#ok so i finished pathologic and it's like. i think most of the story is concluded but I am incredibly curious as to like. what happened

[organchordsandlightning]

pieces of media where you're like 'i'm good, I don't need a book about this, but I would enjoy a one year 'where are they now' pamphlet'

[all-pacas]

the FANFIC DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY: no mystery left

(because this is the one i was thinking about. bc reddit.)

OK, no idea how to do these things. Part of me is really tempted to pretend this is an actual director's commentary, you know, make a fake script, like here I am in a booth and we're doing a little watch along together. Right: Hi, I'm Helen. (We're doing the RP, ya'll)

So this was the first story I wrote for House. I think I did it in about two hours; most of it in one burst and then finishing it up. I have the bad habit of doing editing after posting, I'll just sit and re-read it until I spot errors or wording issues.

no mystery left alpacas

I kind of regret the title of this fanfic. It's called after a lyric from Portions for Foxes, which is kind of just my general Chase Soundtrack Song, which is why I chose it — except I kind of feel like I could have used it on something else, or picked something more fitting. But I don't hate the title either. I can never think of proper titles, I'm always stealing from songs. I've been trying to use as many Portions for Foxes lyrics as possible in my House fanfics.

"Who," House says grandly as Cuddy approaches, "ever heard of a diagnostics fellowship?" He's sitting in the hall by the elevators, ready to pounce. "Who ever heard of a diagnostics department?" she retorts distractedly. She slows. "You're hiring a fellow. Maybe even two, if you can find that many people who can stand you. This is a teaching hospital." House doesn't retort. She looks at him suspiciously and he twists his expression as if to suggest he has no idea what she's suspicious about. "Hire a fellow," she repeats. "That Treiber kid -"

This is a continuity error!! House actually did have fellows before Chase. This exchange really bothers me, but I've let it stand. I guess my excuse is that neither House or Cuddy say Chase will be your first fellow; House is just at a moment where he doesn't have any (also a continuity error, btw, Chase mentions meeting one in All In).

I… hadn't actually completed my watch of the show when I started this fanfic, which is where the error crept in. You'd think referencing S8-only Trier would imply I'd at least watched most of it, but no. I skipped ahead. I watched it coz the summary implied Chase Backstory.

He watches as she tries to enter before the doors close. A blond kid sticks out his arm to block them, flashes a thousand perfectly white teeth at her when she says thanks. Interesting.

I never have House refer to Chase by name in the story. This is meant to be the first time House sees (or hears of) him, and what he sees is Chase on a Charm Offensive towards Cuddy. Enough to pique his curiosity.

"I don't trust nurses." House keeps staring over Wilson's shoulder. The papers are too far away to read, but he can just make out the logo on the cover sheet. "Who does immigration paperwork in a hospital?" he asks.

This is still meant to be an accidental run-in. This is also shoddy immigration law, although I reference it in another fanfic too: as much as I like the idea Chase leveraged a 3 month holiday visa into a work visa, I'm pretty sure there is no way the department of immigration would let him. But I like how careless and sort of arrogant it seems. (very Rich Kid) Chase just assumes it'll all work out for him.

House flips a page in the rheumatology textbook he's examining. Trier tries not to fidget. "Classic power play," he blurts. "Read a book to show how little you care." House glances up.

Now House is actively researching Chase, probably because he also knows he's playing it fast and loose with his visa, and by implication is trying real hard to get a job by sucking up to Cuddy. I wish we'd had Trier more. I love everything about him. I love the idea that Chase just has a Nemesis in pathology. Like that one episode where he has to biopsy a dead baby? So funny if you imagine Trier is just off-camera and pissed Chase is in his department.

You're Dr. Thomas, aren't you?" the kid asks as the elevator starts to move. "Oh - I'm not a patient, don't worry." He smiles, sticks out his hand. "I'm interviewing for the surgical residency. Dr. Cuddy spoke highly of you. Rob Chase. Fantastic to meet like this - we're due to interview next week?" "Dr. Chase. Of course." Thomas clearly has no idea who the kid is but shakes his hand. The elevator dings. "Nice to meet you," the kid says, oozing charm, as Thomas exits. "Nice trick, Doogie," House says when the doors close. The kid jumps, noticing him for the first time. "Repetitive, though. Do you just hang out around the elevators waiting for your future bosses to climb aboard?"

I went back and forth on how Chase would introduce himself. We know his sister, at least, calls him Robbie, and even though the show itself is pretty consistent on calling him Robert, boy, can we agree that doesn't suit him? In my head, he started using his full name to "sound professional," but before House usually called himself Robbie or Rob. So he's not quite polished yet.

House is making a power play here, obviously. He's figured out Chase's game, and inserting himself into it just to let Chase know he's been caught: Chase is trying to "accidentally" charm his way into being hired. Also, something about him asking if Chase waits for his future bosses on elevators, House being on an elevator…

He turns on the kid, who stops short, uncertain. "Say," House asks, mock innocent. "Is my photo on the website?" The kid recites obediently: "You're Dr. House. Head of diagnostics. Double specialty in -"

Chase did research House, but didn't think he was a useful person to stalk. Trying to imply here that Chase really is being quite cynical and calculating about this — he isn't just targeting the specific folks he needs to hire him, he looked at every possibility and then chose who to seduce.

At House's office, he hesitates until House waves him inside. "The way I see it, Dr. Chase's only son could get a job in any hospital down undah he wanted, no matter how mediocre his grades."

Honestly, biggest argument against Chase being a lazy nepobaby, imo. He seriously could have done this in universe. Instead he moved across the world. This is one of the reasons I am so Interested in this idiot: he's so unambitious but he does wild things like this.

"Surgery and intensive care," he says. He turns to the counter behind him, picks up the resume he'd had Wilson procure. "You must love saving lives." "I do," he says, eyeing the resume and the copy of his father's book House had strategically placed under the manilla folder. "How sweet." "I like them when they're dying," the kid says, leaning forward. "When you have a bleed and ten seconds to find it. When they crash and you don't know why and you have less than a minute to fix the problem." "And that's why you're a perfect candidate for my fellowship?" House mocks. "You tell me. You're courting me, aren't you?" "Sudden attitude shift. Trying to appeal to the nearest authority figure by imitating his grizzled charm?"

I don't love this exchange. I think it's pretty decent banter, it flows nicely, but I do think Chase is too aggressive, even if I handwaved it with him doing in intentionally, trying to match House's energy. House revealing he's been tracking Chase's job hunt, and showing off Rowan's book, proves that he's interested in Chase and has been paying attention. So Chase notices this, and he's trying to imitate House.

I don't think (she says, having written it) that Chase's explanation for his specialties is necessarily true here. Or not the whole truth. He's just trying to say what he thinks House wants to hear. From his perspective, this dude he hasn't seen before just walked up to him and told him "I know everything about you, sit in my office, let's look at your resume." House mentioned Chase's immigration winging-it, that he's hoping to charm his way into a job. So Chase in turn is making his specialty sound sort of reckless and seat of his pants, too.

From House's perspective, he's seen this kid stroll into the hospital and attempt to manipulate

He skims the kid's file again. Looks up at him over the top of the folder, then tosses it down. "Have your dad give me a call." "What?" he blinks. "You want the job, I'd like a character reference." "I have references." "Yeah, but I'm such a fan of daddy. Shouldn't be a problem. Not like you fled England rather than live in his shadow or anything." "Australia." House waits. Finally the kid stands up. He offers his hand to House to shake. He doesn't take it. Rowan Chase calls the next morning.

This is the reason both the story and this commentary exists. It's a power play. House wants Chase to demean himself and do something he doesn't want to in order to prove he wants the job. Chase, meanwhile, realizes that House is pursuing him. So the real question is "will you do something you don't want to do because I asked you?" House has seen Chase is manipulative, and observant, but is he willing to do this?

Chase, meanwhile, knows House is interested in him and pursuing him. He doesn't know how much House has been tracking him, but clearly House wants him. This is enough to get Chase, naturally, to abandon his other plans to charm his way into a job: he might be able to get Thomas to hire him, but House is taking the initiative and showing an interest, which makes him way more valuable. (ie: daddy issues. It's always daddy issues.)

"I want to hire Bobby," House says, cornering Cuddy Friday morning.

[…]

"One's black and the other has milk and sugar. Did - did my father --" He blinks, losing his confidence. House takes the black coffee. Chase throws the other cup in the trash.

House calls him Bobby to mock him, obviously, but it's not until the last paragraph of the story the narration (and so, House) thinks of Chase by name. Now that Chase is in Diagnostics, he Exists.

Further useless headcanon director's notes:

I think Chase introduced himself as Robbie exactly once in New Jersey, and House heard, and it was also the last time he ever used that name.

For some reason, I feel like Chase drinks coffee black with sugar. So neither of those cups were ever going to be from him. He's blatantly sucking up here.

Finally, in an earlier scene:

"Do you even have an interview with Thomas, or were you planning on kissing his ass until you got one?" "I'll have it by the end of the week," the kid says defiantly. House smirks.

And in the last scene:

He passes her the manila folder. Cuddy skims it and looks disapproving. "Dr. Chase is the new surgical resident. Dr. Thomas specifically asked --"

I just liked this bit. Chase did end up getting the other job, he just picked the boss who wanted him over the one who didn't. From Dr. Thomas's brief appearance in S6, he seems to have Issues with Chase and Chase as an extension of House. I think it makes sense on its own, but it makes more sense with this context. He offers the kid a job, the kid rejects the job, four years later Cuddy makes Thomas hire him again, and Chase still pays more attention to House?? Lowkey Chase has as many enemies in the hospital as House and I think that's great.

[hustlerose]

i think oblivion’s “leveling problem” is actually kinda cool. i think if it was done intentionally by a modern indie dev, ppl would be calling it a brilliant subversion of traditional rpg mechanics, which builds and plays out over dozens of hours. i think the experience of playing an rpg that gets more difficult and hostile over time is weirdly cool and interesting. and it’s a shame that it’s seen as this irredeemable flaw, that only exists so gamers can bitch about it online. i’d go so far as to say that if you play the game according to “optimal leveling” guides, you’re missing out

if you play the dlcs after the main questline, it ties up the narrative and ludonarrative threads in a nice neat bow. see, you are never really the main character in oblivion’s main quest, you’re just the messenger. you’re constantly doing things so that martin can move the plot forward. sure, you’re a hero, you save the world. you do tons of heroic shit. you charge headlong into oblivion to save kvatch and bruma. and for awhile, everyone knows your name. but martin is the dragonborn. when mehrunes dagon shows up, it’s martin who faces him in the final battle, while you just stand there. that’s what the world remembers. most of your heroics are only yours to remember

so you find yourself facing increasingly impossible odds, on a quest you won’t be remembered for. isnt it fitting that during all that, you feel the world is turning more and more hostile toward you? that everything is out of your control? i think it makes sense that the rpg loop of killing monsters and getting loot eventually takes its toll on you. as you progress, it only gets less satisfying. you finish the main quest, and you still keep doing it, even when it starts to hurt. you might ask yourself, what’s the point of doing this anymore? and yeah, what is the point?

knights of the nine takes you a journey of transcendent spiritual healing. you learn to move on from these earthly things that have been grinding you down the past few in-game years. maybe there’s more to life than “adventure.” taking this path means becoming one with the gods. this questline involves one of the only quests in the whole game that asks you to not attack something. in the end, you lay some old spirits to rest and become one with the gods

shivering isles represents the opposite reaction to all this. if you play it after (or instead of) kotn, the narrative resolves with the pc accepting the futility and absurdity of their life, at the price of their sanity. and they ultimately succumb to ambition. this story also ends with you becoming “one with the gods,” but in a much darker way. just like martin mantled akatosh, you mantle sheogorath. and it brings you satisfaction. it feels good to be on equal footing with martin. you decide that power and progression have value. just look at what that turns you into

idk, i just think in an era where pathologic is getting serious love, i think oblivion has a place. not despite, but because of its “flaws.” i know oblivion is the haha ugly meme game. it’s bethesda’s awkward teen phase between the narrative genius of morrowind and the mechanical genius of skyrim. but i like it!!!!!!!! ok!!!!!!!!!!!! it can and should be judged on its own merits, as a single text with something valuable to say

[prynnehesters]

i've started playing portal recently and im kind of bored w it...but we'll see how it goes.

now here's a list of steam games i have bought and my thoughts about them

LOVED

PSYCHONAUTS (both 1 and 2, i still can't decide which one is better tbh...if you had a gun to my head, i would die lol)

Ikenfell

Night in the Woods

Undertale (and Deltarune)

Stardew Valley

Going Under

Firewatch

Virgo vs the Zodiac

Lakeview Valley

Jenny LeClue: Detectivu

Thimbleweed Park

Fran Bow

OK

Oxenfree

Cozy Grove (im still playing thru it, but i think after I finish Dahlia's storyline, I'll stop playing lol)

Monster Prom + Monster Camp (i think w a lot of choose your own adventure type games, i get really into it for a few days, then get bored...im sure i'll be really into it in a few months lol)

Don't Starve

Graveyard Keeper

Hades

Untitled Goose Game

Both Reigns and Reigns Her Majesty (kind of boring after a while lol)

Dream Daddy

Stanley Parable

Pathologic (will go back and play it)

The Yawhg

Rainswept

Both Frog Detective Games

Death and Taxes

Broken Age

Skullgirls

pretty much every free game I have played

most idle games go here because i prefer to play them on my phone and most phone games are ok but a lot of them are gacha or gacha adjacent

NOT 4 ME

Tacoma

Papers, Please (I might go back and play it, but I was kind of bored lol)

Lakeview Cabin Collection(i couldn't get the controls lol...i will go back and try again)

Depression Quest

Throne of Lies

Friday the 13th game (kind of)

Afterparty (I think I'd put this in between ok and not 4 me bcuz i was so bored during it even tho i liked lola and milo but like...it doesn't feel like a full game and i was falling asleep playing it)

We Know the Devil (interesting story but like...kind of boring)

[phantomnostalgist]

Ethan Freeman Phantom interview

An interview with Ethan Freeman from about 1994 or 1995, printed in “Beneath the Mask” #8 (which I haven’t found my print copy of yet, but the interview was reproduced on our old POTO fan site). 

Also of note about Ethan: at the time he was one of the two youngest actors to have played the Phantom - he and Anthony Warlow were both 28 or 29 when first cast in the role.

