#WE LIVE IN SCOTLAND IT'S DARK ENOUGH

[thedreadvampy]

My life is full of people who are like "as an Autistic I despise the Big Light" and that's so fuckin valid but unfortunately as an Autistic who hates partial sensation (and has poor vision) I despise the Small Light. squinting gives me a headache and makes me notice flickering more. doesn't this make you guys tiiiiiired?

starting to feel like I'm the only autistic person who WANTS THE BIG LIGHT ON. MAXIMAL LIGHT. FEED ME DELICIOUS PHOTONS. RB IF U AGREE.

[missmonsters2]

What We Are

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Wanda discovers all the things that Vision's done for her that have made her heart flutter was your idea.

Warnings: it's not angst...but it's not not angst. Also not beta'd.

Note: why do i feel bad for stealing vision's thunder. Also I will fix my mistakes later when I mortifyingly see them later :-)

Reminder there's no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Masterlist || Library Blog || AO3

Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

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It was a Tuesday when Wanda dropped by. 

The rain had been pouring relentlessly, and she had magicked herself to your front door, but even so, she was still soaked to the bone. It was late June and just a few minutes past dawn when you heard the hesitant knocks on your door. 

The years of working for Stark have made you paranoid as you check through the peephole carefully to see who could be at your door. Your heart constricts momentarily when your eyes land on familiar red hair and those melancholy green eyes. 

You opened the door, swallowing as you took her in. Drops of rain dripped down her cheek, almost like tears, as you let her in. 

"Wanda," you blinked, the questions building in your mouth but unsure which would come out first. You settled with, "let me get you a towel."

You opened the door wider to allow her to slip through wordlessly before shutting and locking it with a soft click. The rain outside pours relentlessly that it almost feels deafening in the silence. 

She stood in the hallway between the kitchen and your living room. Wanda looked around the quaint home you've built for yourself and felt even more lost. 

You returned with a dark navy towel, sighing as you sling it over her wet head, gently drying her hair. "What's the point of using your magic to get here if you're going to get soaked outside anyway?"

Wanda didn't say anything, just allowing herself to be under your care. 

This is familiar. 

It was a time before Vision and just a little after when Wanda began to see him too. Then, it was Vision's job to take care of Wanda, and all of it went away—you went away. 

"You should take a hot shower," you told her. 

"I don't really catch colds anymore," Wanda mumbles softly. 

"Lucky you, but you're still dripping on my floor and your nose is all cold and red. I can't imagine the rest of you is toasty warm," you smirked at her, and Wanda wanted to tell you that the tip of her ears was hot, but then she'd have to admit she was blushing. 

You guided her upstairs to the bathroom, gave her a towel and a set of comfortable clothing, and told her to use anything she felt like using. Once she finished, she could meet you downstairs, where you'd be making breakfast. 

Before you left, Wanda's quiet voice stopped you. "Thank you." Her voice is hoarse like she's about to cry. But it was sincere, and you gave her a light-hearted smile to put her at ease. 

"It's good to see you, Wanda."

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Wanda's skin feels warm and soft, the bath doing her wonders. She hoped you hadn't been waiting too long, but Wanda couldn't resist taking a soak first. She wiped the bathroom mirror of the fog and looked at her reflection. The bath helped return some color to her skin, but she still looked tired with her dark circles.  

Wanda only towel-dried her hair just enough to ensure it wouldn't drip on your floor. She felt only a little embarrassed to be given clean underwear by you but not a bra. The clothes you give her are soft, comforting, and smell like clean linens and leaves. 

This is crazy, Wanda thought. 

She hadn't seen you in months, and prior to that, it was always sporadic and brief. 

Wanda hadn't known what compelled her to show up at your door, but she knew much of it was due to loneliness. 

Everyone was gone.

But Wanda had hardly slept and hated how Scotland looked suddenly and decided that Portland would be better—Portland—where you've been living for years. 

The smell of bread, honey, and mushroom soup filled the air when she left the bathroom. Her stomach rumbled unabashedly, and she was glad you couldn't hear it. As she entered the kitchen, she found you chopping dill and parsley. 

"Hey," you looked up at her, smiling as she fidgeted with the ends of her sleeve. "Have a nice bath?"

Wanda nodded, giving you an awkward jilt of her lips meant to be a smile. "Thanks. Did you need help with anything?"

You shook your head. "Should be finished any moment now. I wasn't sure how hungry you'd be with it being so early but I thought something warm would be nice. Why don't you take a seat? I left out some bread, butter, and honey for you."

Wanda felt something crawl at the back of her throat as she sat. It was such a traditional breakfast, and it reminded her how Vision once tried to make paprikash for her. 

"I'm sorry," Wanda said suddenly. "For just showing up here."

You were silent. The sound of your chopping paused momentarily before it resumed again. "It's fine," you told her. "I mean, I wish you'd call in case I wasn't home. It would've been awful for you to stand out there alone."

But Wanda didn't know how to explain that your unused phone number was more daunting than just showing up. She didn't know how to explain anything. 

"Are you not often home?" Wanda asked instead.

You hummed. "Not often, but occasionally I do consulting work for some non-profit companies. It gets boring being retired sometimes."

Wanda nodded. 

It was lonely being retired alone. She had looked around your house and found no pictures or indications that you might've been seeing anybody. It brought forth something strange that she didn't know how to identify, so she placed it aside to be forgotten. 

It was quiet again, and Wanda felt restless. There were just so many feelings inside that she couldn't sort them. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream. She was relieved. She was anxious. She was a mess.

"Breathe, Wanda."

The words were unexpected. She sharply looked up to find you not even looking at her as you squeezed lemon juice into the pot. 

Taking a deep breath and releasing it quietly, Wanda was pretty sure she just wanted to cry now. 

"I'm sorry," Wanda repeated. She didn't know what else she could say. "I know it's been a while since we've last seen each other—spoke to each other. And now I'm here, and I've shown up unannounced and taken a bath, and now I'm wearing your clothes—I must seem crazy to you."

You just started to laugh, coughing lightly to cover it up when she gave you a look. "You don't have to explain anything to me," you told her, stirring the pot before grabbing some plates. "I know it's been hard."

There was a pause as if you were hesitating to say it before you decided to. "You miss Vision."

The words instantly hit the back of Wanda's throat and made her eyes water. "Yes," she could barely get a single word out.

"I know," you told her softly as you came over with a bowl of mushroom soup that looked amazing, but all she could smell was her own salty tears. 

Wanda couldn't hold it in then as she placed her elbows on the table, her face in her hands as her shoulders wrack. "I can't believe they're all gone. I keep waking up and expecting to see him. I feel like I can't breathe. It's not fair. It's not fair."

You rubbed her back, and she leaned into you, the familiar feeling of it all like it was just yesterday she was at the compound, alone and confused after losing Pietro. 

Wanda didn't even know what you did for Stark, but you were always around. You showed her to her room, gave her Tony's stream services passwords, and gave her a list of all the shows and movies she was to catch up on. 

Wanda wondered where all of that went, and she could only vaguely remember ending when Vision was beginning. But Vision was different. He had said something so profound that it had given her the courage to keep moving on. 

"I know," you told her, brushing your fingers through her soft, damp hair. "You have a lot of love to give and nowhere for it to go. It's just what grief is, Wanda. And if you're grieving, then you're persevering."

Wanda stiffened in your arms. 

It was so familiar. It was just a rewrite of words she's heard before—words she had never told anyone else. 

"Did Vision tell you that?" Wanda thought wryly as she straightened herself to look at you.

You looked momentarily confused before guilty and awkward. You let her go, but Wanda hung on. 

"Did he tell you?" Wanda pressed on. "Those words—did he tell you that they were the biggest reason I could keep going?"

Wanda looked so angry. The idea of being betrayed by someone she loved sharing something so private had you sighing. 

"No," You reassure her. "Vision didn't tell me."

"Then why—"

"I told Vision that." You cut in, the words leaving your mouth in a tumbled mess that was awkward and clearly made you uncomfortable. 

Wanda sat there with mild shock on her face.

"You...?"

You rubbed at your brow, taking in a tired breath. "Vision was very interested in you, and he came to ask me why you were silently holed up in your room. He knew what grieving was, but he didn't understand it like we do. Not yet, anyway," you muttered.

Wanda looked at you. You looked tense and reluctant to share any of this information, and she didn't understand why.

"I told him because you were grieving, but you also still had love to give. I told him he doesn't understand yet because he's always been alone and is lucky to have never lost anyone. You can't grieve what you've never lost," you had a distant look in your eye, and Wanda wondered if you were reliving this conversation with him.

"I told Vision that you were going to be okay, though," you shook your head as if brushing the memory away. "Grief was just love that had nowhere to go; it is persevering through loss." 

The words rock Wanda much harder than they did years ago. Maybe because the truth behind the words that had given her way when she was lost was actually from you. 

You, who let her show up at your door unannounced. You, who would always let her show up at your door unannounced. 

You have always given her a way to remain still, a way to return, and a way to move forward. 

"Why wouldn't you tell me?" Wanda's voice cracked.

It cracked because perhaps before Vision, she thought there might've been you. It never came close to anything, but Wanda still felt it. And that's why she showed up at your door on a Tuesday in late June just a few minutes past dawn. 

You shrugged. "You seemed interested in Vision too. Curious, at the very least. We...I never really knew what we were. Friends, I think, at that time. Just barely, though."

Wanda remained quiet. The mushroom soup was going to go cold soon, but you didn't seem to mind as you tore a part of a piece of bread into uneaten chunks. 

You seemed thoughtful. "I used to think we were just a case of 'almost'. Almost friends. Almost teammates. Almost something and almost nothing." You turned to her and gave her an unsure smile. "But now you're here on a Tuesday when I had been considering an hour before you arrived that even almost is gone."

Wanda replayed the words in her head and felt the unease she was experiencing the last few months slip away. She's still grieving, but just as you said, it was just her love having no place to go. 

But...

Wanda looked at you as she took hold of the spoon and scooped some of the soup up. She's sure in time, her love will have a place to go again. 

"Did you tell Vision anything else?"

You smiled at her as you also began to eat. 

"I told him you'd appreciate paprikash. I can't take responsibility for him following my instructions wrong, though."

[sirenjose]

Hunter Norton Backstory Trailer Analysis

As a rule, the sons of miners follow the occupation of their fathers. Once Norton’s father died, and his mother also likely dead by then too, he had no other choice but to become a miner if he wanted to survive. Especially with how poor they likely were, Norton’s father (and mother) likely left almost nothing for their son, forcing him to work hard to support himself from a young age.

Based on Norton’s comment about living like a “rat” for 20 years, as he is 28 in the present, Norton’s father potentially died when he was 8 (his mother potentially died before then), leaving him an orphan.

