what I'm going to tell you will get you out of your boredom, brother" he replied.

"Surely" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Jim Moriarty has escaped.”

"How?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his attention to his brother.

"That's impossible and you know it." Sherlock paused to see his brother's face closely. "There's something else you have not said, Mycroft.”

“He did not go alone, you must accompany me to a place to help in this case, you must collaborate in everything that we need, since it has gone with a person that you know. You must tell us everything you know about her.”

“She?” John asked

Sherlock's eyes widened for a few seconds, tried to calm down, swallowed the knot that wanted to form in his throat.

"How do you know it was he who took her?" Sherlock asked, standing up.

"You must see for yourself, brother.”

John looked at Sherlock for information.

"Molly Hooper" he said, grabbing his coat and scarf. The scarf he received from the pathologist at Christmas, rightly.

John's face was filled with concern. The three men climbed into the black car that always carried Mycroft everywhere. Sherlock noticed the car heading toward Molly's house.

"How could that have happened? In such a short time, how has it happened?”

"We only know that Moriarty escaped, helped by his people obviously, but we do not know the reasons why he left with your friend Sherlock, you know?" Mycroft asked, looking at him coldly.

"She's not my friend, she's just a colleague" Sherlock said as coldly as his brother.

"Sherlock!" John said

"I told you it was a disadvantage, Sherlock" Mycroft said calmly.

"Shut up, you can’t be more wrong."

Molly's house was nearby. Only 4 more blocks. On arrival there were pick-up trucks with equipment, many people coming in and out collecting clues.

"I don’t want anyone to come in while I'm there" Sherlock asked.

"That will be so" Replied the elder Holmes.

Sherlock joined with John to Molly's house. It was a complete disaster. Everything was thrown, broken, out of place, it seemed that someone had fought against her whole house. There were broken glass on the floor, the refrigerator door was stained with blood, the kitchen floor had drops with blood as well.

"Here's the proof of why he took her Sherlock" John said from Molly's room.

Her whole room was destroyed. Only Molly's bed was intact, there was something on top of her pillow. There was a braid of the same color as her hair. Sherlock picked it up carefully, felt a chill run down his spine.

"Turn around Sherlock" John said.

Sherlock turned quickly. His heart pounded as he read the message on the wall.

"I will make her see hell, make me pray that take her life, you will never see her again" “I have your permission after all”

Sherlock squeezed Molly's braid tightly in his hands, the message was written in blood.

"Her blood" he thought.

Sherlock stormed out of the room. He could not control himself, put the braid in his pocket and clenched his teeth hard, he wanted everyone to disappear, he wanted to make a thousand pieces of the whole department.

Mycroft appeared before them. "I have this for you" he told Sherlock.

A small tape recorder was over Mycroft's hand. Sherlock took it.

"Listen it alone" Mycroft ordered, "then you'll give me explanations."

Sherlock felt a heat rise over his body. He turned to Baker quickly. When arrives John gives him his space to be alone. He locked himself in his bedroom, only a lamp lit his room. He pressed the button to listen.

The tape begins.

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simplysherlockfanfic · 8 years

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Connection Twenty Five

Connection. Read Chap One here. Two. Three Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty One. Twenty Two. Twenty Three. Twenty Four.

Sherlock x reader

Summary: an American forensic psychologist hired by Mycroft Holmes. You thought it would be more interesting and fulfilling than your previous job with a law firm in London but you had no idea how much it would change your life. Or really, how much one person would change everything.

Word Count: 4196

**Spoilers for Series Four: The Dying Detective and The Final Problem**

Your name: submit What is this?

Greg Lestrade was walking toward the body that had been reported twenty minutes earlier at dawn. Molly had gotten to the scene almost at the same time and walked by his side with her crime scene bag in hand. She had been rambling about a television show until she tapered off when they saw a pair of legs sticking out amid the pile of garbage bags.

They continued to the body in relative silence both preparing themselves for what they could find while officers moved around them finishing taping off and securing the perimeter. The upper half of the body was covered by a garbage bag and Molly quickly snapped a few pictures then Greg lifted the bag and carefully set it aside. The face was obscured by her hair. Another few shutter clicks.

“It’s just not possible. She would never be so reckless.” Molly took her time surveying the area before kneeling down and gently pulled the hair away then recoiled slightly. She glanced up at Greg who stared at the damage with a look she didn’t like. “You’ve got to be joking. She would never, not with Will.”

He pulled his gaze from the body and looked Molly in the eye. “Will is at Baker Street. I took him there myself just yesterday.” He looked back at the battered face then down to the three bullet holes in the torso. “Will said bad men were chasing them and she threw him in a cab, sent him to me.”

Molly clamped her mouth shut as she looked back to the woman’s face that was no longer identifiable on sight. “No. If it was her, they wouldn’t have had…” she shook her head and stood up straight, “no. I don’t believe it.”

