A Scandal in October

It seems innocuous enough in the beginning. Flu-like symptoms, shortness of breath, weakness, lethargy, some mild pain. Nothing to worry about. 

Within a few days, the more severe symptoms develop with alarming momentum: unexplained ecchymoses begin to form all over the body, patients begin to experience vomiting, bleeding and hemoptysis. Patients experience intense headaches, delirium, and many fall into a comatose state. In most cases, the eventual result is death.

On the first week and a half, hospitals see an increase in volume of patients. By the end of the month, emergency rooms are flooded, hospitals are nearly overwhelmed, and there is a charged sense of fear and panic all over London.

There is noticeably less traffic on the streets, and those who venture from their homes walk hurriedly from point A to point B, their faces covered by surgical masks, determinedly avoiding any sort of physical contact. One cough, a sniffle or a sneeze can clear a room. People in hazmat suits entering and exiting homes, carrying large bags of biohazardous waste, are no longer an uncommon sight. 

The first direct contact you have with the disease, strangely enough, is not through contamination.

The call comes sometime around midnight, and you glance up from the microscope, annoyed at the interruption. 

You briefly consider not answering the phone, but the ringing has pulled you out of your concentration enough to realize the full extent of your sleep-deprived state. Your eyes are burning, your muscles are tense and cramped, and a pounding in your head reminds you that the last time you slept was forty-eight hours ago.

The ringing becomes more insistent and provides a shrill accompaniment to the throbbing in your head. You get up reluctantly to answer it, suspecting that it’s Mycroft. If there is a bright side to this epidemic, it’s that the whole situation has made Mycroft’s life a living hell.

You check the screen, but it’s not Mycroft. It’s an unknown number.

You frown and try to deduce who might be calling at this time of night. The phone vibrates insistently while you’re thinking, and with a roll of your eyes, you give in.  

 You answer with your customary greeting, a terse “Sherlock Holmes.”

The voice on the other end of the line is small and young, disembodied and faint, muffled by slight static. “Hello?“ 

Male, a child probably between six and ten, the voice is distinctly British, with just the slightest hint of a foreign accent on the enunciation of the vowels. You don’t recognize this voice. 

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Holmes,” The childish voice is a little bit stronger now, emboldened perhaps by a response, no matter how terse or unwelcoming that response might be. “My name is Nero Wolfe… Nero Hamish Wolfe.”

You freeze, breath half-caught in your throat, and your hand clenches rigidly over the phone. Your heart thuds dully in your chest, and there’s a faint rushing sound in your ears.

One word, one name tells you so much.

… Hamish… If you were thinking of baby names.

… I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.

…Twice.

… If it was the end of the world… if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?

It’s been too long. The first thought that assaults you is how? Which is, in its own ridiculous way, the easiest question to answer. 

One night is sufficient to answer how –  that bare room in Karachi had been stifling hot, oppressively so; the sounds of the city had been loud outside the door, but it didn’t matter; everything else was insignificant, even the fact that she almost died, or the fact that you attacked all those people as a trade for her singular life; all that mattered was that her pulse was rapid beneath your fingers, her body warm and vital, and her clever eyes told you all you needed to know… 

One night before you parted ways forever and never heard from her again. How is the only question you cannot comprehend, but can answer with perfect recall after all this time.

The tiny voice over the phone interrupts your thoughts and pulls you out of the cloud of shock. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” your voice is hoarse, and you clear it for the sake of the boy on the other line. “I - I’m here.”

“My mother told me to call you. She said to tell you: Eaton Square, ten o’clock tomorrow morning. She said you would know the address. She also said you would recognize me. I’ll see you there at ten sharp.”

“Yes, I know the address, but wait –” 

Too late. The other line cuts off, and you’re left staring uselessly at a blank phone screen.

….

….

….

You arrive a good half an hour early, and in deep disguise as a precaution. There are very few people on the street when you arrive, and you linger far enough from 44 Eaton Square to avoid detection, yet close enough to see every single person who arrives. The mask and gloves help you blend in and it’s an excellent way to ensure that no one recognizes you. 

At precisely one minute to ten, a black car with heavily tinted windows stops at the corner of the street and the door opens. A little boy hops out. 