A Mine Regulation Act in 1872 prevented children under the age of 12 from working underground. Until then, he would likely have been kept to surface work, such as:

Sorting and transporting materials

Loading and unloading transports

Assisting with general maintenance and cleaning

Delivering messages

Etc…

An Educational Act in 1870, which applied to England and Wales, made schooling compulsory for boys between the ages of 5 and 10, while an Act in 1872 applying to Scotland made school compulsory for kids between 5 and 13.

Once he reached the age of 12, the Regulation Act in 1872 would continued to limit his work hours, which prevented boys between 12 and 16 from working more than 54 hours in 1 week or 10 hours in 1 day. It also required them to have 8 to 12 hour breaks between “periods of employment” (defined as starting when they leave the surface and ending when they return to the surface).

Once he was old enough, regular miners were expected to work at least 12 hour shifts (though this varied from mine to mine) on weekdays. And we know from Norton’s deduction 2 that he worked longer than any of his coworkers, while his 3rd letter states, as a habit, he enters the mines at least 30 minutes before the others.

Conditions in the mine were hot, musty, and cramped (as mine owners didn’t want to spend extra to make them bigger), increasing the chance of accidents. We can actually see just how narrow the tunnels usually were in the trailer.

Miners also worked in complete darkness except for lighting they had to buy themselves. In fact, they had to buy much of their own equipment.

Unfortunately, wages for miners were incredibly low back then. Miners were paid by the quality of what they produced rather than by the hour, giving owners plenty of ways to reduce how they could pay their miner (including by lying about the quality or rigging the scales).

The average wage of coal miners in the 1880s was somewhere between 3s (s = shillings) and 5s per day, with around 4s being closer to the normal, and 5 only if you were lucky. 4 shillings was about $1.20. Generally though wages varied greatly in different districts. After spending on equipment, food, and rent, they could be left with maybe no more than 1s.

Going back to the trailer, it says “Blasting Agent – Mercury (II) Fulminate”. This is an explosive compound made from mercury, nitric acid, and ethanol. It was commonly used as a primary explosive in percussion caps and detonators during the 19th century. When struck or subjected to a shock, it would rapidly decompose and produce a violent explosion. Its role was to initiate the ignition or detonation of the main explosive charge, such as dynamite.

This is the stuff that we see him pouring into the dynamite.

Continuing, we see Norton smiling at a coin, but then his wrist is crushed by the other miners, who steal it from him, taunting him to try to take it back.

Norton actually smiling at the coin helps show Norton’s desire to get out of poverty, an idea he emphasizes later when he describes poverty as a “curse”.

But as we see in the Famitsu Article, people didn’t understand why he tried so hard. It “intimidated” them. Then in Norton’s 2nd letter as well as in this trailer, we see that he was ridiculed by his coworkers. They didn’t think it was possible for him to achieve such a goal. This is reflected with how essentially, at that time “Englishmen recognized if he is in a certain social grade, he is likely to remain there. He’ll never reach a higher class, and didn’t rebel”. Each class “cheerfully” accepted “the lot which providence has assigned” to them.

Norton was different though. He says in the trailer “I once thought the same” after it talks about sons of miners became miners themselves.

He may have initially accepted the same thing everyone else did, but things likely changed over time, the longer he was forced to live this sort of life.

There’s also a good chance part of his change was from working with people like Benny. He learns from them to improve himself (and hopefully improve his chance at earning more), but he also sees how these old miners are, which emphasizes in his brain he doesn’t want to end up like them. He doesn’t want to end up in hospice or stuck in poverty his whole life like they did, just waiting for the day they die.

Norton worked hard, harder and longer than everyone else, in the hopes eventually this would be enough to improve his life, to make it even slightly close to what most would consider a comfortable life, even if it meant only the basics. But it wasn’t enough. The mine owners were greedy. The other miners were all in it only for themselves. His wages were miniscule, and his daily and weekly expenses pretty great. Especially with how back in that time period, mine owners had ways where they attempted to keep their employees indebted to them, to force them to keep working for them, as well as improve their own personal profits as much as possible.

Norton was surrounded by these sorts of people forced to live in such a cruel environment, watching the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. This is reflected in his 2nd letter where he says “This is simply unfair. The poor find it difficult to lead a comfortable life, while all the rich need to do is wave their banknotes around”. He describes all the pain he’s gone through just at the chance to “climb up” out of poverty before describing “how much effort I put into this” as “ridiculous”.

His hard work is exemplified by his 3rd deduction, which describes how he’s done so well his employers always attempt (but fail) to keep him for longer. He works to learn, to improve his skills, and better himself at the chance at earning more and thus potentially work his way out of poverty faster.

We can also see it during the trailer, with him surrounded by all these books and other things.

This quality of his, where he likes to teach himself, to learn, and to improve himself has been implied at other points by Netease, such as by several of his skins or even from part of other collabs, like B.Duck, which described Norton as “full of curiosity” and “likes learning”. It also described him with a “desire to act at MAX” or “highest level of execution”. This means he’s the type of person to put all his effort into whatever he does.

It just wasn’t enough.

We even see the sort of suffering this life has forced him to endure, as in the trailer it shows him coughing due to the damage his lungs have suffered due to his life as a miner.

Hard work wasn’t enough. This is why he eventually turned to the list of 13 mines he learned from Benny, seeking to instead attempt to escape poverty by finding gold.

As explained by @metalIurgy and @Deskdeas, each of the names on this list are European mines or people.

(Also, there seems to be 15 names total on the list, rather than 13)

Von Donnersmarck: House of Donnersmarck, prominent aristocratic family that originated in the region of Silesia. Owned mines.

Georg Wilhelm: Russian military officer and engineer who specialized in mining

Prince Konstantin: prince of Russia, killed in a mining shaft

Ștefan Procopiu: physicist who researched electricity and magnetism

Friedrich Alfred Krupp: German industrialist, developed Krupp steel manufacturer and arms manufacturing company

Saarbergwerke: mining company that operated in the Saarland region of Germany

Romeria: religious pilgrimage (Spain or spanish speaking countries?)

Petro-pavlivska (''Петро-павлівська''): black coal mine located in the Eastern part of Ukraine

Nova Baňa: silver and gold mining site in central Slovakia.

Swansea Copper: Welsh copper mines

Eramet: French multinational mining and metallurgical company

Ivan Polzunov: Russian engineer known for his contributions to steam engine technology

Wowdcole: ?

(Sorry, I can't read the 15th name crossed out in the top left corner of the list)

We know from Norton’s 5th deduction that he tried and failed to find anything at any of the other 12 mines, leaving him with only Golden Cave left.

Back to the trailer, we see him with a map.

The left side looks like it should be a map of Lakeside and the surrounding area, with Golden Cave being the X at the base of the mountains. Count Barriere is the owner of this land, and also the owner of Golden Cave. The right side should be the representation of a map of the mine itself.

Considering how earlier Norton’s coworkers stole Norton’s coin, it’s possible they essentially tried to do the same thing here. Saw him looking at the map, then took it for themselves. Like how Norton’s 8th deduction includes “you need more helpers”, they may have forced him to take them along, and why they explore it on their own without Norton. Especially with the looks on their faces in that scene not showing they had any good intentions.

(A lot of what I’ll say next is said very well by @Yaboku_samaa)

Norton seems to have set all this up in advance, before they came through the mine.

Next we see Norton’s inner conflict. A conflict between morals and vengeance represented by survivor Norton vs Hunter Norton. His Hunter side manages to win out by telling Norton that this is what they deserve, it’s revenge for all the pain and ridicule he’s been put through, all in silence, all without fighting back. He’s forced to keep a façade. To keep his true feelings hidden if he doesn’t want a penalty or reduction in wages. He’s tired of having to live such a hard life of constant suffering and humiliation and hopelessness, and thus why he had hit his limit and the side represented by his Hunter version won out.

(I’m not going to push the idea too much, but it’s possible Norton may have bipolar disorder. That or DID, especially with how he literally talks to himself in his 2nd letter. Especially as both can form in children or young adults who experience long-term physical or emotional distress or abuse. Causes can include childhood trauma (like neglect, abuse, trauma, losing someone like a parent), stressful life events, genetics, etc…)

This decision is shown during the trailer when Norton says “There are ways to make a change”.

Norton’s 2nd letter does an accurate job of summarizing everything:

“Over the last 20 years, I lived like a rat in the gutter. I spent days under the ground in the dark just so I could earn a minimal living. Scars from the blasts crawled all over my face like maggots. The constant scorn and ridicule... I endured it every time just so I'd get a chance to climb up the ladder. It's ridiculous how much effort I put into this—anyway, I've finally managed to crawl out from the rat hole. I no longer have to pick and pull on the disgusting ash. Those who did nothing but laugh at me deserve to stay underground and be stepped on like maggots forever.”

And the trailer visually showing Norton’s inner conflict matches up very well with how quite clearly Norton in his 2nd letter is arguing with himself. The side represented by Hunter Norton is likely the version talking right now, trying to convince him (the side represented by Survivor Norton) to kill the female, “think about how arrogant she is” and all the money he’d get. The fact he is trying to convince himself shows that Norton doesn’t want to do it, and how he isn’t willing to do anything for money. His hatred for his coworkers for their treatment of him for so long was enough for the side represented by Hunter Norton to convince him to trigger the explosion on them, but that motivation doesn’t exist here. Right now, his less moral side is trying to motivative him with money and thinking about others as “arrogant” and essentially mean, as well as the doubt that she could do something to him.

But that may not be enough to convince him next time to actually do it if he’s given a chance. At Golden Cave, that was his last chance to try to find gold. He’d gone through 12 other mines (and 20 years of pain on top of that) with nothing to show for it. Norton may be very stubborn and determined, but even he was growing so very desperate, which is shown well by Norton’s 5th deduction as well as by the trailer itself. So it makes sense that Norton was mentally not in the right place and vulnerable to the sort of temptation we see him going through in the trailer.

Norton is alone. No family. No money. Suffering from lung problems. Has never been shown kindness and forced to grow up in a very cruel environment. The only thing keeping him moving forward and losing all hope is by focusing on his goal of getting out of poverty and achieving some form of a comfortable life with at least the basic necessities. This is shown very well by Norton’s 4th birthday emote “Savings”, where Norton takes out a single gold coin and thinks about simple worn clothes and a loaf of bread, while the description reads “Endure it, Norton. You’re almost there”.

For years he attempted to push on, but little by little, his coworkers, his employers, his environment, it all chipped away at him until he felt he had no other choice. I believe the trailer does a good job of emphasizing how his main motivation wasn’t greed but desperation, hopelessness, and the pain he was subjected to by his coworkers and everyone. It’s life or death, and this mine is his last chance, and his deep misery that pushes him over the edge, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t care about anyone anymore. He’s always been alone, always had to be the one to look out for himself. No one else could be trusted. They would only take advantage of him or even potentially steal what little he had. Yet even still he hesitated to pull the trigger, which I think says a lot about Norton.