“Hey, you need to get back!”

Both Molly and Greg whipped around at the officer’s tone. Greg cursed under his breath at the sight of the cameras moving in from across the street toward the mouth of the alley then shouted, “who let them up the block?”

“We just got here how did they get the tip off so quickly?” Molly tried blocking the view with her own body.

Greg turned to the few officers nearby and barked, “get something up to block this area off.”

“Like what?”

“A tarp! Sheets! Your jackets! I don’t bloody care, just do it!”

Molly grabbed the white sheet from her bag and draped it over the body until they could actually secure the scene. “Now, I really don’t believe it. This is just some dressed up part of someone’s sick game.”

Greg nodded then shoved his hand through his hair, “but we don’t say anything to them until we’re positive. Absolutely positive.”

Molly looked down, pivoting slightly away from Greg as she tucked her hands in her pockets. “I know. I know what that would do.”

Greg watched her, his concern evident in his brow as he gave her a sad smile, “still?”

She cleared her throat as she squatted by her bag, “how about we get this area secure so I can do my job?”

“Right.” Greg turned and strode toward the officers still rummaging for a proper blind. He said a quick prayer that he hadn’t lied to Will yesterday and hoped Molly was right. All of this wouldn’t be needed for the real thing. Hopefully.

John jabbed his key into the lock and brushed his hand over Rosie’s head with a few soothing sounds as he rushed through the door and up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, the door to the flat was open and he walked in to find Sherlock at his laptop typing away. He heard Mrs. Hudson talking with Will in the kitchen. John stared at Sherlock but his friend didn’t acknowledge him. “Have you heard from Lestrade?”

“No, and I don’t expect to for a few hours.” He continued typing and scrolling.

“So, you heard.” John walked over to the desk and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. He was scrolling through search hits and typing another set of keywords before scrolling again without a response. He nodded, “okay, how did last night go?”

“It’s not that difficult to put a child to bed.”

Rosie whined and John unhooked the baby carrier. “Right.” He rolled his eyes as he pulled Rosie out, “what are you doing?”

“Research. What are you doing?”

“I can’t tell if you’re pissy because you didn’t get a lot of sleep or if that’s just me.”

“Did you just call me pissy?” Sherlock finally looked away from the computer then smiled at Rosie. John opened his mouth then closed it and shook his head. Rosie was babbling and reaching toward Sherlock when Will yelled from the kitchen.

“Uncle John!” Will jumped down from the table and bolted toward him. John handed Rosie to Sherlock who picked her up as he stood.

John turned and squatted just in time to catch Will. “How did you sleep?”

“With daddy.” Will gave him a tight squeeze.

John glanced up at Sherlock. “So, good then?”

Will pulled back and looked up at Rosie. “Baby Rose.”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other then Sherlock squatted down and turned Rosie around with her back against his chest.

Will turned and reached out with wide eyes, “hiya, baby rose.” He closed his hand over her small one and she looked at him, suddenly quiet. “I’m Will.” Rosie squealed and kicked her feet. Will giggled as he held his hand out for her to hit.

“You know Rosie from a picture?” Sherlock said watching them with a smile.

Will nodded without taking his attention off Rosie. “Mama had her picture up on the wall with Uncle John and Mary.” His eyes widened and his gaze shot up to Sherlock. “Mama’s puzzle!” He spun around and clapped his hands on John’s cheeks, “I have her puzzle!”

John winced and Sherlock asked, “what puzzle?”

He ran over to the couch where his book bag still sat from yesterday. He grabbed his bag and carried it over to the middle of the floor as he opened the front zipper pocket then overturned the bag showering the floor with papers.

Mrs. Hudson walked over and Sherlock handed Rosie to her as he squatted down near Will, his eyes scanning the papers as Will began to flip some over and move them around. Newspaper clippings, pictures, post-its, and scraps of paper. He spotted an article on a poisoned unidentified boy and another on a sniper victim. He knelt down and picked up a post-it with The Woman scrawled on it. He looked to Will who worked diligently moving papers around the rug until an order started to appear.

A piece of yellow legal pad paper with Sherlock written in her careful script was placed at the top and directly below it, a small circle of six post-its that Will was putting the pictures carefully above each corresponding name. Us, John and Mary, Nana, Grands, Greg, Molly. With a small space just to the right of the circle, Will placed a picture of Mycroft with a rare smile over the post-it with his name.

“She’s been working on the cases.” John pointed to the articles on the sniper victims and the notes scrawled in the margins- S&J’s cases.

“It’s a game. A thinking game.” Will said, plucking the post-it from Sherlock’s hand and placing it by Mycroft’s post-it. He found another post-it and placed it under Mycroft’s. Shooter from Bart’s? MORE INFO.