He pulls out a small brown rucksack – high-quality leather, clearly expensive – hefts it over his shoulders and starts down the street without looking back at the car. He’s neatly-dressed in a turtleneck pulled well up to obscure his face, and gloves, and then there’s the very telling black coat he’s wearing, a tailored miniature of your own.

The pointed clue is unnecessary – the moment you see his mop of black curls and his bright blue eyes, your suspicions from last night are confirmed.

The shade of the boy’s eyes are closer to his mother’s, as well as the cheekbones, though not quite as prominent due to childish roundness of his face… but the ears, the nose, even the shape of his forehead are as familiar to you as your own reflection. 

The boy walks determinedly to 44 Eaton Square, cautiously crossing the street, before finally stopping at the steps leading to the house. He looks up at the facade, head tipped and contemplating it with a curious expression, before unceremoniously dropping his rucksack on the ground, and settling on the bottom step.

You don’t move immediately, not even to signal that your attention is drawn to him, but the boy is quicker than you. He turns his head and stares directly at you, as if he’s known you’ve been there all this time. 

It’s slightly unnerving to see that clear blue gaze light on you with such direct intensity, and it takes you back to the first time you were at 44 Eaton Square and that very same translucent gaze stared right through your disguise so many years ago. 

Disguise is always a self-portrait.

There’s no doubt who his mother is. 

In the face of such blatant knowledge, your lips twist into a wry grin under your mask, and you finally shed your disguise. The boy – Nero – watches you approach with a wary look of recognition.

“Do you know who I am?” you ask.

There are so many ways to interpret such a loaded question, and the boy decides to take it at its hidden meaning. He looks at you with a very serious expression on his little face and nods, straightforward but cautious.

“You covered the lower half of your face, but studies have shown that the upper half of the face is more significant when recognizing kinship signals and facial similarity. But it doesn’t matter because I researched you last night and saw your picture. We have the same forehead and nose, and similar ears. And the hair.”

The boy looks calmly up at you, but you can see his hands fiddling slightly with the straps of his bag. A nervous habit, probably. He notices you noticing, and attempts to control it by shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“She’s sick, isn’t she?”

Nero blinks, and he doesn’t answer, but a small tremor makes its way over the boy’s lower lip. His voice wobbles on a tiny, very unconvincing “No.”

“Did she tell you to say that?”

The boy’s lower lip pulls out despite his brave attempts to stop it, and you can see his hands balling into fists inside his coat pockets. For the first time, he looks away, but not before you see the tears pooling in his eyes. He swipes them away stubbornly with one hand.

Children have never been your area of expertise; especially not crying children. The fact that this crying child is your own further adds to the strangeness of the situation. But something tells you, that this time, you need to try.

Cautiously, you lift your hand and hesitantly touch the top of the boy’s head. When Nero doesn’t pull away, your hands settle on the boy’s soft dark curls, so like yours, and you stroke them gently, in what you sincerely hope is a consoling manner.

The touch seems to release something inside the boy, and the tears spill from his eyes, running down his cheeks and wetting his turtleneck. Nero makes a small whimpering sound, and then another, and another, before turning violently toward your leg – about the highest part of you he can reach – and burying his face in your trousers to muffle the sound. His arms wrap around your leg, clinging doggedly as he sobs.

You wrap your arm around him awkwardly. This is not the crying of a child like Rosie, who sometimes cries to get what she wants, or maybe that time when she skinned her knee. This uncontrollable outburst comes from something deeper, probably something the child has been trying to control, to hold back and keep himself from breaking down like he is now. 

You wait patiently for the boy to expel whatever fear and confusion and anxiety and helplessness he is feeling. When his grip finally loosens on your clothes and his sobs dwindle into tiny hiccups, you kneel down in front of him and take his shoulders.

“Where is she, Nero?”

The boy’s lip wobbles dangerously again. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t let me. She said she didn’t want me to get sick too.”

You exhale slowly. You’ve never been one to care before, but there’s more relief in it than you’d like to admit. 

She’s still alive.

Or at least she was when Nero left. But that in itself is a good sign. She was still well enough to take precautions for the boy.

Perhaps it’s the boy’s crying, but you find yourself being more careful around him, less brusque, less terse. You rub his back and take the time to wipe the tears from his cheeks, before picking up his discarded bag and slinging it over your own shoulder. You straighten up and hold your other hand out to him.