Are there any differences between London and Vienna - if so, what are they? The general tone of the production in Vienna was slightly more Operetta-like, probably due to the language, the sound of the translation and style of acting of some of the players. The tempo was also at some points quite different depending on who was conducting, and would undoubtedly feel strange to me now. The audience tended to be less tuned in to the humorous moments in the show in general, and some scenes like "Managers I & II" for example, simply run better and are more clever in English.

How did you get the role? I got the role of the Phantom after auditioning for Hal Prince and Gillian Lynne and the Viennese producer and musical staff. They appeared very excited about the audition. I'd sung "Music of the Night" which they praised in a friendly manner (Hal is always positive and encouraging), and they sent me off to learn the segment from the Final Lair "Order your fine horses... This is the choice. This is the point of no return!" When I came back the next day to do it (the Phantom candidates appeared by then to have been reduced to three) Hal said "OK Ethan I want you to scare me!" So I did the section with as much power and venom as I could muster (Id never seen the show - I think Id heard the record once or twice...) and after it was done, Hal just said "Great. You scared me!" and that was that really. Later that day they explained to Alexander Goebel and me what they would like and would we be willing to share, obviously with Alex, who was very well known, being the dominant of the two. So we split 5/2 which frequently ended up being 4/3 as the run went along.

How did you research the character? I read the novel finally, all the way through. Ruth Hale, my partner in "Cats" at the time, later to premiere as Mme Giry in the Hamburg production, gave me a copy as a present. I'd seen several of the films over the years so I knew there wasn't much to be mined from those - although Lon Chaney Snr did display some magnificent body language, and I've nicked at least one dramatic gesture from him. Principally though, I had several long meetings with Hal in New York to talk about the role and show. He instructed me to go watch Michael a few times then come back and talk some more. Crawford was magnificent, at the peak of his vocal power and still fairly fresh in the role and I was moved and impressed as I have not been since by a Phantom. (Though Dave Willetts, I must say, also made a huge impression the first time I saw him, for his power and well-delineated psychotic behaviour.) At first I thought boy, you've got your work cut out for you on all fronts. So, I would say my "research" of the role was principally based on my own discussions with Hal and also largely on my own thoughts and feelings. Obviously most of the physical manifestations of the role, make-up, costume, blocking, etc were predetermined so there wasn't much scope for change. To be honest, I feel some of the Phantoms I've seen tend, in an effort to be different, to stray from the basic line of the drama and weaken themselves as a result. Michael's acting was extreme, yet very clear and economical at the same time, and I also try to offer the audience a complicated and ambiguous character going through clear, unambiguous moments of his life - otherwise it's so easy for the audience not to "get" everything that's there - or to "get" things that aren't intended to be there at all.

How do you feel on stage? So varied in thought and feeling that I can't really give a concise answer. I feel quite differently now to how I felt 600 odd shows ago. I used to have to concentrate on staying concentrated - now it just happens. I know what to achieve and just try to let it happen. I'd say I'm both in and out of Erik at the same time and he in me.

Do you think it's based on a true story ie. did the Phantom exist? I doubt it - I haven't read this newer novel "Phantom" yet and don't intend to until I finish playing the part. However I've been to the Palais Garnier and in all senses of the word it is a 'phantastic' theatre, one which easily conjures up many stirring images - beautifully represented in the Phantom designs, I'd say!

What do you think of Erik? I wish he'd let me have a little more time to myself! Oh, I don't know. He's a sad, bitter, brilliant man. He has a great brain and can be a real bastard. I find him easy to understand - he's motivated by a terrible profound loneliness and has been forced to create his own universe which has its own laws. Anyone who has known some kind of loneliness or feeling of apartness when they were children or growing up can tune in to this crucial aspect of the Man, which is his great mythical attraction. He is so powerful, awesome, in control and yet so hurt and vulnerable. He must epitomise great beauty and great ugliness at war with each other, reason and insanity, God/Satan, Id/Ego battling it out. In the end, he learns about sacrifice, shows mercy and is redeemed by love - a great, archetypal Romantic drama - another reason why the story has always been so popular. I can't stand it when I see Erik played as a "nutter". Yes, he goes "crazy" a few times, but in general he is not insane in the pathological sense. I feel if he is played as a schizophrenic or a psychopath, the romantic ideal of the story is dashed, because both of those conditions would indicate a "determination" that makes any hope of redemption impossible, and would break with the "Romantic" style. He is very melancholy, angry, egocentric, neurotic perhaps, and goes off into rages of frustrated sexuality, but he is not insane. And I'll kill anyone who thinks otherwise!

What do you think happens to him at the end? That's our little secret! I think the different fan magazines have probably spent pages on that so I don't see I need to contribute. He goes!

Why do you think the show is so appealing? Some lovely songs, great orchestrations, a nice mixture of melodrama and light comedy, some stunning sets and a lot of good theatrical magic: and on the thematic side, many of the things I've mentioned before, which I suppose you could define as the archetypal Beauty and the Beast scenario which, if honestly portrayed, can tug the heartstrings of even the most urbane Japanese businessman.

What is your favourite role of those you've played? Obviously Phantom is the supreme role in my repertoire to date. I did however, really enjoy my stints in other Lloyd Webber shows as well. Che in "Evita" was very cool to play and Gus/Growltiger, while exceedingly 'uncool' thanks to the heavy knitted costumes, was a joy to play, despite being totally knackering, and one that I was surely born to do. I really enjoyed doing Hajj, the Poet in "Kismet" with the BBC Radio 2 last year, working with the composers, and would love to have the chance to do that again on stage someday.

What role would you like to play? I'd quite hope to have a go at Sweeney Todd somewhere down the line and would still like to play the Celebrant in "Bernstein's Mass" at some point. (I've nearly done that a couple of times.) Add to that a heap of great operatic roles I'd love to do but probably never will and whatever new, unknown roles lie lurking up ahead. We'll wait and see!

End note from me - Ethan’s wrong about schizophrenia, but hey, this interview was 25 years ago and actors can’t be expected to be experts on mental illness. But I really love this interview, the depth he goes into, and how his sense of humour comes through too.

[enrychan]

Burakovsky fanfiction recs

ok so I read every single Burakovsky fanfic on AO3 (no, really) and I started thinking about writing down a list of those I particularly appreciate. because the Patho fandom is tiny, and the Burakovsky fandom is even tinier, but there are a lot of incredible talents in it, and they deserve all the recognition we can muster.

I apologize to those who did not make it into this list, unfortunately I can’t read Russian (for now... that might change in the future😏) AND I have very specific tastes. Which is why some authors are repeated more than once (sorry!). Also I’m following at least a couple of beautiful fanfics that are currently unfinished, and I’m probably gonna include those in the next list.

You’re all extremely talented though, and I hope to read more of your works very soon (do I refresh the Burakovsky tag each day? yes I do)

anyway here’s my list, in no particular order! Enjoy all the love, hate, death and philosophy!🥰

In Vivo by meradorm. After a long silence, the Haruspex travels to the capital to seek out his old companion.

Arguably the best fanfics in the Patho fandom; and one of the best fanfics I’ve ever read. The writing style simulates the first translation of Patho Classic, which was weird and sometimes almost incomprehensible, but somehow it enhanced the odd, alien experience of the first game. Using this particular and sometimes difficult language, this fanfic gives the impression of being an integral part of the original story. The characters and the love story are beautiful and raw, sweet and cruel, and the ending is so... so perfectly Pathologic it makes me angry. Prepare lots&lots of tissues because you’re gonna cry your eyes out!

How cleverly the trap is made by Modlisznik. "My apologies." Daniil clears his throat. "Usually I reserve views like this for at least fourth, maybe fifth date."

Ok yes I’m going to recommend a lot of fanfics by Modlisznik, I just really really like their style. This is one of my favorites because Daniil is so in character, trying his best to appear strong even while in pain and almost blind with one of his migraines... and I’m always weak for Artemy being sweet and caring for Daniil. Just *chef’s kiss* excellent

Of the Town and the Steppe by Modlisznik. Artemy wonders how Daniil feels about this vastness, autumnal grass as far as the eye can see, the sky so clear, hanging so low, so close you can almost touch it, you can almost get swallowed whole. Insignificant, a little speckle on the face of Earth. Daniil is a creature of the city, Artemy thinks, of clear boundaries, of walls to hide behind, of places to be alone in. He must feel exposed. I'm a bad host, Artemy thinks.

Just a romantic, intimate moment between our two idiots out in the steppe. Daniil imagining all the places in the Capital he would like to show Artemy is so unbearably sweet I think I’ve cavities now. Totally worth it though.

All about Blood by Modlisznik. Daniil is aware that Isidor has been murdered just a few days ago. That his memory is still fresh, his touch lingers in this place. That Daniil, an intruder, shouldn't come down here to Isidor’s workshop - his laboratory - his sanctum - and most certainly, he shouldn't be here to fuck Isidor’s son. Even less, to use the elder Burakh's table for that purpose. He's aware of that. He also doesn't care.

Hot damn. This fanfics pushes all my buttons at once and then dances on the keyboard just to be sure. Artemy/Daniil kinky sex? Check. On the stone table in Artemy’s lab? Check. Subtle power games between the two? Check. Artemy marking Daniil with his blood? Check. A sprinkle of bondage just to spice things up a bit? Check. Um... is it just me or it’s kind of hot in here?

The Line of Red by Modlisznik. Bachelor Dankovsky does not believe in luck. Artemy wants him to understand, that the charm he's offering will protect him - just not in the way Daniil thinks it does.

Another sweet moment brought to you by or Official Sweetheart Artemy Burakh: Artemy wants to give Daniil something to remind him that he’s not alone, even in his darkest moments, that Artemy is his tagloor. Daniil doesn’t understand all that steppe folklore, but recognizes a precious gift when he’s given one.

Something old, something new by Modlisznik. In which Artemy considers the importance of not being watched, and Murky's doll needs urgent medical attention.

Just an adorable fanfic and a joy to read from start to finish. Artemy is best dad, Murky is best daughter, Daniil is back with a new title, and I’m always ready for some teary-eyed happy reunions.

Bloodflood by Xyloto. A flood of blood to the heart.

Artemy is used to be on top, and the relative new experience of being on the receiving end doesn’t start particularly well for him, but he is determined to let Daniil have what he wants. Daniil has other ideas on the matter. I have a thing for “top that bottoms for his bottom”, and especially in this case because this fanfic is written beautifully. It keeps all the more abrasive traits of Artemy’s personality&speech, while remaining very sweet and romantic somehow.

A Curse Befalls Your Heart by CurrieBelle. Daniil Dankovsky suffers from a Steppe curse. Burakh performs triage.

Speaking of sweet and romantic, are you ready for a good bucket of literal honey? This is my comfort fanfic, the one I return to every once in a while when I need something soft and lovely to shut off my brain. Not only that, but the story is awesome too, because it is based on an actual canon curse in the Patho lore. Remember when Anna Angel was cursed with the “returning heart” in Patho 2? What if something similar happened to Daniil? Luckily, Artemy is there to help.

Ode to the Body by kylee. In which Bachelor and Haruspex flatter each other shamelessly.

The Powers That Be have always destroyed Daniil’s self esteem by reducing him to a list of failures. Artemy wants him to understand that he’s not just his failures, nor his accomplishments, but so much more. Sex ensues. Praise kink anyone??? (yes please)

life overflowing by Yellow. Artemy needs someone to look at what he's done, to see he's done well, to take over for him, his head and his heart. just for a little while.

This is both lovely and kind of heartbreaking, with some suicidal tendencies/ideation? I feel it is completely appropriate after all Artemy has gone through by this point in the story. But Daniil doesn’t have any intention of letting him go.

Vae Soli by Adoxography. Daniil becomes Artemy's unwilling caretaker when Artemy is infected with the Sand Pest and is forced to take a Shmowder to cure himself, or die in the attempt.

There are a lot of sick fics in the Patho fandom (obviously), but I particularly love this one because it doesn’t embellish the pitiful state of Artemy, caught between two terrible ailments, nor makes Daniil appear too soft and generous. There is rivalry between the two idiots (as it should be), but also trust and even some attraction on Daniil’s part. In other words, it rings true and believable!

sub derma by Jagged. Dankovsky takes to the Town better than he thinks, but less than he'd like. Artemy would know.

Super sexy fanfic! dom!Daniil turns Artemy on with some pain play which Artemy is only too happy to be subjected to. I just love the power dynamic between the two, it’s visceral and even a little bit cruel at times, but the absolute trust they have in each other makes everything weirdly romantic.

foreign bodies by hoverbun. They have some time to themselves between dissections and the sharing of alms.

So it turns out that I also have a Thing for fics about shaving. apparently??? Artemy has some free time and a beard to get rid of. He asks Daniil for help with that. And everyone knows there are few things sexier than a hot doctor with a very sharp blade pointed at your throat!

I hope you blink before I do by vespirus. Maybe he was fated to gravitate towards men like these; the men with loose morals, the men who understood what it meant to be an arbiter of life and death decisions, the men who felt the weight of the future on their shoulders. Or maybe he just had an inescapable interest in the macabre.

AU fanfic about Daniil as an unscrupulous researcher and Artemy as a medical undergraduate willing to kill to make enough money to keep living and studying in the Capital. In other words they are both horrible people, and the tension between them is so thick you could slice it with a knife. There also a sequel, but it’s a death fic and I personally don’t like that. I hope the author will write an alternative ending where they become an awesome couple of gay criminals in love sooner or later!