At the very bottom of his puzzle, under the newspaper articles, Will arranged two final post-its. Moriarty and His Watson- Shooter? was printed with her perfected handwriting she mostly used when she was in clinic mode and then under His Watson in a harsher scrawl with all capital letters, MORAN.

Will pointed to the small circle underneath Sherlock’s post-it. “The inner circle. People you trust that he knows.” He pointed to Mycroft and The Woman, “people you repect.” Then he waved his small finger over the news stories, “this is the setup but mama didn’t tell me more. I tried solve it but mama said some riddles can’t solve cuz not met to.”

“You said that he knows, who’s he?” Sherlock watched Will and he pointed to the post-it at the bottom. His Watson.

Sherlock glanced up at John whose brow was drawn together as his gaze flicked back and forth between the papers and Will until he caught Sherlock’s glance. Their gazes met briefly in a silent communication that they’d had before when it came to Y/n. She had once again surprised them but this time there was more fear for what she might be wading into at that very moment.

Will picked up the picture with Rosie and carried it over to her, “look Rose. It’s you as a wee baby!”

Rosie kicked and squealed in delight. Mrs. Hudson frowned at Sherlock and John who were still scrutinizing the papers on the floor. “Alright boys, clean that up so Will and Rosie can play. That’s no place for that sort of thing.”

The two men glanced at the kids then began carefully picking up each piece of her puzzle keeping it in the relative order that Will had created.

The lock on the back door of Mycroft’s house was hideously easy to pick and the passcode for his alarm even more embarrassing. You found his kitchen and had a hard time finding something edible. There was nothing in the fridge except some take out leftovers and your stomach growled even though the smell that emanated from his fridge should’ve turned you off.

A quick search of the cabinets and you finally found an old box of crackers. You sat on the counter chomping the stale offering and thought out your next move. You wondered if Vic got your message and if she understood it at all.

Noise near the front of the house drew you from the kitchen and the front door opened, the alarm beeping its warning and then silenced with the correct code. You remained hidden in the back hall until you heard her voice.

“I told you she wouldn’t go back to Baker Street. She wouldn’t put him in danger. She’s not at the safehouse so the only other bet is the office.”

Mycroft stepped into the hall and looked toward the back of the house. You stepped out, “you’re security is appalling.”

Vic stepped into the hall with a grin, “a coded message? Really?”

You shrugged as you walked toward them, “I had two men on me with some nice tech. He shot at me and there was no sound, none, except for the whiz of the bullet by my ear.”

Mycroft’s brow rose and Vic’s scrunched together as she exclaimed, “but it’s… it’s just not…”

“Almost not,” Mycroft added as he moved into what you could only assume was his sitting room with two high back chairs in front of a fireplace and a small table with a decanter of amber liquid and four nicely polished glasses. “It’s possible, just for an extremely high price. Ever try pressing a gun with a silencer to a pillow before shooting? It muffles it even further and with enough environmental noise, that type of sound could blend in quite easily on a busy city street.”

You watched Mycroft pour three glasses. “Will did make it safely to Greg then?”

He glanced at you with a nod, “he’s safe at Baker Street. I received a few phone calls asking about you of which I had no idea.” He handed a glass to Vic who gladly accepted but you shook your head.

“I’d prefer something edible, you know besides these stale crackers I managed to find in your poor excuse of a kitchen.”

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and quickly dialed then looked at Vic, “would you like to bring her up to speed?” Vic watched him leave the room with narrowed eyes.

“Did you hear from Taylor?”

Vic glanced at you then shook her head, “he didn’t make it.” She cleared her throat and pointed to the chairs, “let’s sit.” You shot her a glance but followed her over to the unlit fireplace and took a seat. “So, Sebastian’s dear sister… you know how I said I didn’t recall him having a sister?” You nodded and she glanced toward the hall where Mycroft disappeared. “Well, prior to five years ago, he didn’t.”

“How..?” You leaned forward dropping your head in your hands feeling the lack of sleep and all the running hit you hard. You were more drained than you had been in a long time. “Another spy?”

“Ah, no.”

You peeked up at her from behind your hands. “What?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m exhausted. Can we…”

“No need for the language. This is my part of the story.” You sat up at Mycroft’s voice and watched him walk over to the table where his glass still sat. He picked it up and swirled the liquid while he looked at the window.

“Well?”

He glanced at you and sighed, “she’s my sister.”

You blinked then looked at Vic before turning back to Mycroft. “I’m sorry I didn’t think I had any alcohol but…”

“My sister Eurus who was supposed to be locked up in a secure facility has made her way to London.”

“What the fuck?”

Mycroft’s brow shot up, “all families have secrets.”

“You’re messing with me,” you cackled. It sounded wrong even to your ears.