Despite the decision being made, he doesn’t run after he sets off the explosion. He accepts what happens. There’s no way he didn’t know what was going to happen, not with how long he’s worked as a miner, and how much he’s learned in his own time. It could be the side represented by his survivor version sees the scar as punishment for his deeds. It could be he knew if he wanted to get his revenge he had to deal with the potential scars.

But he was here not just for revenge, but for the chance at finding gold. Hunter Norton’s character backstory says the accident brought Norton “Golden Luck” or “a gold rush of fortune”, so it sounds like he did find something.

We do know he at least found the meteorite, which is what he made his magnet from, so this could be what is referred to in Hunter Norton’s backstory.

Along with the above, we could connect whatever his “golden luck” was with Memory’s comment during Time of Reunion, where she says “they seemed to be looking for something other than ore”.

This is repeated during AoM with a newspaper clipping about rumors being false of precious metal ore in the mine.

Considering Golden Cave’s rumor is “despite not a single piece of gold was ever found, Count Barriere still got what he wanted with this land”, these statements should be talking about the same thing.

It’s possible Barriere was after the meteorite, especially as the only things we know that came out of that mine after it collapsed were Norton and the chunks of the meteorite he carried.

There are potential parallels from Lily’s essence, which connects to Golden Cave, and her essence story says “The mine is filled with special phosphorescent ores, which brought wealth to their ancestors but also cursed them with phosphorescent illness”. Considering in the famitsu article it says the magnet aka the meteorite may have been affecting his brain, it’s possible the “phosphorescent ores” is meant to parallel the meteorite.

If that is what Barriere is after, maybe there’s a chance he reached out to Norton afterwards, and he could’ve been the one to offer Norton all that money in exchange for killing some female. Especially when we know Count Barriere has a lot of money based on Lily’s backstory, as he even offered her enough to survive for 2 years and even more via making her the owner of the IOU likely belonging to Orpheus for him buying Oletus Manor.

Anyways, we also know from Norton’s 3rd letter that he “dug his way out through a mountain creek a few dozen meters away from the mine” with only “minor burns”. We also know from the Famitsu Article that people didn’t talk to him, they said a bare minimum then kept a “wide berth”, and considering the very visible scar on his face, it is possible this was the reason they avoided him (they were frightened of him. Like we see at the end of the trailer, it is possible people saw him as a “monster”, especially back then when these sorts of things weren’t treated or seen as kindly as today).

[snapeaddict]

Snapetober Day 30: Ghost + Minvember Day 2: Scotland

This is a real folktale, very slightly modified, from Uist, Scotland. It was recorded by M. F. Shaw from the bard Seonaidh Caimbeul.

"Have we not celebrated enough? The pumpkins? The gory food? The costumes? What more do you want, headmaster?"

Albus took a seat next to Severus, settling himself in the armchair rather carefully as he was holding a teacup, full to the brim. He merely smiled.

"You did not even dress up, Severus. And I was thinking - what about ghost stories? It would be a nice way to finish the evening. Wouldn't it, Minerva?"

The Potions Master rolled his eyes. He was still standing next to his chair, his arms folded and a usual scowl on his face; those who knew him well, though, could tell, after scrupulous observation, that there was a hint of amusement in it.

He sat in the armchair next to him unceremoniously, as though he had been forced to and not merely - and very civilly - invited to join the group. 

"I know one", Minerva replied, handing him a cup of tea with a cunning smile. "My mother told it to me when I was a girl. It is from Uist, I believe."

"Indulge us, Minerva", Severus muttered, accepting the hot beverage. "Albus seems to be in dire need of embracing his inner child tonight."

"And you should too, sometimes, my boy", the headmaster remarked humorously. "It would do you good."

"Now that sounds properly terrifying."

"Should I tell it, yes or no?" Minerva interrupted them, her eyebrow raised. 

Her expression was very teacher-like. Albus Held up his hands apologetically. 

"Pardon us, my dear. Do proceed."

Minerva put down her cup and cleared her throat, dusting her robes as she gathered her thoughts. Around them the staffroom was dark, save from the halo of light where they were sitting: it emanated from the fireplace behind them, and in it, the embers were dark red.

"There was a shepherd who lived in his father's cottage, on the high slope of Beinn Mhòr. He had a wife and a daughter, and the daughter was deaf and numb. His father was a very old man of a very evil temper, and one night he fell ill, and died. So the husband and his wife placed him in a bier, and the shepherd set out to town to bring back people to help him carry the body. The mother, with her little child, sat next to the fire in silence."

In the fireplace, a piece of wood, almost entirely consumed, fell from the burning pile with a thud.

"Suddenly, the mother heard the corpse move. And so the child looked up and spoke her first words: "Grandfather is rising. He will eat you; but he won't touch me."

Albus cast her a horrified glance.

"The mother caught the child and fled to the nearest bedroom", Minerva continued, "and she bared the door with everything she could find. The corpse rose and came to the door, and he began to dig away the earth under the lintel with his white hands. The mother and her girl saw his fingers, then his arms, then his head appear - but at this moment the cock crew and he led completely still."

At this point, even Severus had stopped sipping his tea.

"The corpse was there until the shepherd came back with men from the village and lifted him back onto the bier. The mother and child watched as he was pulled below the door, his horrible smiling face disappearing last. They buried him in a graveyard on the north side of Loch Eynort, at a place called An t-Uchd uidhe. There is a hole where he is buried, and you can still see it to this day."

Then, with a content smile and innocent countenance, Minerva picked up her teacup, humming softly while both her colleagues stared at her with their mouths hanging slightly open. Their own tea was long forgotten.

"That's your children's ghost story?" Severus finally said, pulling himself together. "That's the kind of bedside story your mother told you as a child?"

Minerva smiled facetiously.

"That's the Gaelic spirit for you, dear", she replied in an angelic tone.

"He will eat you, but he won't touch me?"

Albus still had not spoken. The Potion Master, turning his head slightly, glanced at him quickly. Then, turning back to Minerva, he said ironically:

"If he cannot sleep tonight and ends up knocking on your door, that is on you and the Gaelic spirit."

[padfootagain]

Where We Kept Our Magic (IV)

How We Parted

Hello lovelies! Here is a new part for my Muggle!Reader AU!! I hope you like this new scene, tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Sirius Black x Muggle!Reader

Warnings: it’s a little sad :(

Summary: You and Sirius meet when you’re still young, and yet you fall head over heels for each other. But everything gets complicated when you learn that Sirius is a Wizard! Now, your whole world has to be reimagined. -This series is made of many independent snippets taken from Sirius and Muggle!Reader’s lovestory –

Word Count : 1792

The weather isn’t so warm anymore. September is upon you and with it, a cool breeze has settled over London. The trees remain green and lush for now, but you know they will soon colour themselves in warmer tones, before letting their leaves fall.

Sirius is lying in the grass, by the Serpentine. His head on your laps, he lets you run your fingers through his hair, heaves a content sigh at the soothing feeling. It’s a quiet afternoon, or perhaps it’s only getting late, and families are home already. But Sirius has no intention to move. After all, you’re here, with your fingers in his hair, why would he want to leave?

Besides, tomorrow morning, he’ll go King’s Cross station, run through a wall and board the Hogwarts Express. And then he’ll be off, just like that. Just like that…

He doesn’t see how this can work. How can he even write to you? He can’t use an owl… Euphemia and Fleamont have offered to go the post office, but Sirius is reluctant. He doesn’t want to bother them…

Still, he doesn’t want this to end. He likes you. An awful lot. Actually, he’s starting to truly fall for you, all the way down towards love, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud or to even think of the word. It’s too hard for him. After living with his family, love is too close to hatred for him to look at you and think of that word. After all, there isn’t an ounce of hatred in his heart targeted towards you.

Anyway, this is not the point. The point is that he’s about to leave for Scotland, and you won’t. The point is that he has no clue how to contact your properly. He’s given you a fake address that will lead to the Potters’ house so you can write to him, but again, he doesn’t want to bother them. He bothers them enough already…

“What’s going in this busy head of yours, honey?”

Honey. You’ve started calling him that about three weeks ago, and he adores it. It sounds so sweet, so much like you in your yellow sundress. So unlike him, in his dark t-shirt and heavy boots. So unlike him, with his name tainted with night…

Sirius merely hums in response, closing his eyes again, the leaves of the oak tree you’re leaning against disappearing beyond his eyelids. You don’t let him get away with it so easily though, he’s almost endeared by it. He would have been, any other day, if the wait of separation wasn’t so heavy on his heart today.

“Sirius? You’re alright?”

He shrugs. He knows he’ll give up in a few seconds, your fingers are too gentle as they get lost in his hair, your warmth too soothing.

He looks up at you again. He’s put his leather jacket on your shoulders about half an hour ago, before he lied down, because he noticed you were shivering. You look adorable. You look beautiful. He never wants this to end. He wants to keep his jacket on your shoulders forever…

“Just… a little sad that I’m leaving,” he admits. “Which is weird, cause I’ve always been eager to go to Hogwarts before.”

You nod, a small smile on your lips.

“Is it because of me?”

“Who else could it be? Certainly not because of Jackie, she’s insufferable.”

“You like her. And she likes you too.”

He can’t refrain a smile at that. He’s surprised when one of your hands leaves his hair to reach for his fingers instead.

“I don’t want us to break up,” you admitted, earnest and suddenly vulnerable, perhaps more so than what you intended.

“Me neither.”

“I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you to come back. It’s only a few months before Christmas. Besides, I’ll write to you, daily if you miss me too much.”

Your tone is teasing, but Sirius winces, and your heart shudders at the sight, a crack runs through the porcelain of it, ready to break altogether.

“You don’t want me to write to you?”

You see Sirius hesitate, and you hate it. And he knows you hate it. It hurts him too.

“I want you to write to me,” he finally answers, after a rather long pause, choosing his words carefully. “But you can’t write directly to my school, it won’t work. And I don’t want to bother the Potters too much…”

Slowly, you nod.

“I see. I understand. Perhaps… not too often?”

Slowly, he nods. He looks worried now, sad even. And he is.

You run your thumb across his knuckles, the tip of your fingers grazing his silver rings, the metal cold against his warm skin.

“They’ve already taken me in after I ran away last summer… I don’t want to be a burden.”

Slowly, you nod. You don’t ask anything, even if Sirius guesses that questions are burning on the tip of your tongue. But you don’t ask. About his family, about why he ran away… you never do. And he’s grateful for it, but sometimes he wonders why you don’t.

Are you afraid? Or simply kind?

He sits up without warning, and his back is almost to you now. He heaves a sigh, putting even more distance between the two of you, and you hate it.