[wennjunhui]

seventeen hospital au

im back at it again with another random seventeen post bc nurse!jun is ruining me :)))))

disclaimer: the most i know about hospitals and how they work is from chicago med so dont expect this to be accurate 

seungcheol

attending physician in the ed

kinda intimidating but is really a huge softie

but don’t make him angry bc that is not a good idea at all

always seen with a protein shake

tends to hover over the new med students a lot

partially because it’s important to evaluate them and their knowledge

but most because he thinks its funny when they freak out around him

always asks for a psych consult even when he knows its not necessary

bc its totally in the best interest in the patient and not because hes bored and wants to talk with his bff nahhh

has a long term girlfriend that works as a software developer

everyone in the ed tryna get him to propose bc ITS BEEN 9 YEARS DAMMIT WIFE HER ALREADY

jeonghan

psychiatry fellow

usually works night shifts because hes sleeps schedule is fucked 

functions on coffee and coffee alone

is constantly Tired

catch him napping in the break rooms whenever he has time

originally wanted to go into psychology, but he gets too invested and thought it would be better to maintain short term relationships

bffs with seungcheol, but bffls with joshua

by the off chance he’s not tried, he’ll go around the ed and tease the doctors and nurses

hes in the ed a lot tho bc someone keeps calling him even tho “he literally just sprained his ankle seungcheol why am i here”

joshua

plastics fellow

fucking loaded

pulls up to the ed in a fucking gold ferrari and just shrugs when people ask about

‘yeah i got it as a birthday gift, treat yourself ya know?’

born and raised in the us, but went to south korea to further his studies

bffls with jeonghan

by GOD the chance theyre in the same room, its game over for everyone

his surgery playlist is fucking wild 

did a heartbreaking ballad just finish playing? oh thats sad but move over its britney bitch 

always brings a guitar to work parties

‘if you sing sunday morning one more fucking time-’ proceeds to sing sunday morning ‘GODDAMMIT JOSHUA’

is seeing the cute hotel concierge that works a few blocks away 

junhui

the Hot Nurse

literally all the patients fucking swoon 

kinda makes patients nervous bc of how handsome he is

ok i’ll stop now

occasionally scrubs in as a surgical nurse for minghao

he pretends to be all cool and hot shit in front of patients, but when hes around staff he turns into a giant bright ball of excitable fluff 

will always be asked to be assigned to kid patients bc he loves kids

studied abroad in korea and decided he loved it there so he stayed

may or may not have a crush on someone in the hospital but shh no one knows except jeonghan and minghao

has no problem calculating correct dosages but cant do basic math for the life of him

‘no junhui, 7+8 does not equal 17′

soonyoung

senior resident in the ed

HYPEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!111!!!!111

works night shifts bc otherwise the ed would be dead without him

probably drinks too much redbull for his own health

his favorite treatment room is treatment room five because “that’s where a patient peed on me on my first day here”

“ok soonyoung good to kno”

“no problem”

not very tech savvy 

always manages to fuck up the tablets somehow every shift

for the love of GOD dont let him near an xray machine

also never assign him and seungkwan on the same patient they will accomplish nothing 

has taken chan under his wing

wonwoo

neurology resident

blind as fuck

harry potter glasses for days

looks really cold on the outside but is really just a huge fucking dork

like actually he laughs and jokes about anything and everything

neurology can be dark sometimes yo and humor is a great way to cope with it

that and gaming

half the reason why he cant see is bc he spent too much time playing video games growing up

still kinda does but he gets away with it

accompanies soonyoung on the night shift bc he knows soonyoung gets lonely sometimes

plays ballads in the surgery rooms because it helps him keep calm

jihoon

pathology resident

‘forget working with humans hAVE YOU SEEN THIS BLOOD CULTURE ITS COOL AS FUCK’

that being said, he hangs around the break rooms a lot because being cooped up in pathology is just tiring sometimes and he needs actual people to talk to

but mostly its so he can draw on jeonghans sleeping face

shares a flat with soonyoung bc rent is expensive yo

usually has the best tunes down in pathology 

originally wanted to go into music, but school kinda killed his enjoyment of it for a long time

is slowly getting back into and finding his joy in it again

he knows too many stories about the ed that hes forced to listen to

“for the last fucking time soonyoung i dont care about how your patient threw up on seungkwan”

“okokok but`”

“no”

seokmin

ed resident wanting to specialize in pediatrics

SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS AND SMILES EVERYWHERE

wow literally everyone in the ed is in love with him a teeny tiny bit

because he has such a bright and positive aura around him that its hard not to feel happy 

sings to the smol children if they get scared 

everyone always asks him to sing at work parties and he kills it every time despite being initially shy

“wait wait wait you were in a rock band in high school???”

has a crush on the ed secretary out front

its so fucking cute the rest of the ed ships them so much

sometimes he doubts himself and his skills and that makes his day very sad

but everyone in the ed is in love with him and will constantly be there to remind seokmin about how amazing his is and how much he deserves to be here

and thatll make his day better c:

mingyu

ed resident

the Hot Doctor

wow everyone has a crush on him even if you dont you do

pray for the patients that get assigned to both mingyu and jun your in for a visual attack

tho the facade for mingyu usually breaks after a minute of meeting him

clumsy af yo

once knocked over the patients entire tray of food because his limbs were longer than he remembered

sometimes forgets to put on hand sanitizer and seungcheol always yells at him about

from the other side of the ed “MINGYU, HANDS”

“THANKS HYUNG”

always brings his own lunch bc hospital foods shit and he makes better food at home 

sometimes brings in cookies for the staff in the break room

theyre usually gone within an hour

minghao

trauma and emergency medicine fellow

TALENTED

was personally scouted by hospital officials in china

really young to be such an expert in his field

also his hands are really sensitive to abnormalities in the human body so he feels out the situation and catches the situation really early

is kinda intimidating because of his rbf and takes no shit approach

but is really super soft and fluffy once not in a work environment

relied on jun a lot in terms of adjustment here in korea, and he’s probably closest to him in the ed 

has jun scrub in with him for surgeries sometimes

objectively has the best surgery playlists

from pink floyd, to an obscure japanese indie rock

bickers with mingyu a lot of proper treatment of patients

usually theyre both right tho they just cant communicate effectively

is secretly seeing another chinese surgeon from plastics, but they hide it really well except from jun ofc

seungkwan

nurse

a really loud and mouthy one at that

nags everyone in the ed a lot despite not being the charge nurse

tho hes getting there and everyone knows it 

despite that, hes really sweet and caring towards patients 

is also really weak for kids, but he cant ever be assigned to them because he’ll freak out if something happens to them

always earns high marks on nurse feedback forms because he does his job AND is entertaining 

even tho he nags everyone else, sometimes hes too selfless and forgets to take care of himself

“did you forget your lunch? aiii how could you do that? here take mine”

“seungkwan you need to eat to”

“i said take it, now eat and make your mom proud”

cries and often laments how much he loves his staff when hes had a little too much to drink at work parties

hansol

a new nurse

really chill, vibin through life

is really a much appreciated presence to have around the ed, especially when things can become hectic really quickly

often acts as a translator between english and korean 

will laugh at pretty much anything (which wonwoo appreciates alot because at least someone likes his jokes)

one thing that always gets his blood boiling is the blatant ignorance some patients have

like the offhanded racism against him or his coworkers, or comments about lgbtq+ people 

and there have been times when he hasnt been able to control how he responds because wow he Dislikes ignorant people

so whenever he gets a patient like that, he often asks to switch with another nurse because “if i have to listen to karen say something racist about jun or minghao again im gonna lose my fucking mind”

med students usually hang around him bc of how approachable he is

shower thoughts

“do you ever wonder this would taste like”

“hansol dont-”

chan

med student in his final year

is really eager to learn and get started on things!

ed is his first choice for match day

soonyoung has taken him under his wing so he mainly just shadows him

and its always a fun and great time chan has learned so much from him 

the entire ed staff has adopted him and will riot if he doesnt get accepted on match day

“chan, whos baby are you?”

“for the last time hyung IM TWENTY SEVEN”

if hes not shadowing soonyoung, hes probably studying in the break rooms with hansol throwing popcorn at him

“hyung stop im tryna study”

“ok but catch this in your mouth first”

still has a lot to learn, but hes out there conquering the world of medicine yall better watch out

[ourmrsreynolds]

Jon, Arya and the Childhood BFF to Lovers Trope: Or, why everyone ships J0nsa

I had an argument with my sister which was precipitated by her quipping “nobody likes childhood BFFs” and “hot new guy is always endgame.” I almost flipped a table. I sat there and I seethed for 30 seconds and then I texted her back PIRATES OF THE MOTHERFUCKING CARIBBEAN and I gotta say I was p pleased with myself because yes, Elizabeth and Will end up together even though Jack Sparrow exists and is indisputably hot.

My sister and I are reading Jenny Han’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. This is a story that sets out to deconstruct the trope of “It was always gonna be you and me,” and while my sister can crow all day about how Hot New Guy Gets the Girl, I want to examine why it makes thematic and structural sense for that to be endgame. I think it comes down to the protagonist, who seldom ventures out of her comfort zone and has trouble letting herself want things. The combination of extremely deep feeling and almost pathological constraint is what makes her story so compelling—because in the course of the novel she learns to unabashedly want things, to reach out and take them: and what she wants is the sardonic lacrosse-playing jock, not the Boy Next Door she’s had a crush on since forever. One of the running gags in the background is her nine-year-old little sister inventing increasingly far-fetched reasons she should be allowed to have a puppy, because the kid “knows what she wants and will do anything it takes to get it.” The contrast with hyper-repressed Main Character could not be more pronounced. I ask you, who does Main Character remind you of? Not Arya, for a surety. This is one thousand percent Sansa.

After the finale aired Jenny Han and some other YA authors were dragged on twitter for openly shipping J0nsa, which, I mean (a) it was more “ugh fan fiction” and “ew incest” and “think of the children!!1!” than anything specific to J0nsa (b) of course she ships J0nsa. Of fucking COURSE. J0nsa is not a childhood BFFs ship, because the whole point is that Sansa’s character development leads her to see Jon in a new light. It’s above all about Sansa’s arc and the scales falling from Sansa’s eyes and there isn’t room for someone who has always seen the value in Jon, who has always loved him best. Because that would not be sufficiently Pride & Prejudice-y. Allow me to remind everyone that Pride & Prejudice is (1) the ur-Romance novel and (2) about people changing their minds and revising their initial judgments. Ffs it was originally titled “First Impressions.” This is the dominant narrative wrt romantic love, then—that one must fall in love, that it must be accompanied by major character development and reevaluation of preconceptions. This is the appeal of Enemies-to-Lovers.

Listen, I don’t ship a pairing because I think it’s endgame; I ship it because I think it’s interesting. What I’m trying to do here is formulate a theory as to why so many people find Jon & Sansa’s dynamic interesting, as compared to the small handful of us who find Jon & Arya’s dynamic interesting. I’m not engaging with the people who are anti-incest on principle (if you’re not into incest this is maybe not the fandom for you). I think it has a lot to do with the sort of romantic stories we elevate and validate. Gendrya is a wildly popular ship, and it falls very much in the Childhood BFFs mold, but I think we can all agree that Gendry & Arya are not a finished product—they have a lot of stuff to work on, and what shippers are interested in is the process of them hammering it out. Jon and Arya though? They’re already president of each other’s fan clubs, where’s the tension or drama in that? The obstacles to their relationship are external and plot-driven rather than internal and character-driven. And I say unto you: This is Arya’s creation myth: Before there was anything, there was Jon. That’s it that’s my kink that’s the kind of all-encompassing bond I’m about. The absolute trust they repose in each other gives me LIFE. I’ve seen some J0nsas parry the “she’s not even his favorite sister” argument with “because she’s his wife not his sister” and like ... ok valid ig but the whole reason I’m interested in Jon/Arya is because they set no boundaries on their love?? They are each other’s e v e r y t h i n g. I mean if you want to read about two strangers fumbling their way towards feelings that’s fine but do not pretend to me that J0nsa is some kind of underdog ship. It’s the most basic of ships -- it’s a Pride & Prejudice ship. (Gendrya otoh is Persuasion, which is the best Austen novel don’t @ me.) For in-universe reasons why J0nsa undercuts Jon and Arya’s unconditional love this is a great post, but I’m going to stick to the meta reasons people ship what they ship.

Here is the thing I will die mad about: Everybody takes childhood BFFs for this hegemonic trope and wouldn’t it be so eDgY to subvert it by making her fall for a HANDSOME STRANGER instead. Jfc have you seen the biggest young adult franchises of the past decade? They are: Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Mortal Instruments. Spoiler alert none of the heroines end up with their childhood bffs. I know the love triangle is hardly the point of The Hunger Games but facts are facts. It’s been 150 years and the Little Women fandom is still generating twice as much Jo/Laurie fic as Jo/Bhaer fic because Louisa May Alcott did Jo March dirty by not letting her marry the man she clearly belonged with. I just think the idea of there being someone you belong with, always have and always will, is ultimate #goals and this is the hill i will die on.

I look at Sansa and Arya’s starting points, when it comes to Jon, and however their arcs resolve in the end I cannot imagine how you could retcon J0nsa into some kind of lifelong attachment?? Here is Sansa in the wake of Lysa’s death, mulling her options:

there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King’s Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she’d hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun. I have no place but here, Sansa thought miserably.

She lists Tyrion among her potential refuges, without once mentioning Jon! TYRION. Unreal. Even Brienne weighs the possibility of Sansa going North to Jon, and Brienne has literally never even met Sansa:

though all her siblings had been slain, Brienne knew that Sansa still had an uncle and a bastard half brother on the Wall

In case anyone requires reminding, Arya takes every possible opportunity to suggest “hey we could go to the Wall instead of wherever we’re going!”:

"I know where we could go," Arya said. She still had one brother left. Jon will want me, even if no one else does.

Maybe I should go to the Wall instead of Riverrun. Jon wouldn't care who I killed or whether I brushed my hair

One of these girls has been trying to get back to Jon for going on four books now. The other one thinks about Jon Arryn more times in her POVs than she thinks about Jon Snow (18 Arryns out of 27 total hits for “Jon” in all Sansa chapters). I’m not saying Sansa hasn’t grown and changed, or that her reunion with Jon might not evolve into something interesting; it’s just not a dynamic I personally care about. I’m definitely not saying that authors deserve to be publicly shamed for shipping fictional characters, but I think an author’s shipping preferences are revealing and shed light on their choices as far as which stories they choose to tell. I’m saying I ship Jon/Arya and I accept it’s not the ship dynamic that appeals to most people but here I am.

[sherlockmonkeesstartrek]

If You Could Only See Me (Part 2)

Rating: Mature Fandom: Based on the Hollies, mentions the Beatles Finished: Yes!!! Summary: Niki grew up with a boy named John in Liverpool. Spending much of her life with him and his band, in 1966 she fell in love with the front man of another band. Or… Did she?

Chapter 2: The Past

A description of events and recount of my entire, apparently imagined life later, and Tony glances at me with a bewildered, speechless expression.

“Ok, I’m starting to see why the others might think you’re crazy.” He chuckles, as kind heartedly as he can.

I stare down at my lap. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed hysterically, I’ve gotten so angry and so depressed all in the space of a ten-minute car ride onto a motorway. Emotionally, I feel exhausted. Physically, I feel hungry; I didn’t even stop to consider breakfast at any time this morning, which is to be expected, and it must be almost mid-day. Unfortunately, thought of eating turns my stomach.