He watched you as his face slowly shut back down into his business facade. “No, I most certainly am not.”

You fell back into the chair and stared at the dark fireplace. “I don’t…”

“No one knew,” Vic murmured. She was so quiet you wondered if she had moved away but with a glance, she hadn’t.

“Mycroft?” You turned in the chair and looked up at him, “why do you have a secret sister?”

Mycroft didn’t move his attention from the window this time, “because a long time ago, our family was… shaken by a tragedy and we did our best to fix it. It was hard for my mother to talk about after they supposedly died and Uncle Rudy convinced her it was better for everyone if we moved on.”

You looked at Vic and she shrugged. “Come the fuck on! Whatever happened…” You stood from the chair and turned to Mycroft, “how do you just erase someone from existence? I’ve been to that house…”

He studied you as he spoke in an even tone. “To anyone searching, Will doesn’t exist. Not on paper, at least. Are there any pictures floating around of him or just a few you have carefully given to those you trust?”

You looked away knowing he was right. You took Will away for a little over a year, sure the neighbors probably wondered in the beginning but who would really know except the ones who knew what had happened. If you had lost Will would you want reminders all over the place? People asking constantly what happened? You looked back at Mycroft. “But your mother and father… she was their daughter.”

He frowned and looked at the window, “she has a photo album in her room but besides that, we lost almost everything in the fire Eurus set. We moved, they were taken away, and we continued on.”

Vic’s voice was calm but insistent. “We need to know what we’re dealing with and we need all the information we can get. If your sister is working with Moran…”

“I’m sure she is and it’s all my fault.”

You walked over to him and touched his arm. His head snapped in your direction with a look of contempt that didn’t quite sell because of his eyes. There was a touch of fear you had never seen before but you didn’t take your hand away, “you need to tell us what she’s capable of so we can figure something out. I can’t sit on my ass just waiting for her to make a move.”

His brow scrunched, “you’re not going to like it.”

“Sherlock has a secret sister that he doesn’t even know about and she possibly wants us all dead. Yeah, I’m sure I’m not going to like it.”

“You keep saying they,” Vic piqued your interest with her low tone that had an unmistakable edge. She was staring at the floor with her muscles tensed almost poised on the edge of the chair ready to pounce. She was onto something, you could almost feel it in the air and vibrating in the back of your skull.

“Yes. Eurus was the intelligent half of a pair. She had a fraternal twin that not only lacked her intellect but a lot of things.”

You looked at Mycroft, your eyes widening. “It’s never twins.”

“What?”

You shook your head, “nothing. Well, I’m guessing there’s a long story coming. When is the food going to be here?”

“Minutes, hopefully.”

Thirty minutes later, you were slumped over in a high back chair with the food you had hastily eaten turning in your stomach. “So, she…” You squeezed the bridge of your nose, “locked away a boy and…” you flinched as a deep sense of dread curled in your chest.

Vic was leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees as she stared at the empty glass in her hands reflecting the fire now crackling in front of them. “But why does Sherlock think it was a dog?”

You could feel Mycroft’s eyes on you. “Ask the child psychologist.”

You turned to Mycroft sitting poised as ever in a chair he carried in from another room, his suit jacket draped nicely over the back. You were expecting a smile but there was nothing there. His face was blank as he stared at the dark window.

You answered for Vic, “a traumatic experience can be repressed, completely blocked out, to help you to cope but changing one or two aspects to something more bearable is a common coping strategy too. If the stressor exceeds a person’s ability of coping, the brain can rewire to help ensure survival. After a long period of time, especially for a young child, those painful memories could be forgotten completely but to repress a whole individual, I mean it wasn’t an area of study but I think I maybe came across a handful of cases and they all dealt with abuse.” Your eyes widened as your gaze jumped back to Mycroft. His grip on his glass was too tight and you caught the flare of anger and contempt on his face.

“So, why hook up with Moran?” Vic changed the subject, you didn’t argue but your mind was stuck on the abuse factor and the look on Mycroft’s face.

“Moriarty’s number one sniper? Why not?” Mycroft fired back.

“But you said this meeting was five years ago, why wait til now?”

“Does it really matter?” Mycroft snapped.

You glanced between the two and replied with a calm tone, “because there had to be a reason she waited so long.”

“She was incandescent but I’m sure it took her a lot longer than a few days to get a hold of and reprogram enough of the right people. I had given explicit orders…” He gritted his teeth.

“Yes, well, it’s a facility with people. I’m sure there were a few who felt bad for the poor crazy girl who wasn’t allowed any human contact.” You tried to keep the judgment out of your voice but you could see by his reaction that you failed.

“I was doing the best that I could. You never saw what she could do.” A haunted look passed over his face before he once again shut it down. “Sherlock is good, I am… Well, she was just far more than you can imagine.” He grimaced, “Sherrinford despised us all but he loathed her for it.”