Nero looks up at you, eyes still watery, but he takes an almighty sniff and takes your hand with his own smaller one.

You take one last look at 44 Eaton Square, before turning away. With your son’s hand in yours, you head home.

_________________

By SorrowsFlower

Might have a part two. It was supposed to be just a few sentences long, sorry. And there might be some inaccuracies, my research wasn’t as in-depth as I would have liked.

So sorry guys, my life has been nuts lately. I’ll be better with prompts from now on.

Dialogue Prompts:

'So why didn’t you ever say anything?’ 'I thought you regretted it, so I gave you some space.’ 'I believe that we have to share the title of idiot you’ve been throwing at me recently.’

'You have all the makings of a villain, you know that?’

'We really need to talk about your language issue.’

'You don’t get to decide what I should and shouldn’t know.

‘Are you seriously trying to get away with this?’ 'Well it’s not the first time I’ve done it, so yeah. Is that a problem?’

Photo Prompts:

Melbourne, Australia

Millennium Bridge, London

London Tower Bridge

NYC city street

GIF Prompts:

Single Dialogue:

‘You’ve never been the type to care before.’ 

'Wait, your mum taught you this? Is that legal? 

‘Stop pretending like you know what you’re doing.’ 

Photo Prompts:

GIFs:

So its another year and another Adlocktober. 

What is Adlocktober? 

Basically, I post a bunch of prompts each day and if you feel inspired, you create an Adlock fanwork based on those prompts then submit them to the blog. 

Some guidelines:

The fanwork must be Adlock centric. But it doesn’t have to be a romantic pairing. They can have whatever kind of dynamic you wish. You can genderbend them if you’re so inclined. They can have side relationships as long as the side relationship isn’t the centerpiece of the work. Make them unicorns, I don’t care. It just needs to be adlock.

Whatever you feel like making, it is welcome. Art, fic. manips, gifsets, etc. You make it, I’ll post it.

Any and all kinds of Adlock are welcome. Parent!lock with them dressing up baby Nero in a ridiculous ass costume for funsies? So here for it. Sexy smut shenanigans? *grabby hands* Hocus Pocus crossover fic? YES. GIMME.  Just please include some kind warning so I can tag it appropriately.

HAVE FUN! I run this because I love Adlock and the Yacht and Halloween.

One More Thing:

I want to try a new thing this year. If you have a prompt and you don’t write or you just don’t feel like writing it yourself, send it in and I’ll make a list of open prompts so that others may write them if they feel so inclined. Send in as many prompts as you want. I just can’t promise they’ll be filled. 

She shook her head and frowned. “Just let me explain.” “Let not do that again.” “You don’t know the truth.”

She’s been feeling odd for eight days already. now is even worse. They are running, as fast as they can, but she’s falling behind. She feels weak, tired, dizzy, but she keep running. Until the russians catches them. She falls to the ground, almost fainting. Sherlock shout at her to stand up, but she simply can’t, everything is fading. She can see how two big guys covered on tattoos are beating him. Another comes to her, as she is in the ground, he kicks her, over and over. But she’s already passing out. A cold feeling wakes her, she is sitting on the ground leaned on a wall, surrounded by steam and trash bags. A tipycal alley on New York. Sherlock is standing in front of her, panting and sweating, trying to catch his breath. His face is swollen on the left side, and he has a cut on his cheekbone that is bleeding. He is asking questions, but she can’t hear him, a sudden pain comes from her stomach, it’s so strong it makes her bend. There is blood everywhere, hers. She can’t see where is coming from. Everything is blurry and she is so dizzy. Sherlock picks her up and begin to walk fast. He’s going to the flat where they are staying, carrying her through the alleys. The pain in her stomach is so strong it makes her shed tears, she can feel the blood flood. What’s happening to her? Her mind wanders throught all the possibilities, until one of them make a click. She has just count eight uninterrupted weeks of sex. Uninterrupted. That word echoes in her mind, until she cannot hold it any longer. The tears now are from sorrow, dispair, impotence.