Still, you don’t ask.

His eyes drift towards the river, towards the dirty, muddy water filled with lost feathers. A group of swans swims away, without taking a single look back.

“Sirius?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re okay?”

“Of course.”

A pregnant pause. An expectation. You take him aback with your statement.

“I don’t want you to leave. I’ll miss you.”

The ghost of a smile grazes his lips, he reaches for your hand, but doesn’t turn to you for now.

“I’ll miss you too.”

His hold is a little too tight, you know he’s holding back. You’ve grown used to it. Gently, you splay a hand across his spine, the fabric of his t-shirt soft under your palm despite the dust and the dry grass that have clung to the material here and there.

“Please, don’t hold back,” you ask so gently, Sirius’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s our last afternoon together before Christmas. Don’t hold back. What’s bothering you?”

He clears his throat, the tears gone, replaced by a tightly set jaw.

“You never ask.”

“What do you mean?”

“You never ask about my family.”

You shrug.

“I know that it’s difficult for you to talk about it. I reckon… that you’ll tell me more about it when you’re ready. I don’t want to push you, if you’re not ready.”

At long last, he turns to look at you again, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, anyway…

He hesitates before speaking again. Because it sounds silly. He reckons you won’t understand. And it would hurt a lot more than he can admit. But there’s a weight on his heart, and he wants to lift it, even if it can’t last for long.

“I’m going to see my brother at Hogwarts.”

“Regulus?”

He nods.

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” he confesses. “I miss him. But… I also hate him.”

“Do you hate him? Are you simply angry?”

He considers the question. It’s a little too accurate, and he smiles.

“Yeah… I think I’m angry. I’m angry he chose to stay. I’m angry I can’t protect him anymore. I’m angry he doesn’t have the guts to break free. I’m angry he’s uncertain about my parents beliefs.”

“But you still miss him.”

“Yeah… yeah, I miss him.”

He sets his gaze on the river again, lets go of your hand to wrap his arms around his knees.

“The first time I took the train, my mother was so proud. And I both loved it and hated it. And I think… I’m angry because it didn’t really change. I don’t believe in any of the conservative bullshit my parents are so adamant to defend, and I’ll never forgive them for how much they hurt me and my brother. And yet I… every time I get on that train I see my mother’s face beaming at me and looking at me as if I was the most extraordinary thing in the world, and I long for this feeling again.”

He heaves a sigh.

“I want you to write to me. But the Potters… they didn’t have to take me in, and they did. I don’t want them to regret doing that.”

“I’ll write to you once a month. Would that be alright? That’s not too often.”

Slowly, Sirius nods.

“Okay, I’ll wait for your letter, and I’ll reply.”

“Okay.”

He’s surprised when you wrap your arms around him from behind, when you rest your cheek against his shoulder blade. He loves it though. He feels soothed all over again, his busy mind quietened again. The face of Walburga disappears, and the muddy water is back instead, with its white swans almost disappearing now, in the distance.

“Why do I miss them, when I hate them?”

You tighten your hold on him before you answer.

“They raised you. They loved you, even if it hurt. They taught you how it is to be loved first. You have to rewrite that definition, with better people, better examples. But they’re still your family, even if they hurt you. Your mother still looked at you with pride that day, even if she hurt you only a few hours before. It’s not black and white, like everything else in life. I reckon… it was so familiar a feeling, such a mingling of pain and love, you can’t really tell them apart anymore. Am I wrong?”

Sirius shook his head, stunned.

“I don’t dare asking you questions about your family, because I know it hurts,” you go on, your tone infinitely kind. “But I still care. Do you understand? I care about you, about who you are… I just… don’t want to hurt you. But you can tell me about it whenever you feel ready, okay? I’m… it’s not disinterest, it’s just… caution.”

Slowly, he nods.

“Thank you.”

He holds your hands in his, twisting his neck to press his temple against your hair, closing his eyes.

And his gratefulness tastes like love, but he’s not ready to admit it. You’re right, he needs to redefine the word, before speaking it again, and aim it at you.

When he kisses you, a few minutes later, it tastes like goodbye, but it’s not as sad as you expected it to be. And when he tells you he’ll wait for you, that he’ll wait for Christmas, that you can count on him, it’s easy to believe him…

[arda-ancalima]

A Study in Shuffling

Characters: Genshin Asogi, Yujin Mikotoba, Herlock Sholmes Words: 1,743

For TGAA Gen Week Day 1 - Dancing @tgaa-gen-week

-

Genshin stepped back outside and took a moment to glance up at the stars. He wasn’t exactly pleased to get called to a crime scene tonight, but such was detective work. He wandered to the gate of 3 Lauriston Gardens, waiting for Inspector Gregson to return from an errand. A man with a similar silhouette approached in the dark, but to Genshin’s surprise, the man who stepped into the street light was Yujin Mikotoba.

“Ah! Good evening, Genshin,” he said politely.

Genshin raised an eyebrow. They were on the other side of London from the hospital where Mikotoba worked, and farther still from the flat he just moved into on Baker Street. “Good evening. I should inform you that this is a crime scene, so whatever business you have here will have to wait.”

“Oh, it—it’s nothing like that,” Mikotoba said, oddly nervous. “Actually, I was wondering if perhaps…”

Genshin cut him off. “One moment.” He stalked along the fence to the shadow attempting to creep in between the rails. “Mr. Sholmes.”

Sholmes snapped up his head and hit it on a rail, wincing. “Why, Mr. Asogi! Fancy meeting you here of all places!”

“I could say the same,” Genshin said dryly. “All right, on your way.”

“Of course.” Sholmes’ grin shone in the lamp light. “Just as soon as I’ve had a look at the crime scene.”

“No,” Genshin said firmly. He saw Mikotoba hovering nearby and put up a hand. “One moment, Yujin.”

“Oh, er, you see…” Mikotoba began.

“He’s with me,” Sholmes said.

“Ha!” Genshin barked. “I’m sure.”

“Tell him, Doctor.”

 “Lying will get you nowhere. Now quit bothering this man and—“

“Er, Genshin,” Mikotoba interrupted. “I am here with Mr. Sholmes.”

Genshin whipped around to stare at him. “What?” he said dumbly.

“This is my flatmate, Herlock Sholmes. Mr. Sholmes, this is my friend, Genshin Asogi.”

Sholmes extended his hand and Genshin automatically went to shake it. “Pleased to—no, I know who you are!” He snatched his hand away. “What do you mean, your flatmate?”

“I told you about that flatshare on Baker Street, right?” Mikotoba said.

Horror filled him. “You didn’t tell me he lived there!”

“I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

“This is all fascinating stuff,” Sholmes said, making it clear that he thought it was anything but. “However, we are on a rather tight schedule, so if we could just…”

“I thought I made it clear on several occasions that civilians, even amateur detectives such as yourself, are not allowed at any crime scene,” Genshin said.

Sholmes drew himself up to his full height, which was still a good few inches shorter than Genshin. “And just how is Scotland Yard coming along on this case?”

Narrowing his eyes, Genshin glared at him. They were going nowhere, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Sholmes.

“That’s what I thought,” Sholmes said, his smug look doubling Genshin’s irritation. “Anyway, I was invited by Inspector Gregson.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Just ask the good doctor.”

Genshin raised an eyebrow at Mikotoba, who rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well…he was doing a lot of grumbling…and he did mention the address, so…could we take a quick look?”

Genshin couldn’t believe he was actually considering this. He gave an exasperated sigh. “Five minutes.”

“Splendid!” Sholmes said, climbing up over the fence and pumping Genshin’s hand. “You won’t be disappointed, my dear fellow!”

He went ahead into the house and up the stairs, while Mikotoba followed behind with Genshin.

“I’m used to Mr. Sholmes wheedling his way onto my crime scenes,” Genshin said, “But I still don’t understand why you are here.”

Mikotoba shrugged. “I’m not sure myself. But he invited me along, and I had nothing else to do.”

“I really must warn you against him,” Genshin said, lowering his voice. “Especially as a flatmate. The man is a nuisance, and possibly insane.”

“He seems a decent enough fellow,” Mikotoba said. “Eccentric perhaps, but from what I’ve seen, a brilliant man.”

“Listen, Yujin.” Genshin stopped on a landing. “You see the best in people, which is admirable, but can get you into trouble. I don’t want to see you get in over your head. You tend to get swept along in whatever someone asks of you.”

“Yes,” Mikotoba said with a faint smile. “Like how you and Seishiro bullied me into coming to Britain in the first place.” He took the last few steps ahead of Genshin.

Genshin sighed through his nose and stepped up to the door, nodding to the bobby guarding it, and went inside.

Sholmes took a quick look at the body in the middle of the room, before turning his attention to the walls. After he had scoured them, he gestured to the body. “Doctor, if you would.”

“What—me?” Mikotoba said.

“What is your professional opinion, as a medical examiner? It would be very useful to me,” Sholmes said.

“W-Well, I…I’ve only just begun studying post-mortem examinations, but…I’ll do what I can.” He crouched beside the body, carefully turning the head to get a better look at it. “He’s dead, that’s for certain…no signs of head trauma…” He picked up a hand. “No blood, no defensive wounds…erm…heart attack, perhaps?”

“Would it be a crime scene if it was a heart attack?”

“Oh, right, then…poison?”

“Excellent!” Sholmes snapped his fingers. “Now take a look at this marking on the wall and tell me what you make of it.”

Mikotoba jumped when Sholmes pointed it out. “Oh! There is blood! It looks like writing.”

“Rachel,” Genshin said dryly. It had been the most glaringly obvious clue in the room.

“Is that indeed what it says?” Sholmes turned his grin on him, and Genshin got a sinking feeling. “Scotland Yard is falling down on the job these days. This crime is completely transparent to me!”

Mikotoba gaped, and it needled Genshin to see him so impressed. “You—you’ve worked it all out?”

“All the clues are here, we need only put them together.” Sholmes pointed aloft. “It is time for Herlock Sholmes’s Logic and Reasoning Spectacular!”

Genshin groaned as the spotlight fell on Sholmes, who twirled around the room as if it were a stage and pointed to the red writing.

“Here we have a word written on the wall. What does it say?”

“That’s obvious,” Genshin said, his arms folded as he watched from the doorway. “Rachel, though he was interrupted before he could write the ‘L.’ I believe it to be the victim writing the name of his killer.”

“Rachel, is it?” Sholmes said. “Mikotoba, is there any other meaning it might have?”

“Well, this is a bit far-fetched,” Mikotoba said. “But I know a little German. It struck me that it might be ‘rache,’ the word for revenge.”

“Precisely!” Sholmes spun around again. “Don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel. The word is revenge, the motive for the murder, written…in tomato paste.”

“Er, Mr. Sholmes…” Mikotoba ventured. “Don’t you think that might be blood?”