Vic piped up this time, “I thought Sherrinford was the place…”

He looked up with a pale facade of a smile, “one of those rare true coincidences, I’m afraid.”

“He wasn’t the only one.” Vic bit out.

Mycroft didn’t flinch. “He actually did die in the fire that moved Eurus to her new home.”

Vic looked horrified, “Jesus! That’s just…”

“Cruel.” You whispered. It was the only word that fit but it felt… harsh. You were all getting too exhausted to keep a calm head with this kind of topic.

Mycroft brushed invisible crumbs from his pants, “Uncle Rudy was never…” he shrugged half-heartedly and looked more tired with each word. “I continued what he started because it was the only option available.”

You wished you could have another set of ears, another person who could think clearly about this. You still couldn’t be sure that Moran and Eurus were completely in this together. “What about Mary? She and I could track Moran while you…” You looked at Mycroft and froze. “What?”

His face slackened and then he rolled his eyes. “Well…” He glanced at Vic and you turned your gaze on her.

“What?” You saw the flash of worry across her face you had seen so recently. “Vic?” Her eyes finally came up to yours but what you saw sucked the air from the room. “What?” Your gaze shot to Mycroft, “are you…” You pressed your hand to your mouth and dropped your gaze to the floor. The pain in your chest finally forced you to drag in a breath. “How?”

Vic squeezed your leg, “I’m so sorry. I heard while we were on the plane and I didn’t know how to tell you. She was shot…” You found her gaze and the unshed tears lingering there, “saving Sherlock. That’s why he went to the therapist or at least, why I thought…”

You dropped your head as your own tears blurred your vision. It was like a cannonball had been launched at your chest and tore a huge chunk of your middle out. The pain was immense and then suddenly, you were numb. “John?” You choked out.

“Had a bit of a breakdown as you can imagine but things have improved recently. I’ve been told.” Mycroft spoke matter of factly and you turned toward him but couldn’t see his face. His head was down, his hands folded together in his lap. His head lifted, “is there anything else you would like to know?”

You jumped up from the chair, your chest heaving, “no! But I would like to see some goddamn human decency!”

“All people die…”

“SHUT UP!” You shouted then bit down, “just for once, could you pretend that you understand. She was my…” You were about to say friend but you couldn’t even get the word out. You squeezed your eyes shut hearing the words you had said to her that last Christmas before you and Will disappeared. Most moments with her were tense after that, even though you didn’t give her as much of a silent treatment but you never even got the chance… to give her anything more. You strode from the room not trusting your own voice.

You wound up back in his small kitchen and dropped into a chair then laid your head on the table with nothing but thoughts of your best friend. The man who had helped you through hell and so much more.

You missed the birth of his child, you missed the first year of her life, and you had been absent when his wife died and he was left to mourn alone. They were both left to mourn without someone they truly trusted. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were probably there for them, John would allow them to help with Rosie but he wouldn’t reach out for help for himself and neither would Sherlock. Yet Sherlock went to a therapist. You thought back on the bruises and tenderness, was it really only a few nights ago? How tired he had gotten so quickly even though he had tried to keep it hidden. He was still battling back from something and you wondered if maybe it was more than just drugs.

You felt cold, drained, and numb but you didn’t have the time for a breakdown. You shut it down, quickly slamming the brewing misery into the furthest compartment in your mind and sealing the cabinet shut tight, locking it for good measure. You cleared your throat and felt a searing pain in your leg. Your nails were digging into your thigh and you shook out your aching hand while rubbing your thigh with the other. You didn’t have time for this now. They didn’t have time for this. You needed to find Moran, needed Mycroft and Vic to figure out what the hell Eurus was up to, and you needed some sleep so you could pull yourself together.

Tomorrow was only the beginning and if you needed to push Mycroft to get home to your son then you would push him past his own limits to end this. There was no other option, you spent long enough running and hiding.

Next Chapter

@missmotherhen , @run-your-cleverboy, @samanthasmileys , @panic-at-space-camp , @trash-trashaf , @whaledenwtf , @http-steve-rogers , @dead-lee-15 , @changingtimes , @hcndredwolves , @whatthehellisacastiel , @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked , @foureyedsiopao , @gurlwitafro , @redeyed-winchester

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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Justice Department hasn’t interviewed key Russia probe witnesses

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/justice-department-hasnt-interviewed-key-russia-probe-witnesses/

Justice Department hasn’t interviewed key Russia probe witnesses

But in the five months since Attorney General Bill Barr tapped Durham to investigate the origins of the Russia probe, and whether any inappropriate “spying” occurred on members of the Trump campaign, he has not requested interviews with any of the FBI or DOJ employees who were directly involved in, or knew about, the opening of the Russia investigation in 2016, according to people familiar with the matter.