When they arrive at the flat, Sherlock takes her to the bathroom, and tried to find out where the blood is coming; but she already knows, she push him out of the bathroom, yells at him to leave her alone. The door is not locked, even so, he doesn’t insist and walks away to find ice for his swollen face. She gets rid of her bloodied clothes, enters the bathtub and let the water fall over her, to wash away the blood, the sorrow and the guilt. The track of time is lost. And the water don’t wash away the tears, she began to think it will never do.

Visuals

GIFs

She shook her head and frowned.

“Just let me explain.”

“Let not do that again.”

“You don’t know the truth.”

Dialogue Stuff

Note: I’m going to post a separate, NSFW-ish prompt post. One, because I saw some interesting visual prompts and stuff. And two, this is the second night I’m late with the prompts and last night I screwed up so this is my apology. I’m sorry, everyone. 

It was hard for him to believe what was really happening. His mother had called, she asked for a family dinner, he refused and she insisted. By some reason he couldn’t yet understand, he was sitting on a couch, at his parents house with a wine glass on his hand. There were two thing of which Sherlock was certain: Mycroft weren’t coming to dinner, wich was, really nice. The other, the wine will help him survive the night.

It’s his third glass of wine, dinner is almost ready and Sherlock is already enjoying the conversation with his mother when she dropped the bomb. “We’ll have a guest for dinner” She said, trying to sound casual. “It’s a lovely young lady” Sherlock thought this for a moment. “You arranged a blind date for me?” “It is not a blind date if your father and i are on it. Beside, she’s lovely and smart. You will like her. i’m sure. She is from New Jersey.” Sherlock tried to argue, then, he tried to flee. But her mother had a way for things to work and 15 minutes later, there was a knock at the door. As his mother went to open the door, Sherlock turn to look outside the window. His father came to his side. “Your mother is worried you don’t pay enought attention to womens. You know she want grandkids.” “She can ask Mycroft” Said Sherlock “Well, at least Mycroft presented….three girlfriends? even if was years ago. If this girl is not of your liking, your mother will ease for a while.” Both looked at each other and smile. “Sherlock, this is Madison” Said Mrs Holmes. When Sherlock turn to see, He went blank for a few seconds. This woman, Madison, as his mother called, was no other than, The Woman, Irene Adler. Quickly, Sherlock took a glass, poured wine on it and handed it to The Woman. “Here, have a glass of wine, Madison” The woman smiles, broad and mischevious. “Shall we sit for dinner?” Offers Sherlock and walks towards the table.

Dinner went about autumn, pumpkins, unimportant small talk and a full bottle of wine for Sherlock. When the time came, Mrs Holmes suggested leaving the young couple alone, so they know each other better. She was very surprised by the good behaviour of his son during dinner. Sherlock waited until his parents retired to their room. He stood up and stumble until sat next to the woman. “W- wh- What are you doing here?” He was struggling with the alcohol. “Trying to enjoy the rest of the night, since dinner is already over” Sherlock laughed. “Y-you…look really…beu- beautifull tonight” He offered the best of the smiles. “You’re drunk.” “Nope. You’re just blurry.” He got very close, and put a hand on her knee. “Dinner… i just, no, i want dinner, but yours” And he began to guide his hand into her inner thigh. “Really? Here? With you parents upstairs?” Irene was actually enjoying this, the wine had washed away all inhibitions. “Ppffftsss, we are not teenagers anymore. Besides, thank to you, i’m not The Virgin anymore.” “I’m sure that sounded different in your head, but please never say that again.” “Whatever.” Said Sherlock, and took her by the hand, inviting her to stand. With clumsy moves, he took her by the waist and kiss her as deep and passionate as the wine let him. Irene just smiled and returned the kisses. How many time could she see a drunken Sherlock?. So, she went with the flow, and was determinated to have a night to remember.