I cast my gaze onto the youngest Hollie and, though I know he can’t look at me, as he is driving, I’m searching for acknowledgement.

“Do you believe me?” I ask, hopeful.

Tony nods enthusiastically, “I mean, if you really say so and you’re not pulling my leg. To be honest, it’s more hard to believe because of the way you love Graham.”

I fight the urge to wince in disgust. The tone of my voice, however, I cannot mask.

“I like him that much, hu?”

Tony looks surprised and side glances me, even though I���ve made my feelings towards Graham quite plain several times over.

“Don’t you?” He inquires, “You guys have been friends as long as him and Allan.”

I sigh. He still doesn’t get it.

“But I told you, I didn’t meet any of you until last year.” I mutter, more to myself than to him. It’s pointless trying to explain everything again. No one can understand it. I’m just a crazy girl with a story that includes meeting one famous band, being the girlfriend of one of the most famous members, then meeting another famous band, only to be stolen away by one of their members… Oh, by now, it’s just too tiring to think about. I slump in my seat, declaring, “I give up. I admit it, I’m done.”

“So, it’s just a story then?” Tony asks, a knowing smirk on his lips, which I ruin by shaking my head.

“No,” I reply nonchalantly, “But I’m done explaining. I just want to know why I fell in love with Graham” I shudder, “and not Allan.”

A silence falls between us. I look out the window. Beside the lines of traffic streaming down long stretches of road, thin trees hide the land behind them, the vast, empty fields seen only through the cracks of their branches. People in cars go on their dull way, their lives forever the same, their past written once, their present influenced only one. They’ll never have to learn again from scratch, be taught about their dull lives from others. The closest they’ll get to feeling what I do is by having a little too much to drink one night and waking up with no recollection of it. I envy them. No doubt they’ll make mistakes and learn from them. I made a mistake I’ve no idea how to rectify. I don’t even know if it’s the cause of all this, one bad mistake that landed me in bed with my boyfriend’s best friend. It could’ve changed my life, but no way like this.

Comfortingly, Tony is much the same as how I remember him. The quiet genius at the guitar is still humble and shy. He is still kind and funny and yet pretty straight-forward. He takes no bullshit from anyone. He still has stunning blue eyes, still looks like a teenager even though he’s 22. Right now, he wears a light brown top with a dark waistcoat on top, a pair of flared jeans and lace-up, thick boots. Compared to him, I a tear streaked mess curling up in his passenger seat like a puppy.

He looks, right now, likes he’s considering what I have said. I see him look down at me and, when he sees me peering back up at him, he fondly pats my shoulder.

“Tell me what happened one more time,” He insists, “Then we’ll go for a coffee.”

Though I haven’t really got the strength, I begin once more explaining first a timeline of the life I remember that I lived. As I do, Tony seeks out a coffee shop. After hurrying in, getting two hot chocolates and a brownie in a brown, paper bag, we park up on a high street and have a little picnic as I try and recall as much of the the night that everything changed.

I tell him everything, every thought that pops into my mind, everything I’d done, every piece of information I’d gathered, every emotion I felt. I’ve talked until my mouth was dry. I even told him that I’d neglected to put on underwear, to which he snorted.

“At least we know you’re the same no matter what.”

Which must be true. I cannot have changed all that much, save for the fact I’ve suddenly gotten way more emotional and erratic. While that is somewhat comforting, it also makes me wonder why the hell I ever thought that Graham Nash was a good partner for me. I express that thought to Tony too, and his brow furrows.

“You know each other so well. You both went through really difficult times together, no?”

“I don’t know, do I!” I exclaim.

This time, he does seem to get it. Or at least he humours me.

“Ok, no you don’t… but…” He trails off in a huff. I guess he’s starting to see where I’m coming from, with my despair, all these confusing timelines, as though my life has become a series of books that the author has made tons of continuity errors in. But he doesn’t stay silent long. “Do you think pictures will help?”

“Pictures?” I parrot.

“Photos. To jog your memory?”

It doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

With two half empty to-go-cups of hot chocolate and the brown, paper bag with brownie remnant inside between my legs and an Everly Brothers tune on the radio, crackling over the medium waveband, Tony pulls out of our parking space, heading for his home. With him, I feel far removed from this strange variation on the world I knew. I can just pretend that Allan and the rest of the band will be along in a minute. They could be meeting us at Tony’s to write a song. When I’d see them, I’d kiss Allan, make fun of Graham, and tell them both which Everly Brothers song we’d heard on the radio and they’d break out in a rendition of it.

And now, I feel a lot less helpless, as I now have a confidante. We are now on a mission together, facing a million unanswered questions.

“So, what photos?” I query, with reasonably strong voice back in use. I sound a little more conversational, rather than broken and beaten.

“Graham’s.” Tony replies, “He must’ve been a photographer in your life too, right? He used to do it when he was a kid.”

My brow creases, “Erm, I actually don’t know if he is.”

Tony looks equally confused but brushes it off. By now, he’s just assumed I know nothing about my own boyfriend, yet I feel like… perhaps I knew that once. Like, maybe Graham had been walking around with a camera and I made some kind of joke about it.

“Well,” Tony continues, “I have an old copy of a photo album. It’s really old, some of it, but it has a lot of newer pictures too.”

“Ok, cool.” I reply. I can’t imagine what’s in the pictures. Guitars, music shop windows and snapshots of attractive girls taken through bushes, all of those scattered sporadically between photos of himself, of course, because he is his own one true love.

Tony’s home isn’t too far away. Excitement builds as we turn into his street. Not only can’t I wait to see the pictures, which have ignited hope within me, it’s actually familiar. For the first time today, I actually feel like I know where I’m going. I’ve got my bearings. We park up and head out onto the pavement. I lead the way, up to a dark blue front door.

I know that his home opens into his living room, the furniture pushed mostly down the other end of the room. A TV set stares at anyone who walks in, behind a two-seater sofa and he still has the huge record player, a prize possession taking second place only to the two guitars that lean on a black stand. They’re held by their long, slender necks and their thick, yet sleek bodies shine in the golden light of the room.

I know that the kitchen is through the second door near the sofa, access to the second floor is in a small corridor behind the first door opposite the front one, which also houses a toilet, and there are two rooms up the stairs; a bedroom and a shower. My mind is flooded with familiarity, which makes me feel beyond comfortable. I take off my coat, hang it over the back of the sofa, then sit in front of it.

“Oh!” I gasp as Tony walks in front of me. He heads towards a beige chest of draws connecting the other side of the sofa to the wall. He knees by it, beginning to search through many papers, books and debris. “Do you still live with Amber?”

“Yes.” He smiles. His girlfriend is a tall chick with short, light brown hair. She has a wonderful sense of humour and a pathological hatred of authority, though you wouldn’t know that if you met her. She is so maternal, so kind, she’d do anything for you. No wonder Tony likes her so much. I’m so glad that he’s with her in this life too. “She’s out at the moment. You know her, can’t stay in bed for too long.” He explains. I laugh. She always was the early bird.

After a short while of searching, completely messing up the once clean top surface and the floor around him, he brings out a brown book which is wider than it is long. Its cover looks like faux leather under a thin sheet of plastic and pages seem to have thick spaces between them. He holds it out and whistles at me to take it, so I do, placing it on my lap as he climbs up next to me. The pages fall open. On every page, there are four or five photos, some negatives, all pasted in with captions. I file to the start and…

“My Mum’ll kill me if she knew I’m here!” I cry over at Graham. He’s climbing up the edge of a bombed wall, whose falling bricks create something of a staircase up to an unstable, falling away top floor. None of us playing, not me, not Graham nor Allan think twice about how dangerous this little playground is, or the fact that this was once a home. It had been a two up, two down fit for around six or seven people with an outdoor loo. I see the remains of the latter, a small cube reaching hardly to my waist. I can see it through a shattered window under where Graham is climbing.

“It’ll be worst if the Priest hears about this.” He warns.

Allan chimes in, “Police or spank, your choice.” He’s sitting with his legs between the crack of some rubble. We’re high enough up, around half of how tall the room used to be, quite stable on piles of debris that do have huge spaces between them in places. I roll my eyes at him.

“You two are so naughty,” I declare, but I don’t stop myself from joining in. Pulling my dress between my legs so to make it easier to walk around, I climb close by Graham and reach for what would’ve been the ceiling, though, even at the height I’ve climbed, my seven-year-old body is still too tiny to touch it.

Graham, however, has managed to pussyfoot his way onto the second floor and sits right at the edge, his legs dangling off. Playfully, I try to grasp him, to pull him off.

“Hey!” He shouts, though also laughing, “Get off, play nice!”

“You play nice. I want to get up there.” I retort.

“Come on then. You get a kiss if you can.”

“A kiss,” I wince, “Gross.” Yet I still climb with the best of my efforts to reach him. I sit next to him, my legs crossed as I don’t have the guts to swing them off the edge. The floor doesn’t feel totally stable. No wonder, as bits of dust shake down onto the ground. But we both still sit there. He kisses me, I wipe off his spit and punch him in the arm.

I then request that he and Allan sing to me. I had fallen in love with their voices.

“Right,” A tall, lean man with a white clerical collar poking out of a black shirt towers over us. His eyes dart from Allan to Graham to me, one by one making us guiltily look at the floor. We each study the stained, thick carpet at our feet, rather than meet the overbearing gaze belonging to the greying Priest. “It’s not common we get naughty girls dirtying themselves by climbing all over bomb ruins.”

I glance shamefully at my knees and calves, all cut and grazed, not bleeding thankfully and pretty painless. They are only skin deep, scratched turned red and raised, but they’ll be gone soon. Hopefully before I get home.

“I’m very sorry Sir.” I reply, the memory of Allan’s warning words persuading me to be good, though the sickly smell of alcohol in the room and the over patronising tone of the Priest’s voice is beginning to bother me. I have to summon all my will to keep myself quiet and continue the apologetic look on my face.

Allan and Graham are also attempting to look more guilty than angry. They’re so annoyed we got caught, and they’ve been in this position before. They know what’s coming. They are, however, a little more rebellious than me, rolling their eyes or smirking. Graham’s eyes burn more blue than grey in the low light.

“Well, you do seem very sorry. But I’ll have to give you all some sort of punishment. Shall I take you to the police, or will a spank teach you a lesson?” The Priest asks. I can hardly believe that Allan was right. You hear rumours all the time of bad things happening, punishments that no one ever seem to actually receive, especially at this age, but this one, he was telling the truth. I’m knocked speechless.

The boy’s, on the other hand, already know their answer, “Spank!”

I was going to choose the same. I can’t be taken to the police. Not only would my parents find out- they’d both kill me- but everyone would know, everyone in Salford. That’s the problem here; everyone knows each other’s business, and trust me, everyone would want to know something big like the police turning up on your door step.

Hurriedly, I nod, only to hear Graham pipe up, “I’ll take hers.” “What?”

The Priest smiles and sends me off. I don’t want to go. I can’t. I feel as though I’m abandoning the boys, betraying them. How is that fair? Not that I can disobey. I look helplessly at the Priest who is awaiting my departure. As I leave, I peer apologetically back at the two boys who are watching me. I catch a glimpse of Graham smiling slightly. I feel even worse. Why would he do that for me?

I sit on the steps outside the church, etching spirals on the ground with a stone to pass the time, before rub them out until they’re just smudges to be washed away when the next bout of English rain pours down.

The boys emerge what feels like ages later with blushed cheeks, walking with very slight limps. They say nothing to each other out of embarrassment. They say nothing to me when I join them. We walk silently out onto the desolate high street, heading home, though none of us really want to go. It’ll be a short while until we risk heading back out on our favourite playground. We all are, no doubt, swearing off it indefinitely, though it won’t last.

Since we don’t really just want to go home, I suggest we go to our only other quiet hangout away from everything. There’s a park opposite our school with a load of benches where we usually eat lunch. The boys follow me in. Like a normal child, I clamber up onto the surface of a wooden picnic table. It is, after all, the comfiest bit of it. The boys sit on the actual benches either side, though Graham is much like me, cannot sit like a proper kid. He lays across it as though it’s a chaise longue, with his head closest to me. Once we settle, I look over at him.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, pulling my dress down over my slightly grazed knees. My Mum’s really going to kill me if they’re not healed up by the time I go home.

Graham looks up at me, his eyes shining knowingly, “Do what? What did I do?”

“Got hit for me?” I reiterate. He shakes his head as though it was nothing. He doesn’t even answer me. After many soft punches and insistence that he tell me, I finally say, “Thank you.”

Quietly, he says back, “It’s ok.”

“I’ve done it!” I declare, rushing up to Graham and throwing my arms around his neck. In my hands, woven between my fingers, is my 11 plus results. I passed.  Around me, there’s a whole load of people who haven’t, quietly wandering off to their families, but I’m not one of them, and though I know a lot of them, many should’ve passed with me, I can’t help taking pride in the fact that I’ve done it.

The smile on Graham’s face tells me that he has done it too. I feel his arms around my waist.

“Well done!” He cries.

“You too?” I ask, just to make sure, as we part. He holds up his paper. That’s all the ‘yes’ I need. I clasp my hand around his in delight. He squeezes mine tight.

“So, we’ll be going to the same school.” He says.

“Eh,” I sigh in feigned frustration, “Another million years with you.”

“Hey,” He laughs, “I’ve got the worse off deal.”

We’re both so excited to rush off and tell our parents, but we can’t bring ourselves to part with one another, so I take a trip over to see his family first. His mum hugs him, delighted. His had pats him on the back. They both ask me how I did and congratulate me too. I see his sisters, sweet little Elaine and more grown up Sharon. Then we go over to my mum’s. She tells me that she knew I’d do it, no doubt about it. I ask her if I could go out for a bit with Graham. We both want to go and talk to Allan, see how he did.

“Oh, he’ll have done it.” Graham says, “He’s smarter than us for sure.”

“Speak for yourself.” I laugh back.

When we get to Allan’s place, he doesn’t open the door to us, his mum does. She seems glad to see Graham. I don’t think she knows me. We do our usual act of ‘can Allan come out and play’ to which she replies, “I’m sorry, he’s not well.” I worry while Graham doesn’t take her word for it. The boy, an expert in climbing buildings in the most unsafe manner possible, clambers up the side of the house when we’re sure Allan’s mum has gone back inside, and bangs on Allan’s window. Our friend pops his head out, looking tired. His room looks pretty much in darkness.