The omission raises questions about what, exactly, Durham—alongside Attorney General Bill Barr—has been investigating.

Those not contacted include former FBI counterintelligence agent Peter Strzok; former FBI general counsel Jim Baker; former chief of the National Security Division’s Counterintelligence and Export Control Section David Laufman; and former head of DOJ’s National Security Division Mary McCord. Former CIA Director John Brennan, Trump-Russia dossier author Christopher Steele, and former Trump adviser Carter Page—who was the subject of a surveillance warrant that is now under investigation by the inspector general—haven’t been contacted for interviews, either.

Combined with reports that Barr has traveled with Durham internationally seeking evidence from the U.S.’s closest intelligence allies, Durham’s apparent lack of interest in the FBI at this point suggests that he and Barr are focusing on examining the intelligence community’s role in the Russia probe—and, in accordance with Trump’s desires, looking at whether the help provided by U.S. allies in the Russia probe, including the U.K., Italy, Australia and Ukraine, may itself have constituted foreign interference.

Former attorney general Michael Mukasey, whose son Marc represents the Trump Organization and is a longtime confidant of Trump attorney Rudy Giuliani, recently speculated in a recent Wall Street Journal op-ed that Durham may be trying to determine whether “Federal Bureau of Investigation tried to get evidence from Ukrainian government officials against Mr. Trump’s campaign manager, Paul Manafort, to pressure him into cooperating against Mr. Trump.” Mukasey also noted that, according to a recent Justice Department statement, “certain Ukrainians who are not members of the government have volunteered information to Mr. Durham, which he is evaluating.”

The new revelations about Barr and Durham’s work and travels also present the clearest contrast yet to the Justice Department’s internal investigation into the Russia probe origins, led by the DOJ’s inspector general and focused on the FBI’s conduct. That probe remains ongoing.

“The question Durham and Barr now seem to be asking is, ‘How was this information fed to the bureau in 2016?” said one former FBI official. “That’s distinct from what the IG has been looking at, and seems to indicate that their theory now is the FBI itself was duped by the intelligence community and its overseas partners.”

A tweet sent out by Republican Sen. John Cornyn on Friday suggested that the inquiry is also broader than has been reported. “Now, the Trump Justice Department is investigating foreign government influence, VP Biden conflicts of interest, and possible corruption,” he wrote, referring to Vice President Joe Biden. But a Cornyn aide said the senator meant to say “that the Durham investigation could end up also looking at the Bidens,” not that it already was. The Justice Department declined to comment.

In his phone call with Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky on July 25—which Trump’s national security team delayed for months because they were wary of how Trump’s fixation with conspiracy theories surrounding the origins of the Russia investigation would be reflected in the call, according to former officials—Trump asked Zelensky to do him a “favor” by looking into Ukraine’s role in the 2016 election, and suggested he connect with Barr “to get to the bottom of it.”

Trump also asked the newly elected leader to investigate Biden and his son, who sat on the board of directors of an oil and gas company that at one point was investigated by Ukraine’s top prosecutor. Ukrainian officials on Friday announced a fresh review of why that probe was shut down.

The Justice Department has denied that Barr received any instructions from Trump to work with the Ukrainians on a Biden investigation. But Barr’s reported personal involvement in Durham’s probe suggests the attorney general has been more closely overseeing an inquiry of deep importance to the president than was previously believed.

Durham, for his part, appears to have trained his focus on the intelligence community, reportedly seeking interviews with the CIA analysts who drew conclusions about Putin’s motivations in 2016. Trump’s allies have been fixated on the question of how the intelligence community determined that Russia intervened specifically to help Trump win rather than to just sow chaos and distrust in the Democratic process. Some accounts have suggested that the intelligence community had a human asset in Putin’s inner circle, though others have indicated that the U.S. used signals intelligence to intercept conversations among Russian officials.

As POLITICO first reported, that question has already been asked and answered at the CIA’s highest levels — by Mike Pompeo, a Trump loyalist. Just after Pompeo took over as CIA director in 2017, he conducted a personal review of the CIA’s findings, grilling analysts on their conclusions in a challenging and at times combative interview, people familiar with the matter said. He ultimately found no evidence of any wrongdoing, or that the analysts had been under political pressure to produce their findings.

George Papadopoulos, another Trump campaign adviser who has repeatedly declared that the entire FBI investigation was a setup by Western intelligence services including the British, Australians, Italians and CIA, twice declined to comment when asked whether he’d been interviewed by the prosecutor.

Papadopoulos pleaded guilty in 2017 to lying to the FBI about his own contacts with a Russian-linked professor named Joseph Mifsud, who told Papadopoulos in the spring of 2016 that the Russians had “dirt” on Hillary Clinton in the form of thousands of her emails.