He sees her underwater Where gravity has no effect, and she becomes Weightless, her unbound hair like an ink blot Spreading, viscous, tainting the water like the drug Oozing insidiously through his veins And he joins her, happily drowns himself

He sees her through the mist That clouds everything else All the insipid humans, the inconsequential Mundanity of the world around them Threatens to obscure her, but even the soporific thrall of the drug Cannot conceal The Woman And the acrid taste of cigarette smoke and secrets In the air, accompanies her like a spectral handmaiden She beckons, hand to her lips And he follows

Before he remembers She is not there…

_________________

By SorrowsFlower

First attempt at Adlock poetry

It was a beautiful afternoon at the park. Mary, John and little Charlotte were enjoying the breeze, the sun, and the sight of the trees. Charlotte was sitting in the ground playing with the leaves. Her parents were talking about life, when a text message simultaneously arrived at both phones. “Baker street now. Matter of life and dead” They exchanged a glance, and fifteen minutes later, the three were arriving at 221B Baker street. Lestrade was waiting outside. “Everything ok with Sherlock?” Asked John “See it for yourself” Was his answer They were at the middle of the stairs when Sherlock came down. “I own a favor to Lestrade. I trust you both with this.” Sherlock rush to the door “Everything you need is in the bag upstairs. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He was at the door, ready to leave. “Just keep him busy” And with that, he left. Mary and John were very confused by this, anyway, they went up stairs. The first thing they saw, was a little boy standing in the door. Black curly hair, light eyes and white skin, probably one year old, he looked confuse. Without saying a word, John rush down the stairs and for the door, just to find that Sherlock and Lestrade were already gone. He tried the phone, but it was off. Resigned, John went upstairs, just to find Charlott and this little boy playing with some cubes on the carpet.

“so, what now? we call a babysitter or something?” Suggested John. “Don’t you wanna find out what’s going on here, John?” Just as Mary finished her sentence, Mrs Hudson came in with a basket full of biscuits. “Oh, Hello everyone!” Said Mrs Hudson really cheerfully. “Hello” Answered the little boy, for Mary and John’s surprise. “Hello there, sweety, i brought you some biscuits, for you too Charlotte” “Mrs Hudson, do you know what’s going on?” Asked Mary “I have absolutly no idea, dear. But this little boy is been here since morning. Sherlock’s been taking care of him. When i asked him about, he refuse to talk, you know Sherlock. Maybe, if you ask the little one, he’s very smart you know. Now, if you excuse me, theres a movie on TV right now. Enjoy the biscuits” “Well” Said Mary “Let’s see how smart you are. Buddy, hello there” “Hello” He answered “Mary, this is no use” Complained John. “My name is Mary, what’s your name?” “Name?” Asked the boy confused “Name, Mary” She pointed John “Name, John” and then pointed Charlotte “Name, Charlotte. Your name…?” “Mary?” Asked the boy pointing her. “Yes, Mary. Him?” Asked Mary pointing John “John” Said the boy, and then pointed Charlotte and said her name. Mary and John were very amazed. “Yes, yes. you are a clever one” “No. Nero” Said the boy. “So, your name is Nero” Said Mary victorious. “Yes. Nero.” He went back to play with the cubes and Charlotte, who, by now, has only been babbling. “Take another biscuit, Nero. See John, the boy is clever. He will tell us something…eventually, we just have to ask the right questions” “All right” Said John, approaching the scene “So, Nero. Name, Nero?” “Yes. Nero” “So, Mom? Name, mom?” “Name. Mom. No” said Nero and thought for a while.“Name. Mom. Irene” John was shocked. He straightened up with a blank look. Mary asked if he knew someone with that name. He immediatly remembered her, Irene Adler. No, it couldn’t be the same, or was it? He needed more information. Ignoring Mary’s question he turned back to Nero. “Great! buddy, you’re doing it great” Said John to Nero, ofering a warm smile, which Nero returned. “Now, name…yes?” Nero nodded “Name, dad?” “Name. Dad…..No. Mom” Said Nero, rather confused. “No, not mom. Name, dad.” John insisted. “Name. Dad.” John and Mary leaned to him. “Name. Dad. Sherlock” “I’m gonna murder him.” Said John, dead serious. And Mary asked him to calm down. “calm? h..how? he lied to me! He have a son, and he didn’t tell me? again? wha-what? No! No!, i am gonna murder him."  "Murder” Said Nero with joy. And Charlotte tried to copy the word. “Murer” Said Charlotte finally. “John!, would you please calm down! I don’t want Charlotte’s first word be…you know” “Ok, fine. We’ll wait for Sherlock. And we are gonna have a talk. A very serious one!”