“Not coming out?” Graham asks, hanging off the bricks like a spider.

“No.” Allan responds, definitely.

“Well, how did the 11 plus exam go?”

“I failed.”

I feel bad. We shouldn’t have come, all smug with our good news. He doesn’t even need to ask us the same, he can tell we’ve done it. No wonder he doesn’t want to come out. He’s probably either embarrassed or angry. I mean, loads of kids don’t pass. It’s not like you’re a genius if you do. Then again, you must feel pretty bad if your friends have all managed it and you haven’t.

He makes an excuse to go, so Graham and I head off, a little less excited than before. However, not much can bring us down. We’re going to the same school. We’re going to be together forever.

“Graham!” I call. Ahead of me, my friend walks, his head hung, his hands in his pockets, “Graham!”

He ignores me. For the first time, he’s actually ignoring me. Maybe he’s ashamed. I sort of understand, but to be too embarrassed to talk to me. I’m his best friend- next to Allan. We’ve always been close, always looked out for each other. I wouldn’t judge him. I don’t think anything of it other than how it must be making him feel. And it must be making him feel pretty bad if he’s ignoring me. All I want is to check if he’s ok. He certainly doesn’t look alright, in that he looks uncharacteristically quiet.

Finally, I catch up to him. He doesn’t stop me from joining in his walk, he just refuses to look at me. When his face is not angled completely from sight, I see tears streaked down his cheeks.

Though its my first natural question in difficult situations, I manage not to ask, ‘are you ok?’ I opt instead for, “How’s everyone?”

He sighs, “My Dad is a criminal, my Mum is depressed. Elaine keeps asking when he’ll be back. She doesn’t get the court stuff. Sharon just doesn’t talk about.” He shrugs, his oversized jacket, which I think was his Dad’s, rustling as he moves.

“Your Dad’s not a criminal.” I tell him. He looks away.

“That’s what he told me, that he’s innocent, but the whole world doesn’t think so. They’re sending him to prison for a year!”

A year. I’m winded. A whole year. A whole year without someone bringing in money, without a father figure, without a huge part of his life. No wonder he’s angry and upset. I run my hand into his huge pocket to hold the hand already inside. I have to walk a bit closer to him to make it work, not that he minds. He doesn’t push me away. His fingers clasp around mine.

“What about you? How are you?” I try.

He shrugs again. We then walk in silence, far from our homes. We don’t have a clear destination. We just want to get the hell out, out of Salford, out of the street that know us so well, away from our school friends and our family.

So that I don’t pry into his thoughts, which he seems engrossed in, I purposefully get lost in mine.

I notice Graham’s camera, hanging around his shoulder by an old scarf tied to it. He likes to take pictures. He did with his Dad. He has one picture of us at school, the day he was given the camera and he let me help him develop it. He and his Dad, as though they’d done in a million times before, set up a dark room in his bedroom. We drew the blinds, rolled blankets up to block light coming through the crack in the bottom of the door.  We giggled as we fell over each other. That was the Graham I knew, fun and joyful, always dreaming. This one, the Graham I walk next to, is quiet and cold, distracted, probably still dreaming, only now of escaping. I promise, more to myself than to him, that I’ll always be beside him from now on. I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to abandon him like I did with the priest a couple of years ago. I like him far too much to let him go through this on his own.

As if to tell him all this, I squeeze his hand tight. He squeezes it back. It’s our understanding, our agreement.

I gaze in awe. It’s tall, it’s slender, a little beaten around the edges, but loved. Its body is smooth, painted brown and glossy, cleaned to the point that I can see my face in it’s huge, round curves. Scratches crosshatch areas, showing its wood layer, but, to me, it adds to the overall effect. After all, no rock and roller has an immaculate guitar. They beat them, abuse them, toy with them until they coax beautiful sounds from the well-worn, tuned strings. These strings catch the light in the room perfectly. They look like strands of silver hair woven into the painted black neck.

Graham holds it in both hands, presenting it to me, equally as besotted by it, even though he’s had it for the whole day. The wonder, the excitement, the prospects fails to die away.

“Wow.” I gasp, then look up at Graham’s adoring eyes.

“Can you play anything?”

Pride fills his smile, lightening up his face.

“You want to hear?”

I nod enthusiastically. He swings the instrument around to rest on its side, its curve between his slightly spread legs. His fingers set upon it, one hand curled up, the tops of his thumb and finger poised upwards, ready to strum. The other hand compresses into a chord. The sound he plays is pretty shaky, but far better than I can manage and so great for one day of practicing, no doubt non-stop.

“You see,” He tells me, “Rock and roll is only three chords. You got that, you got a dozen songs.”

He plays a second chord. This time, I clap. He reminds me of a 50s heartthrob. I expect him to look up into my eyes and croon a ballad, strumming his guitar effortlessly.

“Got another one?” I encourage, “One more!”

His fingers stretch, hands mould and…

“Nah, I only know two.” He laughs. I punch him.

“Come on! You’ve had it for five hours now!” I giggle, “That’s enough time to learn three.”

He pushes me, “You try and learn an instrument. It’s hard. But I’m going to be Buddy Holly. Just you watch, Allan and I are going to start a band.”

“Has he got one?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” Graham says with a glint of envy giving away to pure adoration, “Semi-electric.”

“No!” I gasp. I beg him to let me see it. When I do, I insist that they both play for me. After that, I never saw him without their guitars.

This place isn’t really my kind of dive. Then again, nowhere is. I’m not the party type. But when someone says they play all the newest, hip rock and roll, I have to check it out, as per my natural pull towards good music. And whoever told me wasn’t lying. Bill Haley and the Comets is playing. How could you get much better than that?

I’m standing amongst a crowd of people, mostly catholic school girls who seem to insist on wearing their uniform. I half get why. The ones clad in pleated, plaid skirts and white shirts tucked in are the ones talking to all the fit boys. We all have our vices, I guess. Mine happens to be music, rather than some weird thing for uniforms. I mean, I don’t get to hear this type of stuff at home! We don’t have a record player, but even if we did, I doubt I’d play anything I liked, just because, fuck, this stuff turns me on! Ever since I was 13, I noticed the profound effect music had on me. It spoke to me, directly to my gut, to my heart, sped up my pulse and dilated my pupils. Then Graham got a guitar and I found myself smitten with him. He’s a proper mimic, picks up songs like a jukebox. His Buddy Holly impression is fantastic, his Elvis gives me chills- the good kind- and his Bill Haley has me up dancing.

That’s why I’m wishing he was here now. This song reminds me of him. I’m all too delighted when that once-in-a-blue-moon wish gets granted and I see him amongst the crowd. At first, I though my mind was playing tricks on me, seeing what it wants to, but he and Allan cut through the spaces between people, making a b-line for some chick. Oh, come on! They’re such pervs.

Rolling my eyes, I start towards them, planning to play the ultimate cock-block, when something makes the three of us pause as though we’d planned it. Everyone else starts slow dancing, grasping onto one another and rocking. But I think it’s a waste of a song to so lazily dance. I hear two acoustic guitars working in tandem with one another and two voices like one beautiful mixture, blending like an artist mixing paints, a vibrant colour.

Allan and Graham hear the same thing. They pivot on their heels to face my direction, whispering something to each other before they notice me. I’m too taken with this new sound, these new voices, to notice that they’re coming over. I’m curious, who is this band, who are these new people?

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Allan asks me. I turn my head to fully see them. Allan dons a white shirt that may’ve been his Dad’s as it is pretty baggy on him, and there is a line in the waistband of his trousers where you can see that he’s tried to make it look less so by tucking the fabric in. Graham is in his usual mismatch. He’s yet to shift all the Salvation Army stuff in his wardrobe. It must be pretty embarrassing for him, with all the shit that’s gone on at home and that being evident by what he wears. He doesn’t look all that bad to me, but I know enough cruel people who’ll no doubt put him through hell because he doesn’t, or didn’t, have the money for clothes that fit his style.

“Same thing you two are,” I reply once my brain engages once more, “Perhaps minus the creeping on chicks.”

“Not creeping.” Graham insists. I shoot him an unimpressed look. He grins.

“Anyway, do you know this…” I point at the speakers.

Graham immediately understands, cutting in, “No, but isn’t it beautiful?”

I moan in agreement. The chilling, perfect harmonies send a wave of pleasure through my body. I wonder if Graham feels it too, as he drags me towards him, asking to dance. Allan sighs. I look sympathetically at him. I hate to leave him behind as Graham takes my waist and I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Save a dance for me!” I call at him. He rolls his eyes, doubtful we’ll return to being the three of us until the very end of the night. He’s probably right.

Dancing with Graham, I feel as though I’m with a rock star. I feel as though I’m a fan finally meeting my favourite band member. Music pours into us, we feel it the same way, we love it, and each other. We draw closer and closer until I hover my lips over his ear and tell him, “You should kiss me.”

I hadn’t been sure before; I’m a good girl, a chaste girl, and he’s my close friend. But I’d wanted to be closer for a long time. Only now do I really want to throw caution to the wind. His lips, the first I have kissed, are full of passion. I chalk that up to the music exciting us. He tastes as familiar as he smells. You know, that smell everyone has that is purely their own. It can be a good one, or a bad one, a faint one or strong one. Well, Graham certainly smells good, and tastes even better, not that I can describe it. I just take to it immediately, learn it in one, long kiss. I don’t stop, not for a good whole song, then I look desperately at him. We’re 16, we’re at a heated teenage party, people are practically grinding against one another around us; we’re going to make bad decisions. I will not regret this one, though, I refuse to. Graham and I walk out of the club together. We head to the park where we used to have lunches when school let us out on break. We find a tree good enough to support us and…

We have to behave, since Elaine is here, but I don’t really mind. I mean, I’m not just here to be with Graham. I came here to see two brothers stand on stage and woo me with beautiful music. God, now that the show is over, I’m all riled up, hot from the Everly Brother’s harmonies echoing around the small concert hall. I hold Graham’s hand close to my hip, resting my chin on his shoulder and whispering things in his ear like ‘wasn’t that hot?”

Graham laughs, trying to ignore me, or at least my flirtatious tone, because he knows full well what state I’m in, but has to stay decent for his sister.

Allan’s here too, starry eyed from the show.

“I would kill to sing like that.” He says dreamily as we all head out onto the evening. The streets are filled with other teenagers like us, all having seen two of their idols.

“But you can sing like that!” I tell Allan, “You two are amazing.”

He sighs, “But we’re not that good.”

“Shut up!” Graham butts in, “We’re great, and we’re going to go and tell them.”

“Tell who?” I ask.

“Don and Phil.”

I glance at both the boys, since Allan seems to know what he’s talking about. They’re both wired, excited, barely breathing. We get to the bus stop as I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Graham has this idea that we’re going to go and ambush the Everly Brothers at their hotel.” Allan explains. My eyes grow wide. All at once, I’m sceptical, unsure and deeply jealous.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Graham says, “Allan promised he’d come with. So, would you mind seeing Elaine home?”

I half want to go with them, but I can’t leave his little sister to go home alone. I know I’ll be missing out on such a huge, historic, once in a lifetime chance, but it’s good enough that Graham gets to do it. He’ll be the famous musician, him and Allan.

Their bus comes first. We see it down the street, so have a good enough chance to say goodnight. Allan leans down and hugs Elaine, telling her to be good with me, giving me and Graham a chance to kiss goodbye.

“Tell me all about it.” I insist, whispering in his ear.

“I promise. And when I come back, we’re going to do our usual post show activities, right?”

I giggle stupidly. We went to a concert when Bill Haley came to Manchester, then I stayed over at his home that night. Ever since, it’s been a tradition.

“Right.”

We part, smiling. I can’t wait for tomorrow when he comes over and tells me what it was like to meet the Everly Brothers. I turn to Allan as he turns to his sister.

“Good luck.” I tell Allan. The boy grins at me. We share a short embrace. “I really do think you’re as good as the Everlys.”

That makes him smile even wider, “Thanks. See you soon.”

“Yeah, you too.”

I then take Elaine’s hand and we wave the boys goodbye as they get onto the bus, so excited. I’m excited for them. I hope they do meet them and have a great night.

“We’ve done it!” Graham cries. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me up in the air, kissing me. The rest of the band, Allan, Tony, Eric and Bobby, walk on behind him, looking equally as excited. They, for once, don’t seem to mind too much that we’re practically making out in the doorway of this hotel room. This is too important to not bathe in absolute excitement and pride.

The Hollies, previously the Fourtones, have made it. They’ve got a date with Parlophone. They’re going to an audition at Abbey road. They’re on the same path as the Beatles- maybe a few steps back, but the Beatles have opened the door, they’re going to squeeze through it too.

“Are you serious!” I squeal when he tells me.

“Would I lie about this?”

“I…” My mind has practically gone blank, “I really don’t know.” I’m just so happy. I bury my head in his shoulder and hug him so tight that his back clicks quite satisfyingly.

He seems drunk in joy. He carries me over to a sofa, sits me down and kisses me against the arm of it, bruisingly. I giggle like a school girl. When he sits up, he takes my hand. I can see a wild, passionate look in the blue of his eyes.

“Come and live with me.” He requests.

My jaw falls slack, “What?”

“If we cut a deal with Parlophone, come and live with me. We’ll move to London together.”

I can hardly believe it. This is the same boy who I grew up with, the same kid who I’d been friends with for so many years, and now, he looks all grown up, gazing at me with child-like excitement, yet proposing something far more adult.

Everything, every memory, every tiny feeling… my God. It floods back into my mind as though I’d been injected with my own memories. There are pictures in the album from throughout my life, a life I haven’t lived, yet I feel almost as though I have. All that remains to remind me that I have not is the simple insistence in my mind. As for evidence, there is enough to suggest now that I have lived twice.

As I look over the pictures, I realise that I know every moment they capture. I’m weeping as though I’ve watched a sad movie. Which I’ve never done, by the way. No film has ever moved me enough. Seeing my life quite literally flash before my eyes, however, does the trick, if only out of relief than because it was actually sad. I hold onto Tony and cry into his shoulder.

“Remember?” He asks.

“It’s weird.” I admit, “I still remember being with Allan and the Beatles… but it’s like I’ve… two lives.” I gaze up at him through matted, wet lashes, “You do believe me, right?”

“I do.” He says, hugging me tighter. I don’t know if he really means it, but it’s nice to hear.