That disclosure, which was relayed to the FBI by an Australian diplomat who heard about it from Papadopoulos, is what the FBI has said spurred its initial counterintelligence investigation into Trump campaign associates with links to Russia. But Papadopoulos has claimed, without evidence, that Mifsud was actually a plant, sent by Western intelligence officials to entrap him and give the FBI an excuse to open an investigation.

Mifsud’s whereabouts remain unknown. But Barr reportedly asked Trump to solicit the Australians’ help in the investigation. And he and Durham recently traveled to Italy to investigate the events that led up to Mueller’s probe—and, as part of that, to reportedly hear a taped deposition Mifsud gave on the subject months ago.

#Foreign #Politics #Probe #witnesses

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shontaviajesq · 6 years

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Send an Email to Betty Jean Owens, a Living Civil Rights and Women’s Rights Heroine

Happy Black History Month, y’all, for the 49th time in American history. As we head into Black History Month this year, I’ll be sharing little-known moments in history that reflect the multifaceted ways in which black people have contributed to America’s tapestry.

I won’t assume that just because this history is new to me that it is also new to you, but the things I highlight will assuredly be new (or at least new-ish) to me, despite getting what felt like ALL the lessons from my parents growing up. It felt like we had every story book, coloring book, VHS, and album/tape/CD on black history. So, these people and moments in history weren’t there.

I was today years old when I first learned the incredible American history story of Betty Jean Owens, who is still alive and living in Florida. Thanks to technological advancement, this lesson started via Twitter.

The first day of Black History month will always be dedicated to my unsung hero. Thread. 👇🏾

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

Betty Jean Owens is an African American woman who was brutally raped by four white men in Tallahassee, Florida in 1959. Her trial was significant in Florida, and the South as a whole, because the white men were given life sentences for their crimes.

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

To provide more context for this harrowing experience, check out this excerpt from Professor Danielle L. McGuire’s article, "It Was like All of Us Had Been Raped": Sexual Violence, Community Mobilization, and the African American Freedom Struggle:

On Saturday, May 2, 1959, four white men in Tallahassee, Florida, made a pact, one of their friends testified in court later, to "go out and get a nigger girl" and have an "all night party." That evening, they armed themselves with shotguns and switch- blades and crept up behind a car parked alongside a quiet road near Jake Gaither Park.

At about 1:00 a.m. on May 3, Patrick Scarborough pressed a sixteen-gauge shotgun against the driver's nose and ordered Richard Brown and his companions out of the car. Dressed in formal gowns and tuxedoes, the four African Americans- all students at Florida A&M University who had spent the evening dancing at the Green and Orange Ball-reluctantly stepped out of the car. Scarborough forced the two black men to kneel, while his friend David Beagles held the two black women at knifepoint.

When Betty Jean Owens began to cry, Beagles slapped her and told her to "shut up" or she "would never get back home." Waving his gun, Scarborough ordered Richard Brown and his friend Thomas Butterfield back in the car and told them to leave. As Brown and Butterfield began to move toward the car and then slowly drove away, Edna Richardson broke free and ran to the nearby park, leaving Betty Jean Owens alone with their attackers.

Beagles pressed the switchblade to Owens's throat and growled, "We'll let you go if you do what we want," then forced her to her knees, slapped her as she sobbed, and pushed her into the backseat of their blue Chevrolet; the four men drove her to the edge of town, where they raped her seven times.

Wikipedia describes what happened next this way:

Edna Richardson and the other two male students were able to make it back to their car and went to the local police station to report what had happened to them.

The officer on duty that night was a nineteen-year-old intern, Joseph D. Cooke, Jr. To the surprise of many people, he called for back up and searched for Owens. The officer spotted the assailant's car and a chase ensued.

Eventually, the men pulled their car over and the muffled screams of Owens could be heard from the car. She was bound and gagged on the backseat floorboard. The four men were then arrested and taken to jail. The four men did not take their arrest seriously and joked with each other on the way to prison. All four men confessed in writing to having abducted Owens at gunpoint and raping her.

FAMU’s students quickly organized deep, large-scale support for their classmate who had been so brutally attacked. Thousands of students demanded justice for Betty Jean Owens, and their large, vocal protests garnered national and international attention. The below picture shows over a thousand FAMU students who gathered on campus to demand justice for Betty Jean Owens.

Prominent civil rights leaders like Ella Baker (described by some as the most prominent female organizer in the Civil Rights Movement) and Martin Luther King Jr. followed the events closely and praised the students for their organization and strength in the face of enormous difficulties. Reverend King noted that FAMU’s students gave "hope to all of us who struggle for human dignity and equal justice." Check out his May 1959 letter to the students:

Even the BBC, a British public service broadcaster, ran footage of the protests. This attention, catalyzed by black students at FAMU, was impetus behind a grand jury being called in May of 1959.