An hour passed, and Mrs Hudson announced that someone was there to fetch Nero. When John saw who was at the door, he froze completly. “Well, Hello Doctor, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Mommy!” Shouted Nero and went running towards her. Irene lifted him. “What did you do today, dear?” Irene asked him. “Murder!” Said Nero joyfully. “Mary Watson” Said Mary introducing herself, due to her frozen husband. “Irene Adler, nice to meet you.” “A very smart kid, Nero.” “Well, he is her father’s son. Where is Sherlock, by the way?”

Visuals

GIFs

“I’m sure that sounded different in your head, but please never say that again.”

“This is bad.” “You said that already.” “It seemed worth repeating.”

“How the hell am I going to explain this?”

“You’re drunk.” “Nope. You’re just blurry.”

Visuals 

Note: The park pictured at top is Holland Park in London. It’s one of the most heavily wooded parks in London. Just in case you were wondering.

GIFs

“You seem to forget who you’re dealing with.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me. I have to go make a scene.”

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

A cold breeze coming from an open window made him shiver, he came back to reality from his mind palace. Sherlock took a glance of the place and inspects it, no signs of The Woman. She probably got bored and wander off, he thought. Before going in her search, he looked for a towel, he knew exactly where she was. Outside, the sun was descending swiftly and the cool breeze caresses the brown leaves of the trees. She wasn’t there, of course, in her wanderings she discovered the path towards the lagoon. He walked under the arch formed by small trees and yellow-brown leaves. Near the end of the path, Sherlock could heard the faint sound of water and someone moving in it. He stop just at the edge, and saw her. In a small lagoon, sorrounded by trees and fallen leaves, diaphanous waters bathe her, she is naked, naturally. The picture is stunning and Sherlock engrave it on his mind. He stands there for some minutes, trying to remember every bit of the scene. After a while, he decided to step forward. “Come out, it’s getting cold” He said, offering the towel. Irene turned towards him and slowly walked out from the lagoon. Once out, she began to shiver. Sherlock wrapped her in the towel, refusing to look at her. Even though she noticed, she leaned on him, looking for embrace. “Christ, you’re cold.” Sherlock move aside and took her by the arm “Let’s get inside.” “No, wait” Said Irene, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking into his eyes “Darling, stop” “What? Stop what?” Sherlock asked puzzled. “Stop holding back” Those word worked like magic on his brain, unconsciously he placed his hands at her shoulders and looked down at her. Her body carved like marbel, a body he had memorised, inch by inch. For a first time at Belgravia, then, in Karachi, even more times after that. As his heart races and his pupils dilate, he surrenders. He gives into her. Into her kisses, her touches, her breath, her skin. Soon, the towel lies in the ground and also his shirt. Now Irene can feel his warm naked skin, hugs him tight, she feels their bodies pressed to each other. Within brief moments, they lie in the fallen towel. And she is not cold anymore, the heat and the passion of the moment keeps them warm. He struggle with his trousers, and with feverish movements, she gasp soundly as he enters her, he moans deeply. Both hold tight into each other, because they are afraid of letting go, afraid of what can be. Now that Moriarty is back, anything can happen, at any minute, at any place. But they are together now, panting, sweating, enjoying, moaning. Their stomachs flutter with the feeling. Flutter with words, words they will not say to each other, because now, they don’t need to say them. And they are lost, they are lost in the feeling, in the kisses, the strokes, fingers lost in raven hair.

He can’t remember how long it has been, four months? Five maybe?. Anyother day he will think he’s weak, that he has lost her game, as any common men. But not now, not today, perhaps, not anymore. Because now, he knows how he feels, what he feels, what The Woman means to him. The only woman who matters and always will. And right there, in that moment, he knows that the feeling flows both ways. She knows the feeling flows both ways, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Anyother day she will think she’s a silly girl. Giving in into him, all of her, not just her body, her fears and insecurities also. Showing herself so vulnerable, with blind faith that he will not betray her. But she is not ashame of herself, not now, no anymore. She will not denied this feeling anymore, neither he can.

And while the stars shine over them, He feel he loose control, but he wants to wait for her. She knows what he’s thinking and let him know she is also close. Irene hold tight on his shoulder, her moans are loud and deep. Her release is music to his ears. And soon, his movements become uncoordinate and his breaths ragged.