I stay for a while, for long enough that midday has been and gone and afternoon sets in. Tony makes a meal out of what’s in the fridge- not much, as he discovers- and we sit on the floor, eating with our hands while the TV mumbles quietly in the background of our conversation. First, Tony fills in the last few years I’ve missed. He recounts not only that but talks more personally about the past. I got the memories as though they were my own and, while his descriptions are personal and emotional too, it’s helpful to get an outsider’s point of view. Then we joked about my old life. It was better than feeling sad about the fact that I’ve no idea how to get back, if I even can. That segued into our current conversation.

“What are you going to do now?”

I’d spent so long considering and learning my past, the future had yet to dawn on me. I had milestones, seeing Allan, seeing Tony, seeing the pictures, all things I thought would help me, but I didn’t really think how, because eventually, I’d have to contemplate this question.

“I don’t know.”

The way I see it, I could try and restore things as much to my past life as possible, I could find a way back, or I could resign myself to this life. There are problems with each. As much as I want to go back and live my life I’d first created for myself, I don’t know if that is even possible. And as much as I adore Allan, I’d hate to cause his any pain by attempting to break up his marriage. I also found another problem there; I don’t want to hurt Graham.

Though I used to hate him, though a part of me can still not see his need to upstage anyone or be the centre of attention constantly, though I couldn’t imagine being in a relationship with him, really, part of me now sees why I might’ve fallen for him, if I hadn’t for Allan. If I’d been there, truly understood, lived, experienced his journey, I would have- as I now do- more respect and love for him. I feel bad for my many cold shoulders and cutting words I regret some of my actions towards him, when he may’ve been reaching out to me, as a friend, since I am so close with the rest of the band, in the only way he knows how to, which is to tease and be annoying.

That leaves me with my last option; stay. Be with him. It seems crazy. I said I could never be with him, but it’s the only option I can really see work out. I wouldn’t have Allan and I’d probably either have to learn to love Graham or end up breaking his heart, but it felt more plausible, the one option that would keep the most people happy.

I swear I’ve never been that nice in my thoughts, wanting to keep the most people happy. But these are people I really do care about, even Graham now. I think I really should stop joking like that, saying that I don’t like Graham, because I do, I actually do.

“I think,” I say cautiously, “I’m going to have to be fucking British on this one. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’”

Tony and I roll around the floor in giggles before I help him clear up and he offers me a lift home. Home. Yes. To Graham. I mentally prepare myself as we walk out to the car.

The drive is silent. I guess we bot have spoken all we can. Now is time for me to make my own memories, to actually live, instead of listening and find out from sources other than my own eyes, my own touch and smell and hearing and taste. We park up on the street I’d only glimpsed as I ran off, trying to find a cab. I don’t even know which one is Graham’s… I mean our place. Tony points it out. I half recognise the steps I flung myself down, and the door I pulled shut behind me so that Graham couldn’t follow.

I don’t get out the car straight away. I’m on the brink of something new, I can’t fathom the idea of it. I turn back, helplessly, to Tony, lean over the gear stick and space between our seats and press a kiss on his cheek. I’m not that good with emotional situations. Tony knows it. He kisses me too, and nods, his way of telling me that it’ll be alright without having the awkwardness of expecting a reply.

“Thank you.” I manage.

He knows not to make a big thing out of the whole situation, joking, “Thanks for making my Sunday interesting.”

I get out of the car, giggling. Nothing like a bit of laughing to distract me. I mean, it doesn’t for long, since, when I turn around, I’m staring at the prospect of a new life, but it’s nice for the moment. It comforts me to know that no matter what, I’ll have someone to talk to, someone who knows everything and believes me.

I wonder… if I should tell Graham. The thought comes to mind as I wander up the steps to the front door. If I am to be with him, really try to make this work, should I not see what he makes of it. If he doesn’t believe me, what’s the point in being with him. He’ll think me insane and no doubt will be hurt. If he does believe me, or at least humours me, then he’s worth staying with. I mean, I feel as though I can say anything to Allan, that I trust him enough not to laugh or take the piss. That’s one thing I’m not sure of when it comes to Graham. I don’t even really need him to believe me, I just need him to prove to me that he can be serious when I need him to.

Knocking on the door, since I remember I didn’t bring my keys out with me, I ready myself to step inside this home. It’s the final milestone.

It takes a moment for Graham to open it and immediately his tired, concerned expression turn to relief.

“Niki. Fucking hell!” His arms swing around me, his face burying in my hair. As he speaks, I feel his hot breath on my scalp, spreading through my many red strands, “My fucking God, I had no fucking idea where you were. Are you fucking crazy? I went to Allan’s and he said you’d been and gone. He refused to tell me what went one. Please Niki…” Tears threaten in his throat, but he catches them before they well in his eyes. I save him the utter embarrassment of crying by squeezing him tight and joking;

“Alright, enough fucking swearing.”

Weakly, we both giggle. I must say, being hugged by him… I feel comforted in his embrace. I never believed I could, yet here I am, actually enjoying it. I even kiss him, while we still stand on the door step. The taste of his lips takes me back to when I was a teenager, reminding me of sickly sweets we so rarely bought from shops with left over wages and of sweaty rock and roll dives around Manchester. And though I’ve never kissed him before I recognise the pure taste of him, as familiar as his smell.

I hear Tony drive off, his car chugging slowly down the street, knowing that I’m now safe, and happy. Then I’m drawn into my home. The door closes behind me. Graham’s fingers are clasped around my wrist as he tugs me into the living room.

He knows that something is up. He can tell that I’m still not myself, and he doesn’t assume I’m sick or something like that. He must know me so well. It’s eerie, to be known by someone you don’t, so well that you can hide nothing from them, while they can hide from you without even attempting to. Well, I say that, but suddenly, I do feel like I know Graham. In the grey of his eyes, I see all the hurt he’s ever felt, all the betrayal, shock, angry, inadequacy that’s now seeped it, made him who he is. In the blue, I see every good moment, all the passion, interest, love, excitement. In his posh, more stylish clothes, even the sweats he’s put on this Sunday evening that are far more… well they match, in comparison to the shit I’d pulled over my body this morning, I see pride and appreciation, the fact that he earnt the money to put these clothes on his back. In his fingers that brush me, tuck strands of hair behind my ear and grasp my hands, I see his adoration for music, passion for photography, built up and carried over from his childhood. I notice certain movements, expressions, now as readable to me as my own, or Allan’s. I understand his once unsettling kindness towards me. It’s out of love. Strange.

I sit on our sofa, flicking on our TV and muting it. As usual, nothing good is on. Graham goes into our kitchen to make coffee for himself and my usual cocktail of orange juice and sparkling water, because I’m so damn posh. He brings it out in a long, tall glass and asks me if I’m hungry. When I say yes, he brings out a family packet of crisps, opens it and places it on the coffee table in front of us. When he looks at me, I see a glimmer of worry. He seems to talk to me as though he doesn’t wish to startle me, very soft and gentle. Its annoying, of course, more than any of his arrogance that I’m used to. In fact, I’d take that side of him any day. At least we’d both be having a little laugh, even if it is at each other’s expense. I try now to joke with him, but he’s weary. His laugh is minimal. He knows that there is something not right. At the moment, I think it’s him who’s acting strange. I’m trying to be normal, I think I’m acting normal, but I do not know how I usually am with him. Perhaps its completely different, despite Tony saying that I seem to have changed very little. Maybe I’m the same around friends, different around lovers. I really don’t know.

But I can tell that Graham is psyching himself up to be serious with me. Like me, he’s obviously not good with difficult conversations, he finds them as awkward as I do. I can imagine we rarely burden ourselves with them in our relationship. I wonder how the hell we work! Then again, I know that he rarely had deep, more meaningful moments with anyone, not his Mum or Dad, not with Allan. More likely with his sisters, but I still couldn’t imagine it.

I see he’s trying, though. His duty from the years he has to be the man of his family home reappears. He sits down on the other end of the sofa and smiles, less at me, more at the steam rising from his coffee.

“I spoke to Allan.” He practically whispers, the smile slowly fading from his lips. I bow my head. “He wouldn’t tell me what went on. He was really confused. And I’m not trying to pry. This is your business, but fuck! You had us worried this morning.”

I sit forward, placing my drink on the table, on a coaster, which I’ve no idea where it came from. I’d never buy coasters. I’m not that house-proud to protect my dear tables or other surfaces from water ring stains. I doubt Graham is too. Perhaps they were a gift.

“I’m sorry.” I mutter, my thoughts back on subject, “You must think I’m…”

“No, I don’t think anything.” He says with a smile, “You don’t have to explain to me. You know that. I was just worried. I mean, you’re not yourself.”

See, several hours ago, I probably would’ve taken the option to leave my sudden insanity unexplained, taken it and run. However, several hours ago, I was still in denial that anything had changed. I was running to Allan in hopes that he’d take me back or explaining to my life to Tony as I waited for the world to change back to the one I knew.

Now, I respect Graham too much to leave him in the dark. As I whisper, “I’m not myself.” I’m actually seriously considering unloading all the insane, crazy bullshit my mind has clung onto this whole day. It is difficult, of course, to look him in the eye, to see a man I used to hate and distrust and trust him enough to say what’s on my mind without worrying about his reaction, but I feel like I need to, because I don’t just see that man anymore. I see our history together. I see someone I could like.

My mind is literally the worst, as it tells me, ‘You really are that girl now, the girl who’s fallen for and- depending how you see it- slept with your boyfriend’s best mate.’

I shake my head, erasing the thought.

“And, you know what,” I say, “Don’t say you don’t think I’m crazy. If you knew… If you honestly don’t think so, you will.”

Graham smiles cheekily, “Try me.”

I don’t want to.

God, he deserves to know, but not to be hurt, and there is no way to give him one without the other.

Still. I close my eyes, squeeze them tight shut and tell him, “I have no recollection of this life.”

A silence hangs over us. I peer under my eyelid to catch a glimpse of him, to see his reaction. I was expecting something more than the confused look I’m greeted with. He looks as though he’s still waiting for me to speak. I open my eyes fully.

“You’re gonna have to dumb that down for me.” He says.

I sigh. How else do I put this? I’ve thought about it for so long. I managed to explain it to Tony.

“I don’t remember my childhood…” I start, “or my teens, or the last few years.”

“Ok,” He says slowly, nodded despite the expression on his face telling me that he clearly has no idea what I’m going on about, “Then what do you remember?”

“Waking up,” I reply, “next to my boyfriend’s best friend.”

“My best…” He doesn’t get it. I didn’t expect him too. I’ve no idea how to explain it, so perhaps it’s my fault.

“Allan’s best friend.”

“I’m your boyfriend.” He corrects me, though I think it’s more for himself than for me, to make sure he’s getting it right.

“Well…” I huff. How do I say ‘no, you’re not, I fell in love with your best friend and have no idea how I ended up with you?’

“So, you have amnesia?” He tried. I shake my head.

“No, because I know you, and I know Bobby, Bern, Allan and Tony. I know what today’s date is, I know pretty much everything like that, from the moment I woke up today, but I can remember another life that you all were in…”

And so off I descend into another- maybe my fifth, sixth or seventh- explanation of the life I remember living. By the end, I cannot decipher the look on Graham’s face. I’ve done it, though. I’m sure I’ve convinced him that I’m crazy. I’ve also upset him. That is written into the blank, glassy gaze in his eyes. He tries not to show it, of course, but he can’t hide it from me. Not something as big as that. I’m just unsure of all the other emotions, the exact blend mixing in his heart, his gut, his chest.

And when I’ve finished, a heavier silence hangs between us, a lot being unsaid, a lot pressing on our minds. Too many questions arise, too many to be sorted into best ones to be asks. So, we sit. I feel bad, but good, relieved that I’ve told him.

“I’m sorry, Graham.” I pipe up, “I really am, because I got all these memories of us being together back when I looked at some photos you took. Tony gave them to me. And I may not have liked you in my other life, but I promise you I…” My mind goes blank, but my mouth carries on moving, “love you. I understand you now” I surprise myself, but I manage to hide it.

Looking down at his lap, Graham opens his mouth. It’s a moment before any sound escapes.

“So,” His voice is even softer than when he’d begun this strain of conversation, “What do you want to do?”

Again, I’m surprised, yet this time, I can show it. Though he’s obviously not happy, he believes me.

“You… believe me?” I breathe.

“Yes.” He replies quite casually, “Why, are you lying?”

He’s almost joking with me.

“No, of course not. It just took a lot more persuading to convince Tony.” I explain.

All of a sudden, a smile lights Graham’s face, “Are you saying I’m easier than Tony?” He chuckles. It does occur to me that, as I had done earlier with Tony, he may be dealing with the difficult moment by injecting humour into it. When before that may have irritated me, I now understand why he does it and allow him to do so. His laugh comforts me, since it does imply that he’s taking it better than expected.

“I’m just saying, had I been making this all up,” I join in, “you’re very gullible.”

“So, I’m gullible and you’re easy?” He tries. I laugh, sitting up on my knees and punching him softly in the arm as I used to do when I was a kid. I think that is more what he is used to. He suddenly seems more comfortable with me. We giggle for about a minute before he attempts to pull the conversation back, “But seriously,” There is still a smirk on his face that I think remains there out of relief, “What do you want to do?”

Unhelpful as I ever am, I shrug, “After all that, do you still love me?”

“You assume I ever did.” He teases, “But since you are so easy, I think I could.”

“So, it’s ok if I say?”

Now smiling genuinely, he leans in and kisses me. That’s all the agreement I need.

We decide, Graham and I, to have a night in, a quiet one. Together, we call Allan and Tony. I apologise for all my insanity- though I know I’m totally valid in my actions, which I tell Tony and he understands. As for Allan, I’ve weirded him out enough. I merely say sorry and thank him for being such a good friend. I want to cry when I do. He doesn’t realise that, for me, this is a goodbye. I have to forget that I loved him, that I still do.

I then hand the phone back to Graham and he spends ages talking to Allan about going into the studio tomorrow, while I sit next to him, my legs thrown over his lap, perusing several photo albums he’d fished out for me. I rest them on my knees and pile them up on the floor in front of the soft. The pictures give me such a rush, like a high. Memories wash into my mind, making me see things, recall things I never knew as though I’d merely forgotten them.