“Indeed, it is blood!” Sholmes disappeared from the wall and reappeared near the body. “And just what is this revenge all about? Strange that it was written by the victim, don’t you think?”

Mikotoba said nothing, looking intently at the victim, thinking hard. Then something seemed to light up his face. “Hold it, Mr. Sholmes. That’s not it at all.”

He tapped out a few dance steps before tipping his hat stylishly. “The victim’s fingernails are perfectly clean and smooth. Since the word was scratched onto the wall with blood, it couldn’t possibly be the victim who wrote it.”

“And thus it concludes…” Sholmes spun so that he and Mikotoba could point out the solution together.

“Rache was written by the killer!”

They began work on another clue in the same manner while Genshin watched in astonishment. From time to time, Sholmes turned over the spotlight to Mikotoba, who danced as he explained his own deductions. He was light on his feet, suggesting a certain lightness of heart that had been absent in him for a long time.

Softening at the sight, Genshin almost missed Sholmes appearing behind him.

“Brilliant, isn’t he?”

Genshin chafed at the detective so close over his shoulder. “He is. You on the other hand…”

Sholmes laughed loudly and went off to twirl around the stage again.

Once their deductions were complete, Genshin, to his chagrin, had a much better understanding of the case.

“All right, your five minutes are more than up,” he growled.

“Not a problem at all, my dear fellow,” Sholmes said. “Our work here is finished. Do excuse me, I must fetch the victim’s missing suitcase in the back alley.”

He dashed down the stairs. Genshin and Mikotoba went back outside at a slower pace, waiting by the house while Sholmes conducted his search. Genshin sighed.

“Why don’t you like him?” Mikotoba asked.

“Why don’t I—why do you like him?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain, really.” Mikotoba looked out at the dark street where Sholmes had disappeared. “He fascinates me. Yes, he has some bothersome habits, but he’s the cleverest man I’ve ever met. It’s never a dull moment with him around.”

“Yes but, not being rude Yujin, you’re more of a dull man yourself.”

Mikotoba laughed, filling Genshin with warmth to hear the sound again. “Yes, well, good to keep the mind occupied, you know? I think I’ve had rather enough dreary days all to myself. You were the one telling me to get out more—”

“Not like this!”

“—And to make new friends—”

“Not like him!”

“Genshin…” Mikotoba faced him directly. “I know you’re trying to protect me. And I know you’re older and wiser and know better. But if I am making a mistake, I’m confident I can handle myself.”

If he was honest, Genshin would agree. It was possible Sholmes did have a good side to him, and if he could make Mikotoba laugh again… Well. It’s not like Genshin had much choice in what the detective made up his mind to do, and maybe if Sholmes had Mikotoba to civilize him, he would be less of a pest at his crime scenes.

“Tell me that when I bail the pair of you out of prison,” Genshin muttered.

Sholmes appeared out of the darkness holding a packing case. “Come, Doctor, the game is afoot!” he called.

Mikotoba chuckled. “I’m sure I will.” He wished him goodnight and followed along after Sholmes.

[not-poignant]

Hey there Pia! I want to say I absolutely love your work and it's very inspiring. It's helped me feel more relaxed about just writing for myself for the sheer fun of it and exploring characters, after many years trying to write or do artwork for other people. Something I think I read somewhere was that you tend to ship a lot of your OC's together and could ship anyone (or were a multi-shipper). I may have got that wrong so I apologise if that's the case! I wondered if you had any of your own OC ships that really surprised you? Do you have any OC ships you would love to write one day that keep popping up in your brain? Are there any OCs ships you think would be interesting but probably wouldn't ever write because it doesn't necessarily work? Thanks! x x P.s. I live in the south of England and have a friend in Scotland and we were chatting casually about fics we like as we tend to gravitate towards the same tags and she said "Oh have you heard of not-poignant" and I have never heard her squee so loudly when I told her yes xD You got fans all over the place. <3

Hi anon!

I'm definitely a multi-shipper! Though I don't ship all of my characters together, it's more like... I'm open to considering a lot of different permutations but I also don't enjoy all the ships!

I also support everyone else shipping whoever they want. :D I'm very 'ship and let ship' hehe.

I wondered if you had any of your own OC ships that really surprised you?

Honestly, Augus and Gwyn was probably the very first one! I didn't ship them at the time when other people started coming to me and asking about it, in fact I was like 'ehhhh actually that makes me not very comfortable to think about.' I even avoided answering anon asks about it, and felt very much like you know the nervous 'haha I'm really glad you enjoy it but I don't think that's for me.' And that was partly because I imagined it to be such a tragic pairing at the time. And while it seems wild to talk about that now, because I am so ride or die for them, that is definitely where I started!

Other OC ships that kind of surprised me with their intensity was Mosk and Augus, because Augus really didn't rate Mosk at first, and I was so in Augus' POV for that, it was like...for a long time I never saw the potential until enough changed that Augus could also see the potential. Because of that, Smoke in Autumn was born.

Temsen and Gwyn was unexpected for me, and honestly there's a side character coming in Underline the Red and I ship Faber and Kenneth so much that I suspect Underline the Red will become an OT3 because of it!

Are there any OCs ships you think would be interesting but probably wouldn't ever write because it doesn't necessarily work?

Yeah there's lots. Honestly too many to put here. But lots and lots. For example Temsen and Gwyn from the Underline series are interesting to me, but I don't think that'd ever work or be anything other than like a short tragic abusive moment in time and I've already written a version of that with Albion and Gwyn in a oneshot.

Leo and Efnisien I think could have a very sweet romance in Falling Falling Stars, but I like them more as friends in that universe. And I always kind of daydreamed of Nate somehow going to a play party re: Kadek's and seeing Efnisien and kind of...admiring another side of him and enjoying that somehow.

Gwyn and Ash in the canon when Ash was at his most mutinous and antagonistic was interesting to me in a noncon sense, and I actually have a fic I've never released which is Ash assaulting Gwyn around...mid-way through The Court of Five Thrones. I definitely think Ash has enough dark sexuality that this seemed very 'obvious' to me while also not being at all feasible in the canon.

Faber and Efnisien is really interesting to me in the Underline universe, though I don't think it would ever work/happy, the attraction is definitely there on Efnisien's side, and he feels very kind of alpha-protective towards Faber in a very strong way. And the idea of a toppy Efnisien in that universe is just fun for me, even though I don't plan on ever writing it.

I also low-key ship Temsen with everyone. Like, Temsen just has vibes with everyone. He's always the top and I'm always like 'damn son you have taken over my brain' and he has.

The fun of multi-shipping is I can kind of go anywhere depending on the mood I'm in. The good news is I love the ships I'm writing so much already that they're usually the place I go to first anyway. :D

You got fans all over the place. <3

Ahhhh <3333

I wish I hadn't been so anxious back when I visited England and Scotland last time because it'd have been great to do some kind of like... group meet-up or something. With Covid now I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to do international travel again, but I love that folks live in so many awesome places. :D

It's funny because there's almost no readers that I know of in Western Australia, so it's like being on a very weird island where all the reading happens elsehwere. And while there's like maybe one or two exceptions to this, for the most part it's like 'oh reading my stuff is a thing that does not happen here :D ' But I love all y'all. I've met the coolest people and become interested in so many different countries and languages and foods and cultures in part because of this writing and how many different folks have turned up in my comments or in my ask box just sharing different anecdotes and stories from all over the world.

The faedom's just so amazing :D It's really global, and that makes me feel so grateful and fortunate and also makes me wish teleportation was easily possible and affordable!!

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Butchered Tongue has completely shattered me. The slow, painful erosion of culture and language, of identity. The faded memories of those who came before us. The desperate yearning for a past that you don't remember because it was ripped from you long before you ever came to be. It makes me think of my great-grandfather, who left to work in America and who only returned, decades later, in a coffin. I wonder if he ever sat in some random Irish pub and simply listened to those around him, hoping to find a connection, for a glimmer of familiarity in the faces and voices of strangers. I think of my granny's cousin, the spit of my uncle, who embraced me and held me close as we said our goodbyes. He never lost his mother tongue even after decades of living far from home. He may have made a life on a foreign soil but home remains the quiet Irish village where he was born and which he might never see again. It's the stack of old photographs sitting in the attic, photographs from all over the world, that are all full of smiling, happy faces but there is not soul left who can name them. All we know for sure is that they were once cherished and that has to be enough. It's the names on headstones, of the many souls buried under names they never used in life, anglicized even in death. Síle became Cecilia, Máire Mary, Dónall/Domhnall Daniel, so on and so forth. It's the words my granny used to use, we don't where those words came from, whether it's older Irish words passed on to her before they faded to the sands of time or words lost in translation through learning English words from various relations returning home after working in the fields or in construction in Scotland, Wales or England for a season or if it's one of those unique sayings, the amalgamation of sayings and inside jokes every family has and that are unique to each individual one. We'll never know which, the knowledge passed with her. We still use those words, carry our memories with us but we feel that loss of history and their true meanings. How does anyone carry the weight of all that loss, all of that heartbreak, all that visceral grief? And how do we prevent more loss, how do we keep the fire burning, keep the glowing embers of our past alive? Keep them from fading into the darkness, never again to warm the heart? This song is beautiful and haunting and it's never going to leave me alone.

[newtsniffles]

SAVING GRACE | BBC SHERLOCK

A STUDY IN PINK - bbc sherlock x oc

summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.

Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.

WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

word count: 12.6k

There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.

Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.

Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.

There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.

‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.

‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.

‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’

‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’

‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.

‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’

‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’

‘And you didn’t call me in?’

‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’

‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’

Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.

‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.

‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’

‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’

‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’

‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.

‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’

‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.

‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’

‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.

Wrong!

‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.

‘Just says, “Wrong.”’

‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’

‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’

God, these people just don’t get the hint.

Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.

‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’

Wrong!

Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.

‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.

‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’

‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.

‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’

‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.

‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.

‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.

Wrong!

However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.

You know where to find me.

SH

‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.

‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’

‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’

Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.

Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.

Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.

She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.

Greg Lestrade

‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.

‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’

‘Be there shortly.’

A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.

It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.

‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.

Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.

Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.

‘Your deodorant told me that.’

‘My deodorant?’

‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’

‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.

‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.

‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.

Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.

Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—

‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.

‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.

‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.

‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.

Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—

‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘What is?’ Greg questions.

‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything?’

‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’

John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.

‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.

‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.

‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.

‘So, she’s German?’

‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.

‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.

‘Coat.’

‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’

‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.

‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.

‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’

‘Of the message?’

‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.

‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.

‘I don’t like them.’

‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.

 ‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’

‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.

‘Yes, I do. God help me.’

‘Doctor Watson.’

‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.

‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’

John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.

‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’

‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’

‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’

Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.

‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’

‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’

‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’

‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.

‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’

‘Suitcase?’

‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’

‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.

‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’

‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.

How interesting.

‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’

‘Cardiff?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.

‘It’s not obvious to me.’

‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’

‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.

‘Be… my… guest.’

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.

‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’

‘That’s… fantastic.’

‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.

‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’

‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’

John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’

Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’

‘She was writing Rachel?’

‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’

‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’

‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.

‘There wasn’t a case.’

Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’

‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’

‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’

Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’

‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’

‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’

‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’

‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’

‘Why are you both saying that?’

‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.

‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’

‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.

‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’

‘Sherlock?’

Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’

‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’

‘We can’t just wait!’

‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’

‘Of course, yeah ��� but what mistake!?’

‘Pink!’

Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.

‘You’re following?’

‘You’re looking for the case.’

Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.

‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’

‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’

Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’

‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’

‘Curiosity?’

‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’

‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’

‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’

‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’

She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’

‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.

‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’

‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’

‘Well, can you deduce me?’

‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’

‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’

Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’

‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’

‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’

‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’

‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.

‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’

‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’

‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’

‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’

‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.

‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.

‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’

Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’

‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’

‘Where do you live?’

‘221B Baker Street.’

‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.

‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’

‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’

Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’

‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’

The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.

‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’

‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’

‘That is?’

‘You get bored.’

‘Everyone gets bored.’

‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’

‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.

‘I did.’

‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.

He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.

No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.

The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.

‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.

Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.

What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.

‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.

‘Trying not to be.’

‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’

‘Three patch problem.’

Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’

‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’

‘Hm?’

‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’

‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’

Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.

Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.

‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’

‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.

‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’

‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’

Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.

‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’

‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’

‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’

‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’

‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’

‘You found the case?’

Oops.

Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.

‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.

‘Where is it?’

‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’

‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’

‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’

‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’

Ding

‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.

Got a lead.

SH

Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.

‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.

‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.

There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.

‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.

‘Evening.’

‘Wh—’

‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.

‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’

‘George knows of the suitcase?’

‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’

John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’

‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.

‘So, who did I meet?’

Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’

‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’

‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’

‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’

‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’

‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’

‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.

‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’

‘No.’

Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.

‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’

‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’

‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.

‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’

‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.

‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’

‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.

‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’

‘That’s him?’

‘Don’t stare.’

‘You’re staring.’

‘We can’t all stare.’

All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.

‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’

‘Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.

They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.

‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.

‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’

‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’

‘Yeah. Everything all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.

‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’

‘Basically.’

‘Not the murderer?’

‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.

‘Wrong country, good alibi.’

‘As they go.’

‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’

Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’

‘We’re ready when you are.’

‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.

‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.

‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’

‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’

‘So, what were we doing there?’

‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.

‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.

‘What point?’

‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man at the door.’

A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.

‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’

‘Because,’ he grins.

‘Because?’

‘Because you’re bored.’

‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’

‘It’s infuriating.’

‘I try my best.’

‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.

‘Upstairs.’

The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.

‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.

‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’

‘You can’t just break into my flat.’

‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’

‘Well, what do you call this.’

‘It’s a drugs bust.’

Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.

‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’

‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.

‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’

‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’

‘Yeah, but come on… No?’

‘What?’

‘You?’

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’

‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’

‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’

Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’

‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’

‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.

‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’

‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.

‘Put those back!’

‘They were in the microwave!’

‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.

‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’

‘This is childish.’

‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’

‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’

‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.

‘I am clean!’

‘Is your flat? All of it?’

‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.

‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’

‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.

‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’

Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’

‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’

‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’

‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’

‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’

‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.

‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’

‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’

‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.

‘Bit not good, yeah.’

‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’

‘“Please, God, let me live.”’

‘Oh, use your imagination!’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’

Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi.  Go away.’

Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.

‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’

‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’

‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’

‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’

‘What? My face is?!’

‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Your back, now, please!’

‘Come on, think. Quick!’

‘What about your taxi?’

‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’

‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.

‘But how?’

‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’

John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’

‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’

‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’

Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’

‘Rachel.’

‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’

‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’

‘Unless he got rid of it.’

‘We know he didn’t.’

‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’

‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’

‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’

‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’

‘It’s a start!’

‘Sherlock…’

‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘What is it? Quickly, where?’

‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.

The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’

‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.

‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.

‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’

‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.

‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’

‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.

‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’

‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.

COME WITH ME.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.

‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.

‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’

‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’

‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.

‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’

‘Is this a confession.’

‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.

‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’

‘Am I not?’

‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’

‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’

‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’

‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’

Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’

‘Let me take you for a ride.’

‘So, you can kill me too?’

‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’

‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’

‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.

Don’t let him know you’re onto him.

Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.

‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.

‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’

‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.

‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’

Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’

‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’

‘I’m really not.’

The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’

‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.

‘How gentlemanly.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’

‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’

‘Why here?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’

‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’

‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’

‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’

‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’

Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.

Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.

‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.

‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’

The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.

‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’

‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’

‘Love what?’

‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’

‘My fan?’

‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’

‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.

‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’

‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’

‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’

‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’

‘Both bottles are of course identical.’

‘In every way.’

‘And you know which is which.’

‘Course I know.’

‘But we don’t.’

‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.

Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’

‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’

‘So basically, two of us die.’

‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’

‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’

‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’

The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?

Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’

‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.

‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’

‘It’s not a game. It’s chance.’

‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’

A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’

‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’

‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’

‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’

‘Still just chance.’

‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’

‘Luck.’

‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’

‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’

‘Time to play.’

‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’

Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.

‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’

Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.

‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That you’re a dead man walking.’

‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’

‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’

Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’

‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’

‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.

‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’

‘But how?’

‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’

‘Or serial killing.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Surprise me.’

The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’

‘You have a what?’

‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’

‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’

‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’

‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.

‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’

‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.

‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.

‘I’ll have the gun, please.’

‘I’ll take the gun too.’

‘You’re both sure?’

‘Definitely. The gun.’

‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’

‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.

‘I know a real gun when I see one.’

‘None of the others did.’

Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’

‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.

‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’

‘Of course. Child’s play.’

‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’

‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’

Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.

‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’

Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’

‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’

Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?

You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.

Shut up.

‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’

Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.

Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.

‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.

Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’

‘No.’

‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.

‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’

‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.

Moriarty?

‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.

‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’

‘I’m not injured!’

She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.

She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.

I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?

Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.

‘For the shock.’

‘I’m not in shock.’

Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’

‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.

‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’

‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’

‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.

Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.

Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.

‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.

‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’

‘Well, you have just killed a man.’

‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’

‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’

‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.

‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’

‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’

‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’

‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’

‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re an idiot.’

Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’

‘Starving.’

‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’

‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.

‘I know exactly who that is.’

Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’

‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’

Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’

‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’

‘Oddly enough… no!’

‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’

‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’

‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.

‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’

‘Losing it, in fact.’

‘He’s your brother?!’

‘Of course he’s my brother.’

‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’

‘Close enough.’

‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’

‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’

‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.

‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.

‘Nothing.’

‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.

‘So, it runs in the family then?’

‘What?’

Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.

‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.

‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.

‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’

‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’

‘Shoulder! I thought so.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Left one.’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘I never guess.’

Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’

‘Moriarty.’

‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’

‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’

‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’

-

like my work? consider tipping me for a kofi!

[monarch-afterdark]

Titan History: The Awakened Gods

Welcome once again to Monarch: After Dark, the digital gateway between you and the organisation dedicated to understanding and navigating this troubled new world we live in.

For today's communication, we embark on the undertaking of rounding off the remaining handful of Titans known to have been awakened by Monster Zero in 2019. Currently, the Monarch database does not hold enough information on each Titan to warrant giving them their own entries, whether due to digital sabotage, loss of data amid containment breaches, or some other cause.

If more data does resurface, we will act accordingly and revisit these Titans as is relevant, but for now, let us round off the remaining Awakened Gods.

(Pictured above: Part of a global Titan map, containing the locations of outposts and the name of the Titan they are studying)

This list will be compiled based on numerical order of Monarch outposts.

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Titanus Leviathan

(Pictured above: Infamous 1933 photo of the Loch Ness Monster, possibly the first notable sighting of Leviathan)

Formerly contained within Outpost 49, Leviathan was found within Loch Ness, Scotland by Monarch. This Titan gets its name from the aquatic counterpart to Titanus Behemoth from the Hebrew Bible.

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Titanus Quetzalcoatl

(Pictured above: A stone carving of Quetzalcoatl, found on a temple in Teotihuacan, Mexico)

Formerly contained within Outpost 57, Quetzalcoatl was found within Machu Piccu, Peru. This Titan gets it name from a feathered Aztec serpent god.

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Titanus Sekhmet

(Pictured above: Depiction of Sekhmet in ancient Egyptian artwork)

Formerly contained in Outpost 65, Sekhmet was found in Cairo, Egypt. This Titan gets its name from the Egyptian goddess of medicine.

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Titanus Baphomet

(Pictured above: A statue of Baphomet flanked by two children, unveiled at the Satanic Temple in 2015)

Formerly contained in Outpost 68, Baphomet was found in Volubilis, Morocco. This Titan got its name from a perversion of the name of the prophet Mohammed, later associated with a goat-like diety in the 19th Century with ties to Satan.

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Titanus Mokele-Mbembe

(Pictured above: Recovered footage from Outpost 75, showing Mokele-Mbembe's escape obscured by smoke, circa. 2019)

Titanus Mokele-Mbembe, formerly contained in Outpost 75, in Jebel Barkal, Sudan, got its name from a water-dwelling diety in the Congo River Basin, later becoming popularly depicted as a sauropod-like cryptid in the 20th Century.

In reality, the Titan is a massive quadrupedal beast with a snake-like tail, a head much like a hairless elephant, with jaws that open like a crocodile's, a horn atop its head that glows a faded green, and downward-facing tusks.

When Monster Zero awoke the world's Titans, the director of Outpost 75, Dr. Kearns, refused to kill the Titan under the belief that the military just wanted an excuse to kill the Titans. Mokele-Mbembe killed most of the outpost's staff upon its escape, pulling some into its mouth with its trunk. Upon reaching the surface, Mokele-Mbembe battled Monarch forces and the Egyptian military before being pacified by the ORCA.

-----

Titanus Abbadon

(Pictured above: Artistic depiction of Abbadon battling Christian, from The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan)

Formerly contained in Outpost 77, Abbadon was found in the Devil's Tower, Wyoming. This Titan got its name from a place of destruction, the 'sister location' to Hell (Sheol), a name later used for an angel who commanded an army of locusts in the Book of Revelations.

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Titanus Yamata no Orochi

(Pictured above: A woodblock print of the storm god Susanoo slaying Yamata no Orochi, by Toyohara Chikanobou)

Formerly contained within Outpost 91, Yamata no Orochi was found by Monarch in Mount Fuji, Japan. This Titan gets its name from an 8-headed serpent from Japanese mythology.