So many things make this story so amazing. Betty Jean Owens survived, and thousands of her college classmates mobilized to ensure that her attackers were found and brought to trial. All in the 1950s Jim Crow South.

The attackers did not anticipate any of this. Recall that they joked about raping Betty Jean Owens as they were being arrested and driven to jail by the police. Even though the men voluntarily admitted to doing it, they pled not guilty and had an entire trial (check out the smaller headline from The Famuan campus newspaper - “Men Confess: Yet Plead ‘Not Guilty’”).

Betty Jean’s classmates showed up in full force to support her at the trial. The below photo shows FAMU students sitting in the courtroom at the trial. #SquadGoals

Betty Jean Owens bravely testified against them in open court in front of a crowd of roughly 400 people. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for her. While I do not want to give too much attention to the four attackers, it is worth noting here that their defense essentially revolved around trying to discredit Owens by describing her as a “jezebel” who voluntarily had intercourse with all of them.

Betty Jean Owens’ testimony was critical in securing the four convictions and subsequent life sentences.

This was the first time such a significant sentence had been given when a white attacker raped a black woman. In many other cases, white men either received no punishment at all or merely had to pay minimal fines. as was the case with Recy Taylor’s rapists in Alabama in 1944.

Tragically, Betty Jean Owens was not left to alone to heal physically and psychologically after this traumatic incident. Nor has her story been told with the same reverence of other civil rights-era events. Many people have never heard her story—and there’s a very tragic reason why.

My professor was giving a lecture on the civil rights movement, and how we weren't far-removed from that era. He said most of the people who fought for our rights are still living amongst us. He began to tell the story of Betty Jean Owens.

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

After telling her story, my professor told us about how recently during a commencement ceremony, the President of FAMU called Betty Owens out of the audience to render homage. Being from Tallahassee, this story was interesting to me because I had never heard of Betty Jean Owens.

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

At the time, I was living with my grandparents. When I got home I asked my grandmother (who's also from Tallahassee) if she had ever heard the story of Betty Jean Owens. Before I could tell her what I learned that day in class she began to cry. I asked, "Grandma, what's wrong?”

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

" She said, "I am Betty Jean Owens." 🙊 #BlackHistoryMonth #PayingHomage ✊🏾#BettyJeanOwens

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

I wiki'ed her and saw this little gem. In 1965, David Beagles, one of her attackers, was paroled. 4 years after he was released, he tracked down a woman he thought was Owens and murdered her and buried her in a shallow grave. However, he murdered the wrong Betty Jean.

— Teresa B. Love ❄️🌊🌈🇺🇸⚖️🗽 (@partingsorrow) February 1, 2019

Yes, this is why she held on to her story for so long, for fear of “retaliation”.

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 2, 2019

After all of this, Betty Jean Owens essentially had to keep her mouth shut, for fear of being murdered by one of her attackers, who had tried but killed the wrong woman.

I don’t know if your mouth fell open like mine did when I read the last tweets about what happened with the grandson and the attacker-turned-murderer, but whew chile, the hatred certainly ran deep.

Betty Jean Owens deserves all the accolades for surviving this. She serves as an important historical link between both the civil rights movement and the fight for women’s rights in this country.

The other striking point is that we are not far removed from the Civil Rights Movement. Betty Jean Owens is STILL ALIVE. As are some of her attackers. Incredibly, the dude who got out and murdered the wrong Betty Jean had his murder conviction overturned because inadmissible evidence had been admitted at his murder trial. He was actually out roaming free for some period until his apparent death in 2016, according to the Florida sex offender registry. No wonder Mrs. Owens never told anyone her story.

Today, however, is a new day. Her grandson, who wrote most of the tweets about this story, has even started a movement to send her letters of appreciation.

https://t.co/q05kg0GUGJ

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 1, 2019

Send all letters to [email protected] . Thank you. 🙏🏾

— Amontè L. Martin (@AmonteMartin) February 2, 2019

If you are so inclined, please take a moment to send an email of gratitude to Betty Jean Owens at [email protected]. As the original tweets point out, many of the people responsible for moving our country forward during that time are still alive. Black History Month is about more than remembering a few vestiges of some long-ago time. It is about giving people their flowers while they are still around to enjoy them.

Betty Jean Owens’ strength, in facing her attackers in the 1959 trial, helped make it possible for survivors today to speak up in ways that seemed impossible for women during that time period. She was the #METOO movement before there was a #METOO movement.

The four convictions in the Owens trial showed that the lives of black women could still matter in communities mired in hate. While we still have a long way yet to go, Betty Jean Owens is a pioneer whose groundbreaking efforts moved the needle in a positive direction.

We are, today, seeing the fruits of the sacrifices made during that time. Betty Jean Owens deserve our appreciation now.

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