My favourite picture remains on in which both Allan and Graham have their arms around me, late at night in a street in Hamburg. I’m in a white summer dress, whose straps are obviously not enough to keep me warm. Over my goose-bristled arms and chest, I wore a rough, shabby leather jacket. In either pocket, Allan and Graham’s hands are buried, the opposite sides to where they are standing. I’m so short, they lift me off my feet several centimetres. We’d just come back from a show, with no car to take us to our hotel. Both Allan and Graham are wearing the same suits, black with light pink bowties, covered by similar black trench coats. They’re smiling like crazy. At the side of the frame, there is someone’s shoulder, who I think belongs to Eric, because I’m sure Bobby took the picture. It fills me with excitement, as it must’ve been one of their first big shows. I must’ve been on a post- show high, as horny as ever. I bet Graham and I slept together that night.

“Did we?” I ask him once he gets off the phone.

“We did so often, are you expecting me to remember every time?”

“You’re a perv, I thought you might.”

He shrugs, “You’re a perv too.”

“Yes,” I agree, “but I don’t even remember growing up with you. How am I meant to remember one time that we fucked?”

“Fair enough.” He giggles, before kissing my forehead and suggesting we make some dinner. He hasn’t eaten all day. I can’t believe that he actually forwent food, worrying for me. I feel almost bad that Tony and I stopped to eat.

We both stand in the kitchen and cook. Graham starts toasting and buttering some bread, while I mix up some eggs with herbs I find in the cupboards. Just as I expected, the kitchen is a little hectic and void of really substantial food, despite there being plenty of it. We both just get whatever we feel like when we go out shopping.

Graham jokes about me probably being a better cook in my other life, while I quip back that he probably hadn’t cooked a single meal for himself back then. He, no doubt, would’ve killed for my scrambled eggs on charcoal toast even if he turns his nose up at it at the moment. When we go into the living room to eat, I watch him scoff every last morsel I put on that plate and finishes up what I don’t manage to eat. I scold him for giving me such a hard time about my cooking.

“What do you mean?” He asks innocently, “What did I do?”

The cheeky bastard.

After all that, we curl up on the sofa. The TV flickers on and we stare at it, unspeaking, unmoving until we fall asleep.

[ellana-ravenwood]

“You’re mister J’s new obsession, Sugar” 2/3 - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary : The Joker kidnapped you over a week ago, and your family is starting to really panic. Chapter 2/3. 

Warnings : Violence, because we’re talking about the Joker here...Hope you’ll enjoy it as much as the first part ! Don’t hesitate to tell me what you think :).

FINISHED SERIES : PART 1, PART 3 

my master list blog :  @ella-ravenwood-archives

______________________________________________________________________

A few hours after your capture, you finally met him. For real. And it was the most terrifying thing you ever lived. 

A wall opened up on the side of the bedroom, and Harley Quinn entered first. Her face was swollen, all sort of shades of blues and purple. Some green around the chin. Black around the eyes.  And behind her followed the clown. 

He pushed the ex-shrink out of his way brutally, and she tripped and fall with a loud thud. He didn’t pay attention to her at all, circling around you like a shark. 

You held your breath in, he was getting closer. 

Harley was still on the floor, not moving, and though she was crazy and tried to kill your husband multiple times, you couldn’t help but feel pity for her. You knew she genuinely had a mental disorder, she wasn’t a complete psycho, a wild dog with rabies like the Joker. You knew she was helplessly in love with the clown, and in return, he was nothing but abusive...You just felt so sorry for her. 

But only for a few seconds, because now, the Joker was so close to you that you could feel his breath on your face...

-Hello there. 

His voice wasn’t pleasant. At all. Bruce’s voice was gentle, deep and low, you would give anything to hear it now...But all you heard was his nasal and irritating voice. 

You didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed. 

-A polite and distinguish woman like you should greet me in return. 

You stayed silent. He smiled, and it made you shiver. 

-Oh, that’s sexy. You shiver at the mere sight of me. I knew we’d quickly get along. 

You made a face of disgust at his misinterpretation, to make sure he understood that no, you didn’t shiver because he aroused you, but because he freaked the Hell out of you. But apparently, according to the Joker, a grimace of disgust was the equivalent of a love declaration, as his lips suddenly crashed on yours. 

You were so stunned, that you didn't react at all when he planted a bruising kiss on your lips, his tongue trying to enter your mouth, his teeth biting ruthlessly your bottom lip...But you quickly regain your senses, and bit him, hard, as a reflex. 

He swore, in pain, taking a few steps back from you...and then he just laughed. Laughed, laughed and laughed, and you felt tears welled up in your eyes, more scared than you ever been. 

-I like a woman with character !! Oooh we’re gonna have fun (Y/N), so much fun ! I’m going to...What is that ? Are you cheating on me ?

He was showing the love bites Bruce left on your neck the night before. 

You shuddered, understanding Harley’s words. “You’re mister J’s new obsession, Sugar”...Somehow, somewhere in his deranged mind, the Joker had decided that you were his. That you and him were “an item”. It froze your blood. Oh my God....

For years you heard stories of that damn clown going on around Gotham. Everyone talked about him as if he was the Boogeyman himself. No. As if he was worst than the Boogeyman. Worst than the Devil. And he was the only one that Bruce always refused to speak about...Which was saying a lot. There were urban legend that kids told each other around a camp fire, about The Joker coming in the darkest of night, to take them away, drag them with him to whatever Hell he lived in... 

This time, he came for you. And given the effort he put in recreating the bedroom you had back at the mansion, you couldn’t help but think he carefully planned everything, and that you’d never get found...You felt like even your Batman couldn’t do anything this time. 

-No one, NO ONE, abuse my trust and get out of it without a scratch. Ooooh (Y/N), you shouldn’t have done that. We’re gonna have fun, so much fun. Well, at least, I will. I promise. I’ll try and make it enjoyable for you though...

And on those words, he grabbed your hair harshly, pulled on them with force tilting your head back, kissed you again (you wanted to vomit)...and slowly took a sharp and dirty knife up to one of the love bites. 

You held your screams in as the craziest and most psychotic man in Gotham City started to cut out your skin, carefully making sure that no trace from Bruce’s love remained on your body. No trace at all.

************

Bruce was going crazy. A week. It had been a fucking week since your kidnapping. And he had absolutely no lead. Not a single clue. 

For seven days, he desperately roamed the city every night, looking for any intels, brutalizing and plain torturing dozens and dozens of people that might have an idea of where the Joker went...But they all had the exact same answer : 

-There’s nothing you can do to us, that he won’t do, but ten times worst. Hit us all you want Batsy, even if we knew where he was, which we don’t, we wouldn’t say anything. Because your treatment is better than what he’d do to us.

Gotham’s hospitals were overcrowded with low life criminals and other nut jobs. 

Your children were as panicked and desperate as their father, and none of them had much sleep since you were taken. Dick had to carry Damian back home today, as the boy fell asleep, unable to stop himself. 

Alfred forced them to get some rest, and after a lot of yelling and anger, they were just too exhausted to argue anymore, and they all fell asleep in the bat cave. Damian was curled up next to the bat cow, Tim was asleep on his computer’s keyboard, Dick and Jason were back to back, arms crossed, done resisting sleep. 

But there was one Alfred couldn’t convince, or tire out...Bruce. He was determined to have no rest until you were safe. He couldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t bear it...He couldn’t even bear the mere thought of loosing you. So he kept going, fighting his exhaustion fiercely. 

If you died, he would never be whole again. 

***************

You resisted for them. You were strong for them. 

Only the thought of your husband, of your children, and of the butler you came to call “dad” kept you alive. 

Harley never came back in your cell, but the Joker was there almost every hour of the day. You could feel his touch lingering on your body when he wasn’t. 

If you counted it right, it had been a week. A week of abuse of all sort. A week of trying to get out. A week, getting weaker each minutes. A week, and your Bruce still wasn’t there...For the first time in your life, you started to think he really wasn’t coming. Your heart faltered...

The door in the wall opened, and you raised your head with pride. Your eyes full of hatred met his crazed ones. 

-Oh my oh my oh my. Always so...full of dignity. I like it. Now (Y/N), what shall I do with you today ? 

*******************

It was Damian who found her. He was patrolling around the city weakly, the thought of his mother between this maniac’s hand refusing to leave his mind, when his path crossed hers. 

Harley Quinn. 

She looked pathetic. More than usual. When she saw him, she didn’t even try to run away or anything. On the contrary. 

-Robin. Ooooh Robin. Take me to the Batman, I have informations. Important informations. About Bruce Wayne’s wife. 

*********************

It took everything in Bruce not to punch the woman as she came in. Just because she was with the Joker the night they took you away from him, he wanted to punch her. He often felt irrational emotions when it came to you...jealousy over someone who had no chance with you, anger over people who disrespected you...Genuine murderous thoughts toward the one who helped your kidnapping, and was standing in front of him as if she was the most innocent woman in the world. But he didn’t hurt her in any way, he knew it wasn’t totally her fault. She was sick. 

It took everything in Dick too. And in Tim. And Jason. For the same reason. 

When he saw her, Damian hadn’t been able to resist...And Harley had a fresh black eye. He tried to make her talk about his mother’s location, making her understand he would go to any ends to find her...but she refused to say anything if it wasn’t to the bat himself. 

He covered her eyes, and took her to the bat cave. 

Bruce didn’t even let her time to adjust to the bright lights around her. 

-Where is she ? 

Harley didn’t answer. Dick, with a voice full of anger that didn’t resemble him at all, said : 

-Answer us Quinn, where is she ?! Is she alright ?! 

Tim, usually very calm and collected, just like Bruce, grabbed her by the collar and was about to become violent when...

-Wowza. Calm down boys. Do you think I’d willingly follow Batsy Jr over there if I didn’t wanna talk ? 

-How can we trust you though ? 

Jason raised a good point, that in the heat of the action, the others didn’t even think about. 

-Oh you can trust me alright. Ok, I’m a pathologic liar and the voices in  my head tell me to shut up and take you in the wrong direction and stuffs, but...really, you can truuuuust me. 

Alfred, bless him for always being the voice of reason and having the good ideas, went to take a lying detector from the accessories’ cabinet. Bruce thanked him, and shook his head to take his worries, anger and fears out of his mind. He had to regain his composure, he had to calm himself down, or he could miss an important clue. He couldn’t let his judgement be clouded, your life was at stake. 

Hooked on the machine, Harley started to talk. And not a lie came out of her mouth. She wasn’t like the Joker, she wasn’t able to control her emotions, so if she actually was lying, they would have known. 

-I came here to tell you. I miss my Mister J. He hasn’t touched me once, not even to hit me since she’s there...He didn’t even notice my absence. So...Here I am. I’m going to tell you.

They were waiting, shifting around impatiently. 

-First, she’s alive, not quite alright though haha.

It didn’t make them laugh, quite the contrary, and Harley gulped loudly. 

-She’s...Not in the best shape. But alive. I’ll show you where. 

-Tell us. 

-No, I’ll show you. 

-You really think we’re gonna fall for that ?

-You do, or you won’t see her ever again. Believe me. And from my understanding, she’s not just Bruce Wayne’s precious little pet. 

-She’s not a pet !! I’ll kill y...

-Robin, contain yourself ! 

His father’s strict and calm voice took Damian back to reality. The Batman turned to the Joker’s ex-girlfriend : 

-Alright Harley, we’ll follow you. But if you try to pull any of your...

-I won’t. If there’s one time in your life you can trust me Batsy, it’s now. I want my Mister J’s back, and I won’t until that woman’s out of his life. So now, untie me, get me out of your man cave, and follow me. Because I know where she is, and I’m not sure she has much time left, Mister J tends to get bored easily with his obsessions...

****************

In a cell that looked exactly like the bedroom you shared with Bruce, you were laying in the same king sized bed you had home. But it wasn’t home, it was Hell...The bogeyman took you there. No, worst than the bogeyman. The Joker. And you weren’t sure you could take it for much longer... 

To Be Continued, final and last part up some time next week :D. 

[writingwife-83]

Half Agony, Half Hope- 2

As you can see, this isn't a fluffy fic to start out. There's going to be plenty of angst and sad feels, especially for poor Sherls. But hopefully you know me well enough by now to know that it won't be like that forever. ;)  

Check out the first chapter, and read and subscribe on AO3!

Sherlock reached further back into the fridge and grabbed a little bowl of something appealing. He lifted it toward where Mary was sitting with Rosie. “It this for the baby?”

“Yes,” she answered with a little smile.

“And by baby do you mean me?” He could read her tone pretty accurately by now.

“You know where the spoons are,” Mary added, offering Rosie some more food in her highchair. “There’s only one baby I feed here.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch while grabbing a spoon from the drawer. He only had a few minutes to have a snack before he’d have to be off again.

“Hi,” John announced his presence as he came walking into the kitchen. He promptly did a little double take at the sight of Sherlock leaning against his fridge and eating a bowl of custard.

“Afternoon, John,” Sherlock said with a smile. “Not to worry, I’ll be leaving soon. Just thought I’d pop in to say hello.”

“And have a bite,” John added, eyeing what was likely a snack he’d wanted for himself.

"Oh and you'll be leaving again soon as well," Sherlock added.

“Hang on, why am I leaving? I just got home.”

"I think you two have plans.” Mary got up and kissed his confused face while making her way over to grab a cloth to wipe Rosie’s face.

John sighed. "Why? What's going on?"

“Double homicide, John,” Sherlock explained with his mouth full. “Don’t you track the news?”

“Ok so did Lestrade ask you for help?”

"No." Sherlock grinned. "But he's going to."

A moment later, the Watson’s doorbell rang.

“Ah yes, that’s for me,” Sherlock announced cheerily. He set his snack down and made his way happily to the door.

“How did you know to tell me where to find you this morning?” Lestrade asked while following Sherlock back to the kitchen. He paused to say hello to the Watsons. “That story just hit the news an hour ago!”

“Homeless network,” Sherlock explained simply, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and cracking it open to take a swig. “Faster than the media at times.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Ok well, anyway, I’m gonna need your help on this one.”

“Obviously.” He shrugged his coat back over his shoulders. “You coming, John?”

“Apparently,” John answered wearily, leaning over to kiss Rosie and Mary. “It’s your turn next time, ok?”

“Just try and stop me,” Mary said with a wink at both John and Sherlock.

Twenty minutes later the three men were strolling down the long hallways in the basement of Bart’s hospital, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent space. They pushed through the doors of the morgue and one of the familiar pathologists greeted them. He gestured to the two bodies that were laid out and then began rattling off some information from a clipboard.