While the only current footage relating to Yamata no Orochi shows its outpost collapsing from the Titan's escape, it is known that the Titan had attacked a cruise ship in Japanese waters before being pacified by the ORCA. The Titan has been reported by one account to also have multiple heads.

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Titanus Typhon

(Pictured above: Depiction of Zeus aiming a thunderbolt at Typhon, upon a black-figured hydria, circa. 540-530 BC)

Formerly contained within Outpost 92, Typhon was found within Angkor Watt, Cambodia. This Titan gets its name from a serpentine giant from Greek mythology, the father of monsters.

A member of Monarch's primary mythology department, Greg Keyes, had lost vital information regarding Typhon during the Titan's awakening in 2019. To this day, he still working to retrieve this data from a corrupted database.

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Titanus Bunyip

(Pictured above: Artistic depiction of Bunyip in 1935, by Gerald Markham Lewis)

Formerly contained in Outpost 99, Bunyip was found by Monarch within Uluru (Ayer's Rock), Australia. This Titan gets its name from a swamp-dwelling creature in South Australian aboriginal folklore.

-----

And there you go! We apologise for being unable to provide much more information on these Titans, but rest assured we are hard at work scouring our databases and working to recover what we can so that we can provide more detailed accounts in future.

Until next time,

Monarch: After Dark

[marimosalad]

8 TV shows can say a lot about a person!

Certainly for me, I think! I’m listing here many of my personal recs which (as this is a Haladriel blog) I will be talking about them in relation to Haladriel, if applicable.

Thanks for the tag @pursuitseternal 🌟

Without further ado:

———

1. Needless to say, The Rings of Power.

I’m a total sucker for Hot Bad Men™️ so I never stood a chance against Saubrand.

Blorbo aside, my attachment to this show far preceded my Saurondriel obsession — I was completely enamored with it since Episode 1, the first big scenic shot of Valinor; the Two Trees; the epic soundtrack; stunning costumes. I had tears in my eyes during the boat sailing into the light of Valinor. The scale of storytelling far exceeded my admittedly meager expectations.

Let me be clear: I did not want to like this show and was set on dismissing it as an inferior fan service following The Hobbit franchise. Next thing I knew my inner child had been awakened and my love for Tolkien universe rekindled. Add to this concoction my weakness for complex villains and the epic reveal of Hot Sauron — boom, I was done. I’ll never recover from this.

2. FRINGE.

This show has such a special place in my heart. It’s sci-fi, mystery, time travel, alternate timelines, quantum physics mumbo jumbo, love story, and a father/son story all rolled into one amazing series that ended abruptly and went under the radar for so long.

In this universe, Denethor II has reincarnated into a much more gentle, sweeter Dr. Walter Bishop who actually loves his son and will put his life at risk for his son over, and over, and over again.

I also have an undying admiration for Anna Torv’s Olivia Dunham (I’m planning a separate post of all my fictional female crushes over the years). I was so giddy to see her in The Last of Us — she’s an underrated actress who deserves to be in the spotlight.

3. LOST.

Probably the first TV show that I actually got seriously invested in as a young adult and since then I’ve watched it so many times in every phase of my life. I’ve named our new puppy after Penelope Widmore. My computer name is Not-Pennys-Boat. I’ve been thirsting after stranded-at-sea disheveled ruffians since Sawyer, who is my favorite character who was the antagonist at the beginning (I’ve been saying that Halbrand is the perfect mix of Sawyer and Aragorn).

Sawyer/Juliet is my absolute favorite onscreen couple, pre-Haladriel. Their chemistry is fire. They just work. (Hated him with Kate.) Just tell me this doesn’t scream Haladriel (aesthetically):

Bonus: scene look familiar? Desmond did it first 🔥

4. Outlander.

Ok, believe it or not, I wasn’t quite watching this for the copious amount of steamy sex just because I was watching with my husband AND my mom over the pandemic when we lived together, and needless to say it was quite awkward 😂 I have a particular inexplicable love for Scotland (despite having only gone there twice), so when I discovered the series I went head over heels in love with the landscape, costumes, historic details, music (Bear McCreary), mythology, etc. Oh, and the hot Scotsman too 🫠

Jamie and Claire are the epitome of cosmically connected soulmates, their love transcending across lifetimes. Their early sex scenes are 🔥🔥🔥.

Bonus fact: Sam Heughan was named after Samwise Gamgee by his Tolkien hippie parents. He’s been casually broadcasting that he wants a role in TROP. Could we help him? If enough of us use the tag #SamHeughanForCeleborn, will they give Galadriel the husband she deserves?

5. DARK.

Did I mention I’m a big fan of quantum physics, philosophy, time travel, and parallel universes? No? Well, this brooding German show just about represents everything I love. The perfectly planned 3-season show is everything you could ever hope for in a good TV series. It’s moody, intelligent, mind-bending, and heart-wrenching. Watch the first episode, and by the end of it, you’ll be hooked, I promise you. Oh and for the love of god, do not watch it dubbed.

6. Norsemen.

Ok, I don’t typically watch too much comedy. But I do like The Office. I also like medieval movies/shows. What if I said Norsemen was basically a medieval version of The Office? Oh, it’s so dumb. It’s so dumb I almost didn’t finish the first episode. But once you get in the groove, it’s hilarious as fuck. On Netflix.

7. True Detective.

I don’t know how many times I’ve rewatched this show — it’s my comfort show I watch by myself on my laptop on rainy evenings. I don’t know what that says about me, and I don’t want to know 😂

Aside from the intrigue of the creepy Southern Gothic and unsettling cult themes, I mainly attribute my obsession with the show to Matthew McConaughey’s brooding Rust Cohle. He’s tall and lanky, a total weirdo, a lone wolf, has commitment issues, single-minded about his job, and (a bit more than) slightly unhinged. Also known as my kind of dude.

8. Better Call Saul.

Greatest of all spin-offs, who knew that the show about the sleazy lawyer who represented the world’s greatest meth kingpin was actually a love story in disguise?

Bob Odenkirk and Rhea Seehorn as Jimmy and Kim are the perfect embodiment of a modern couple who are equals and opposites, bring out each other’s best and worst, and have an undying respect for one another which serves as the backbone for their relationship. They even take turns towing on opposite sides of the law, pushing and pulling each other’s inclinations towards Good & Bad, only to find each other drowning in the dense grey area that is all too real. They are the *could have beens* for Galadriel and Sauron in the best case scenario (I could go on with the similarities but I don’t want to spoil the show).

Bonus fact: Gennifer Hutchison was the writer for both BCS and TROP. This fact should speak volumes about the kinds of discussions that would have occurred in the writer’s room regarding the nature of Galadriel and Sauron’s relationship. Watch the show and you’ll understand.

I’ve got many more recommended shows, but I think these 8 have been my primary emotional support shows over the past few years. I debated including Raised By Wolves, but as it was prematurely canceled there isn’t a whole lot I could say about it, despite having a fantastic premise (and which I still recommend people watch).

No pressure tags (but also curious to know): @starlady66 @maironiiel @demonscantgothere @scriberated @wyrd-syster @formerlyir @nenyabusiness @thegreatzombieartisan and any others who want to join.

[ystrike1]

The Devil's Trill - By Sara Nelson (8/10)

This author is a promising writer, and this particular comic is in full color instead of black and white. Some of the panels are quite pretty. It's a Victorian story set in Scotland, in an extremely religious and conservative town.

Florian is a handsome French violinist. After his father dies he gets a vast fortune. He decides that he doesn't want to get married. He travels around the world and plays the violin. He's talented so he becomes very popular. Plenty of women want to marry him, but he's not interested. He is not a religious man. He believes in Hedonism. He's nowhere near ready for a family.

He doesn't need one either. He's got more than enough money. He doesn't need a dowry. He gets targeted by gossip when he settles down in a Scottish town. Marriage is part of your image in the Victorian era. If you aren't married people assume something is wrong with you.

Miriam is unmarried too, and she's an old maid now. Her family wants to marry her off, because she was involved in some sort of scandal. We don't know what it is yet, but Miriam believes that her sister Patsy knowingly made the rumors about her worse. Patsy despises her more than her parents do.

Miriam must go to parties with Patsy. If she doesn't get married she's going to end up on the street soon. She's desperate but also she feels hopeless. None of the men at these parties are willing to speak to her, because her reputation is so awful.

Florian comes in, and he plays a romantic song. It seduces half of the women in the room right away. He's drowning in attention. Patsy heavily implies that she's interested in marrying him. He dodges all of the women and lands next to Miriam, who is hiding near the wall because no one will talk to her.

He talks to her. She has a good sense of humor, and she doesn't throw herself at him. Miriam blushes and he looks very interested. Their personalities mesh well. Florian seems to prefer mature women over flirtatious ones.

Patsy literally drags Miriam away from Florian. She says Florian is too good for an unpopular nobody like her. Patsy looks like a lively young woman on the outside, but she absolutely hates competition. If she can't have the dashing Florian no one can. Patsy is really short sighted. Patsy is also an incredibly religious woman, and Florian doesn't even believe in God. Their relationship would never work, but Patsy wants a handsome husband with money, so she pushes Miriam out of the way.

The other unwed young people in town are just as nasty to Miriam. They all think Florian is out of his mind because he spoke to her. The story hasn't gone very far yet, but the summary explains the basic plot.

Miriam will be whisked away to Florian's mansion, where she will find his dark secrets. His money and attention will lure her into a dangerous situation. I'm getting some yandere vibes. Florian and Miriam are both outcasts, but Miriam was bullied into her sad situation.

Florian is an outcast by choice.

That's a red flag.

[tf2-plus2]

Employee Profile #72

Employee Profile for; Tavish Finnegan DeGroot Demoman

Age; 36

Hair; Very Dark Brown/Black

Eyes; Warm Brown

Blood Type; AB Negative

Height; 6'2"/187.9 CM

Weight; 214 Lbs/97.1 kg

D.O.B.; September 14, 1924

P.O.B.; Ullapool, Scotland

Class; Demoman

Job; House Cleaning

Background Information; We found out about Demoman when Scottish newspapers began reporting on a man who had very precisely blown the foundation of a rather sizable mansion without damaging surrounding areas. It seems he was making a living at the time as both a house clearer and cleaner, as we found him washing a house next to the one he had cleared. Lord DeGroot said he had been looking for a true place to push his explosives to their limits and fully utilize his demolitions skills. As well as test recipes for his family's alcohol making to send home to his mother. The men already on base have been more than eager to assist with the latter goal, and we have agreed to produce some of them in turn for importing his favorite hometown liqueur.

Weapons; Lord DeGroot has brought his experience with him, along with several variations of grenades and projectile explosives. His timed and remote controlled bombs are particularly useful in combat. He appears to also be trained with more traditional weapons of the Highlands such as claymores, great axes, and shields. This will definitely prove interesting, as no other man on the team currently uses weapons quite like them...

Notes; We have had to contact a brewery local to his hometown to import enough "Scrumpy" for him. It is a wonder how his body and brain function when he seems constantly drowned in liqueur, but he does his job. He has no professional qualifications, but is extremely knowledgeable in the field of explosives. He does seem to frequently pick up small odd jobs on the side, and much of his paycheck that doesn't go towards his alcohol and ingredients goes to his mother.

Hiring Date; [REDACTED], 1960

[thesconesyard]

Yeehaw!! What a ride!! But now we’ve reached the end. (Or have we? 🤔) WtCB is finished, but there may be more stories about our favorite ranch crew at some point…

When the Cactus Blooms

31. Bottom of the Barrel

Time passed and things settled into a calm, regular routine on the ranch. Jaylah became more skilled each day, Keenser’s flocks grew, and Scotty fixed McCoy’s cabin to suit them both better. Everyday the doctor found himself appreciating the other man more. His only regret was that he hadn’t said something sooner.

But as the anniversary of his father’s passing grew closer, McCoy found himself restless. His newfound happiness with someone felt at odds with the build up of his old heartache. He withdrew into himself and grew quieter than normal. Scotty did all he could to draw him back out, and McCoy made an effort. He worried it wasn’t enough and Scotty would grow tired of him.

He remembered Scotty’s own pain, the brother he’d never see again, and for a day or two was almost himself.

The morning of the anniversary of the terrible day, the beginning of the end of his medical career, McCoy slipped out into the pre-sunrise darkness. Scotty was lightly snoring, and McCoy let out a sigh as he had looked down at him.

He made his way to the barn and got his saddle ready while Honey ate. He’d ride away for the day, clear his head and come back himself. He led the horse out the back of the stables into the paddock and over to the gate. He planned to follow along the east pasture fence and then down to the river. He’d cross it and ride as long as he wanted.

McCoy’s thoughts didn’t quite turn down the dark path they had taken for many a year. His surprise was strong at that.

“Monty,” he mumbled to himself.

Fresh joy and love in his heart protected him from the usual harsh feelings. And in that feeling he was confused. A small, sad laugh escaped him. A turning point must have been reached in his life and he hadn’t fully realized it.

The sorrow that usually drug him so far down was a familiar tug in his chest, but not so much to consume him. McCoy knew the grief would never fully leave him, only continue to lessen. Flares of it would come and go.

Through his sadness, his loss, he felt a new completeness. Someone knew. Someone understood the pain of loss. Of course Christine knew, and McCoy did love her, but it wasn’t the same as the love Scotty returned to him.

A new chance had been given to him and McCoy intended to take it.

He looked around, finally coming out of his thoughts. Honey had walked or trotted along as she liked. The sun had risen and McCoy was surprised to not recognize his surroundings. He had ridden far lost in his thoughts.

He turned Honey around and made a decision. A slow smile spread on his face.

McCoy hadn’t aimed for the ranch on his return ride, but had made for town. Scotty had given him so much, the least he could do was return the favor.

Well! Hello doctor!”

“Hi Gaila.”

“In town alone?” the saloon owner asked.

“Yes,” McCoy answered. “I need some help actually. Can we talk in private?.”

“Sure,” Gaila said, and looked him over appraisingly.

McCoy guffawed. “Not that.”

“This way,” Gaila said. She waved a hand at one of her employees to take over the bar and led McCoy to a back room.

“What can I do?” she asked as she sat behind a desk.

“I need to send a letter. But no one can know. No one, Gaila. Lives could be at stake.”

“Discretion is my middle name sweetheart,” Gaila

said with a loose grin. “Where are you sending it?”

“Scotland.”

“Len!”

McCoy looked around as he entered the yard. Scotty was standing with Keenser.

“I was worried!” he said as he came up next to McCoy. “But Christine had an idea of what ye were up to. Why didn’t ye say?”

McCoy hopped down from Honey’s back and embraced the other man.

“I needed that time alone to clear my mind,” he said. “It’s always a hard day. I’m sorry I made you worry and I’m sorry I’ve been in such a bad mood lately.”

“Don’t worry about it love,” Scotty smiled gently. “We all have our ways and reasons.”

“Yes we do,” McCoy agreed, and before Scotty could say anything more, McCoy pulled him closer and kissed him with all the heat he could. “Thank you,” he whispered when he pulled back.

“For- for what?” Scotty asked breathlessly.

“For being you. For making me more me.”

Scotty blushed and it was the most endearing thing McCoy had ever seen. His chest swelled and he pulled Scotty close again, unable to resist.

“Love you,” he got out before their mouths met again.

[bxrnfrxmashes]

We are so glad to see you safe, PRINCESS EVELYN STUART of SCOTLAND! It’s dangerous out in the world these days, but I hear that you are HARD-WORKING and COURAGEOUS enough to handle it. Just don’t let your CLOSED-OFF NATURE bring you down! Stay on your guard, because with your secret being at risk for exposure, you wouldn’t want everyone to find out YOU GOT PREGNANT WHEN YOU WERE TWENTY BUT HAD TO GIVE YOUR BABY AWAY.

BASIC INFORMATION

▪ FULL NAME: Evelyn Stuart  ▪ TITLE: Crown Princess of Scotland ▪ AGE: 33 ▪ ETHNICITY: Caucasian  ▪ GENDER: CIS Female  ▪ SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual ▪ PRONOUNS: She/Her ▪ SPOKEN LANGUAGE: English, Latin, Spanish, French

RELATIONSHIPS

▪ PARENTS: King Graeme Stuart and Queen TBD ▪ SIBLINGS: Prince Calen Stuart and Princess Joanna Stuart ▪ SIGNIFICANT OTHER: N/A ▪ CHILDREN: Bastard son, given away to a monastery when he was born

PHYSICAL TRAITS

▪ EYE COLOUR: Blue-Green ▪ HAIR COLOUR: Dark Brown ▪ BODY BUILD: Slim, Athletic  ▪ HEIGHT: 5’ 6" ▪ WEIGHT: 136 lbs

BIOGRAPHY

From a young age, Evelyn's tastes weren’t the same as most ladies. She would often skip her lessons with the septa to sneak into the library and read about the history of the world and go through as many books about war as she could. As often as she could, she would convince one of the guards to teach her swordfighting, even though they would train with sticks in the middle of the woods. She always felt like a warrior lady and the older she got, the stronger that feeling grew.

Evelyn turned out to become a very skilled swords woman, beating most of the guards and eventually even managing to beat the general himself. Evelyn also became a very skilled horse rider, one of the best, if not the best in Scotland. She’s very intelligent and all those years reading books about war and strategies turned her into an incredible war strategist.

She always felt the pressure of being the crown princess and knowing that one day, she would be the Queen of Scotland. While she loved her country and her people, there were times when she wondered if this was truly the role for her, since she saw herself riding into battle, leading an army instead of hanging in the back. If it came to it, Evelyn would be the first one to pick up a sword and her armor to defend her country.

When she was only twenty, Evelyn had an affair and it lead to her getting pregnant. She was sent away to live in a monastery with nuns for the duration of her pregnancy. Knowing how scandalous it would be for the family, Evelyn was forced to give her baby away, leaving the baby boy at the monastery to be raised by the nuns. She never saw him again and she has no idea where he would be now.

[watmalik]

Oversharing on the internet

Thank you @ambiguouspenny​ for the tag!! <3

1. Are you named after anyone?

Ohhh yes. My first name is literally the female version of my dad and brother’s name… Patricio/Patrick. My middle name is after my Abuela (dad’s side) bc she died a couple of months before I was born.

2. When was the last time you cried?

HA! I’m actually proud of this one *clears throat* ever since the 911 Lone Star finale...for now.

3. Do you have kids?

I’m 22 almost 23, so my only child has four legs and lives in my apt rent free. I’m also undecided about having them in general (bio or adopted)? I have a autoimmune disease that makes it harder for me to have them and I also had surgery when I was 14… lets say I have 1/3 of my left ovary chopped off bc of a random health issue I had as a kid and now I have a faint smiley face on my bikini line :) talk about oversharing.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

*Takes sunglasses off* Babes, I invented sarcasm. It’s the fourth language I’m fluent in… its a culture thing.

5. What sports have you played/do you play?

Fútbol and futsal. Loved them. Stopped when I got into college but I still participated in intramural games in my sorority/club. I also played basketball in middle school for a bit, but ultimately gave it up bc there wasn't really a girl’s team in my school.

6. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Their personality so I don't make them angry on purpose. I’m a notorious people pleaser, and I hate confrontation when it comes to myself, so I need you to like me…. LIKE ME 

7. What's your eye colour?

I have dark, brown cow eyes

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Scary movies bc I cry when movies have happy endings and I don't like tearing up at the movies. Emotions? me? pfttt

9. Any special talents?

I can meow like an actual cat, and put my feet at the back of my head, you know the usual.

10. Where were you born?

El Caribe 😎

11. What are your hobbies?

Singing, drawing, playing the ukulele

12: Do you have any pets?

My 3 year old cat, harry :)

13. How tall are you?

I’m Jennifer Love Hewitt, inches tall.

14. Favourite subject in school?

P.E and Maths. Mind you, I hate Maths with a great passion, but I was in group B (When you reached the 6th grade, they will separate the two form groups of your year group, in my school there was two class groups per year, and they will separate students in A and B group depending on how well you were doing in that specific subject). B group was always the funniest class to be in. I was usually an A group type of student but I always made sure I was in B group for at least a few of my classes and in Maths? It was inevitable. 

Anyways, I sat in the middle of the most chaotic pair of people, this dude (a twin) who had a crush on me at the time and this volleyball player who I once had a fall out with. For context, back home I went to a small British school, pre-k––12th grade, and from the 6th grade until I left on 10th grade, I always sat with them bc I will always LAUGH MY ASS OFF every damn class period. Our teacher was this 24 year old guy from Scotland and he was fine with us being together because we got good grades and did the work. I like looking back at this because, we weren't friends, we didn't hang out or talked after class much, but we always sat together because it brought us joy. 

Oddly enough I will always miss the poorly drawn dicks at the last page of my maths notebook, the stupid jokes, and the dumb noises they will make on purpose 😂

15. Dream job

 To be an immigration lawyer and help other minorities. I just graduated from college, so I’m taking a much needed year off and then law school here I come!

And my “You probs already did this, and def don't do it again if you have, but I’m still tagging you because its 2am” tag goes to: @noxsoulmate​ @itsneonbright​ @tailoredshirt​ @anchor-bird-94​ @taralaurel​ @tylerkennedys​ @catanisspicy​ and anyone else who wants to do this :)