"Yes, yes, we already know all of that, thank you," Sherlock stated impatiently. "What I need you to do is to do a DNA test on them."

The young man looked confused. "Oh um...I don't know if-"

"I'm sure you will discover that they are in fact related."

"Sherlock, the victims don't know each other," Lestrade countered.

"And if you were listening, you'll note that I said related, which is not necessarily the same thing as knowing someone. I'd think you can spot the difference."

Lestrade sighed, then looked at the pathologist. "Yeah ok, go ahead and do what he says."

"Well it might take some time," the man stated hesitantly.

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock agreed. "So you'll need to begin the process immediately."

"I'll have to run it by my boss though."

Sherlock turned on him and glared. "Run it by your boss? This is a murder investigation and the Inspector has told you to proceed with these instructions. What exactly is more pressing?"

"Well, it's just that she told me I had to check any changes with her first. She'll actually be back in five or ten minutes. If you'd like to wait, you can speak to her yourself."

"Yes, perhaps I would," Sherlock said haughtily. "And exactly which boss is this you're speaking of? Is it that idiot Dr. Andrews?"

"No, I'm talking about the new head of pathology, Dr. Hooper."

Something short circuited in Sherlock's chest and for a moment he forgot how to take a breath. He stared back at the man wide eyed for a moment. "W-what did you say?" he finally questioned.

"I said Dr. Hooper," he repeated. "Dr. Molly Hooper started just this week."

"Sherlock?" John questioned, clearly noticing that his friend had gone mute.

"So...did you want to wait for her?" the pathologist asked.

Sherlock blinked and then cleared his throat. "I- no that won't be necessary. You may speak to her for us. Just start the process as soon as possible." He began walking out of the morgue almost before he'd finished his sentence, the two men rushing to follow after him.

"What was that?" John questioned as Sherlock headed for the nearest exit.

"What was what?"

"Why did you just decide to leave? I thought you wanted to speak to his boss."

"It would have been a waste of time," he answered quickly. "Lestrade, you may follow up."

Lestrade frowned. "What? You don't want to?"

"I'm rather busy."

"This is our only case right now," John commented, exchanging a look with Lestrade.

Sherlock didn't bother trying to explain himself further as they made their way out of the building and onto the street.

"Text me when you have any new details," he said to Lestrade and made his way to one of the cabs sitting idle. "This one is mine."

Sherlock jumped in and instructed the cabbie to drive, leaving his two friends in a state of utter confusion on the street outside of Bart's hospital.

And as he sat there alone in the silence of that cab, that was when the memories came crashing in on him. The months and months worth of memories, most of which he'd convinced himself he'd successfully deleted.

He hadn't though, if he were honest with himself. No, they didn't always surface. But in the deepest darkest hours of the night they would haunt the halls of his mind palace over these eight long years. But at least they had only been memories. Shadows and echoes and ghosts; nothing truly real. He supposed he could handle that. He’d lived with it this long, and he assumed he could go on living with it longer still. He’d lived with that invisible illness that ate away from the inside and was never completely sated. The plague of regret. But even that, he believed he could survive. Because at least he’d been spared one thing. Well, up till now.

He hadn’t been forced to see her.

Yes, he knew everything there was to know about Molly Hooper already. It was all stored safely in his mind. Every outline and contour of her face and body, the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair, the feel of her hands, and the taste of her lips and skin. He was well aware he’d never be rid of any of that. But to live it and experience it in person again…it seemed far too great a weight to bear. And he worried that it might just break him all over again.

Molly had wanted so much. She’d wanted things that she had every right to. Things that she deserved. Likely she’d finally gotten those things now. Sherlock felt a dull ache in his chest as he wondered who might be coming to London with Molly as she accepted this new job. He'd kept up with her professionally but had resisted the temptation of digging into any details about her personal life. But now he wondered...would she be bringing a husband? Perhaps even children? In some ways he hoped so. She deserved to have the happiness she was so cruelly deprived of earlier in life.

Sherlock stared out the cab window at the busy streets of London that rushed by him. He’d come so far over the years, making a career and a name for himself. And so had Molly. She had the career she’d dreamed of since she was young. Both of them had made something of themselves in almost every way in which a person could. And by any estimation, both their lives were success stories. He did attempt to remind himself of those things very often. But beneath those things, that persistent regret lurked and superseded much of that supposed success for him. Perhaps his feelings could partly be attributed to the passage of time and all that he’d learned about the world, and people, and mostly about himself. But whatever the reason, one thing was very sure to him now.

He now thought very differently from how he was persuaded to think some eight years before.  

Don't worry, some sherlolly interactions will begin in the next chapter. ;) Oh and in case you hadn't noticed seen, it's now official that @artbylexie and I are co authors for this fic. Yay! We're awfully excited to be teaming up for this one! :D

[sportsandideas]

A Mental Game: On Happiness, or Does it Matter Who Wins? [A rescue job from 2010]

[Here’s something I wrote over eight years ago in anticipation of the 2010 World Cup; many of the names have changed, but the story is (basically) the same...]

(photo from: The Daily Echo)

Originally posted MAY 3, 2010

Re-posted July of 2018

Why do we care?  Why will hundreds of millions of fans watch the World Cup this summer and hinge their lives around game results?  Why does it matter whether the millionaire players, coaches, and owners of Inter Milan beat the millionaire players, coaches, and owners of Bayern Munich in the Champions League final?  Why does anybody, no matter how few, bother going to watch FC Dallas play?

Presumably at some level most soccer fans invest ourselves in what, after all, is twenty-two men or women in short pants chasing a ball because we enjoy it.  Somehow the game makes us happy.  But why?

As it happens, studying happiness is hot right now in the social sciences.  Psychologists have realized they spent way too long focused primarily on pathology and dysfunction, failing to learn about the other side of human experience.  Economists have realized that people are as motivated by irrational emotions as they are by rational cost-benefit analyses.  And soccer, it seems to me, can be a pretty interesting place to apply some of their ideas.

The explosion of scholarly interest in happiness does not, unfortunately, make for easy answers.  Happiness is tough to define and measure.  Most research tends to operate with the assumption that it’s best to just trust people and simply ask: On a scale of __ to __, how happy are you?  The problem is that when the question is that blunt and superficial, most people say they are happy.  It misses the proverbial ‘masses who lead lives of quiet desperation.’  It misses those FC Dallas fans.

The alternative is to try and measure the things scholars think associate with happiness.  Though those things include a wide range of characteristics from autonomy to environmental mastery, in my read of the literature they boil down to that old Freudian formulation: what matters is a combination of ‘love and work’, people and purpose.  We tend to be happiest when we balance engaging social relationships with a sense that what we do matters, be that a job, raising a family, contributing to a community, or maybe even supporting a team.

But focusing just on people and purpose also fails to tell the whole story because it doesn’t address the classic social science problem of causality—do good social networks and success in one’s endeavors cause happiness, or are happy people more likely to have good social networks and succeed?  In fact, it turns out that statistically, when dealing with large data sets, the single best predictor of happiness is something we don’t have much control over: personality.  Optimists with a sunny disposition are happier than pessimists ridden by anxiety almost regardless of the circumstances of their lives.  A sanguine Aussie will consistently out-happy a dour Englishman no matter their relative fortunes in South Africa this summer.

While this may not be revolutionary stuff, the science of happiness does highlight some ways that our fandom can lead us astray.  One recent PR company survey, for example, found that 93 percent of England fans would “give up food for a week to see England win.”  This makes news because it seems to say something about how much the game matters to people—because it seems to say how happy it would make them to see their team win.  But they are wrong.

Predicting Happiness

Say hypothetically I want to predict how happy English football fans will be one year from today.  And say I have to make that predication for two potential scenarios: 1) England wins the 2010 World Cup; 2) England is knocked out of the World Cup by Argentina in a game where Carlos Tevez scores with a balled fist, Wayne Rooney gets dismissed on a second yellow for diving in the box, and Diego Maradona celebrates by belly sliding across Frank Lampard’s bow wearing a t-shirt saying ‘the Queen can stuff it.’  Here’s my prediction: in either case, English fans will be exactly as happy as they are today.

(photo from Reuters UK)

My prediction is based on a famous study in the science of happiness that evaluated the ‘real life’ equivalents of that English soccer dream/nightmare: in 1978 a group of psychologists compared two groups at the extremes of what we imagine to define our well-being—people had won the lottery, and people who had been paralyzed for life.  Immediately after their respective fateful events, there reported dramatic differences in their emotions—the lottery winners were ecstatic, the paraplegics were devastated.  Of course.

But over time a funny thing happened: they adapted.  The lottery winners started to realize that they still couldn’t afford everything they wanted, that they couldn’t trust people who had been good friends, that money changes but does not eliminate the stresses of everyday life.  Those who had been paralyzed came to realize that they could still engage in fulfilling relationships, that it could be rewarding to make little bits of progress in dealing with new challenges, that their physical limitations changed but did not eliminate the meaning of their lives.  After six months or a year, each group (along with a control group who had experienced no dramatic life events) expected to be back to the exact same level of happiness they’d reported before fate intervened. Extending the results of that study to virtually any life events, Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert (of Stumbling on Happiness fame) goes so far as to say “If it happened over three months ago, with a few exceptions, it has no impact on our happiness.”*[see end note]

Granted, objective events and circumstances do make a difference in the short-term; the night of England’s World Cup win/loss will undoubtedly be an alcohol-lubricated orgy of joy/woe.  And great games do offer aesthetic pleasures, along with the types of emotional highs (and lows) that constitute the immeasurable part of human experience.  But even in the short term an interesting range of variables mediate between events, between the win or the loss, and our emotional response.

The Social Relativity of Happiness

One key mediator between events and happiness is our relative perspective on what could have been—what academics call “counterfactuals.”  While competitive sports are alluring precisely because they delineate clear winners and losers, feelings of ‘success’ are relative to our expectations and our imaginations.

A famous research example here drew on the Barcelona Olympics to compare the emotional responses of silver and bronze medal winners.  As Victoria Husted Medvec and colleagues reported in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, objective raters consistently found bronze medal winners to be happier than silver medal winners.  In a follow-up study with amateur athletes they confirmed that this inversion of objective results was because people were thinking about what could have been: the bronze medal winners were comparing themselves to those who came in fourth, while the silver medal winners were comparing themselves to those who won it all.

In soccer terms, this suggests that fans’ happiness at the World Cup depends less on where they finish and more on where people think their team could have finished.  Subjective perceptions of what could have been matter more than objective results.  In fact, I’d hypothesize that on average English fans would be happier with a second round exit than a loss in the final—because they wouldn’t have to torment themselves with how close they came to winning it all.

(photo from Sky News)

This subjectivity of fans’ emotional reactions is further compounded by that other key variable in our happiness equation: people.  Both in the short term and in the long term we tend to be happier when we are engaged in healthy relating with others.  One relevant study here was done by María-Angeles Ruiz-Belda and colleagues in Spain, who video-taped soccer fans watching televised games from the World Cup and from La Liga.  The best predictor of whether or not the fans seemed happy during the game had nothing to do with goals being scored or favorable results; what mattered was the presence of other people.  Although Ruiz-Belda and colleagues use these findings to question the relationship between smiling and emotional experience, from a soccer perspective the results suggest that the full glory of the game only happens when shared.

The social essence of happy fandom also shows up in theoretical efforts to explain our irrational attachments to our teams.  Why do we identify with players we don’t know and franchises that use us for our money?  Probably the most common theoretical explanation is called the BIRG effect: Basking In Reflected Glory.  The idea is that we unconsciously use teams to orient our social identities in a way that tells us something about whether we are good or bad: when the US was up 2-0 at the half against Brazil in last summer’s Confederations Cup I was irrationally happy because of a vague sense that the score line reflected well on me.  When the US proceeded to lose 3-2 I was irrationally miserable because of a vague sense that I myself, sitting dazed in front of a pub TV 10,000 miles from the actual game, had failed.  But while BIRGing makes some sense I’ve never accepted it to be the full story—there are too many people willing to stick with their teams through too many lean years  (think again about the English and the World Cup) to make BIRGing the only thing that matters.

So I was pleased recently to stumble across some scholarship from a psychologist named Daniel Wann who has offered Team Identification-Social Psychological Health Model as a complement to the BIRG effect.  Ok, the name is not as catchy, but the idea fits with everything else I know about happiness: Wann has good evidence that fandom facilitates happiness because it offers us the types of real, imagined, temporary, and enduring connections to others that our human nature craves.

Ultimately, as many others have noted, where else other than the sports arena can grown men cry, hug, sing, and dance in a way that enhances both their masculinity and their social networks?  Where else can people of all stripes engage in loud, desperate, eccentric yet culturally endorsed expressions of our full emotional range?  We often think soccer makes us happy when our team wins, but the evidence suggests it actually makes us happy by offering rare opportunities—real or perceived—to connect amidst the penetrating anomie of modern life.  So, if the science of happiness is right, the England fan screaming ‘God Save the Queen’ with arms around mates after a second round loss may actually end up happier than the fan sitting alone on a tropical island watching Rio Ferdinand raise the Jules Rimet trophy. Or at least, if that isn’t any consolation, know that a year later winning or losing probably won’t make one bit of difference.  Right?

*Note: Oddly, one of the exceptions to Gilbert’s claim may be soccer related: in their recent book Soccernomics Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski present some provocative data suggesting that hosting a World Cup does increase happiness in a country even several years after the event—though they also find that hosting other major games does not influence national happiness.  They present further data suggesting that the idea of losing in major competitions as a cause of fan suicide is a myth—in fact, they argue, sports events tend to bring people together in a way that prevents suicide.  So while the whole picture is certainly a bit more complicated than I’m making out, the basic argument holds—major events by themselves don’t matter as much as we expect them to over the long term.

[As a more meta note: Back in 2009 and 2010, mostly in anticipation of the World Cup in South Africa, I did a lot of blogging for a great soccer web-site: pitchinvasion.net. For most of a year I wrote a weekly 2000-3000 word something using a broad soccer and social science lens, and while that level of extracurricular activity wasn’t sustainable it was probably the most fun I’ve had writing. Turns out, like many great blogs without a corporate media sponsor, the whole thing wasn’t sustainable – the site has now been dormant for a few years, and largely hijacked by gambling bots. When I first started this Tumblr I did a few posts linking back to pitchinvasion.net, but the site is now in such bad shape that I don’t think that’s a good idea anymore. So I occasionally insert a few posts here in hopes they are worth saving and with nothing really to lose…]