* twisted narrative !

The brunette made sure she had her pistol in her jeans, always forgetting it was there out of habit. "So, we know they went to Brick Lane, since you kept that piece of information from me" Amelia paused, it was cold and the night was clear, no clouds to keep warmth in. "We are supposed to be doing this together, if you don't work with me and tell me things, then something is going to go wrong!" Was there slight evident of panic? Yes.

      𝑭𝒐𝒓   𝒂𝒏𝒚   𝒇𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆   𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒔   𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕   they   might   attempt   to   solve   together,   Sherlock   figured   that   they   would   need   to   come   up   with   a   code   system,   similar   to   the   one   he   and   John   had   used.   Or   at   the   very   least   altered   —   just   in   case   there   are   some   secrets   Sherlock   must   tell   one   but   cannot   spill   to   the   other.   Can   never   be   too   careful   about   those   things.   

      But   for   now,   he   has   to   bite   the   inside   of   his   cheek,   offer   no   verbal   response   to   her   accusation,   merely   widen   his   eyes,   flick   them   sideways   for   a   quick   second,   and   hope   that   Amelia   can   pick   something   out   from   as   subtle   as   that.   “Spare   the   dramatics,   Amelia,   it   slipped   my   mind.   And   if   it   slipped   my   mind,   then   it’s   of   no   importance   to   the   case   itself.”   Still   speaking   in   that   bored   tone,   flippantly   waving   his   hand   in   front   of   his   face,   hoping   that   those   listening   in   picked   up   on   that   bit   of   information,   without   suspecting   it   to   be   a   fib.   

      Her   anguish   sets   his   jaw   into   a   tense   line,   fingers   curling   into   fists   inside   the   pockets   of   his   coat.   One   addict   to   another,   he   could   relate   to   her   cravings.   Brother   to   sister,   however,   the   rarely   used   fraternal   instincts   were   rearing   their   head,   protective   and   displeased   with   her   lack   of   will.   “If   that’s   all   it   takes   to   make   you   gasp   for   a   drink,   then   I   am   not   sure   you’re   going   to   be   capable   of   seeing   through   this   case   with   me,”   he   snaps,   concern   translating   into   impatience   within   his   words.   

"none of y'er business." once her number is in his contact list, she navigates to the game that expertly stole twenty bucks from him. but it's the line he feeds her that has her pausing. gaze lifts from the screen to dean and the smile he's giving her. jo feels heat flood her face. (she knows it's a line because dean winchester is a notorious womanizer. she knows he's smiled like that at countless women. it doesn't mean anything. it shouldn't affect her. and yet, it takes her a longer than she'd like to retort. something about his eyes and those stupid full lips of his.) she huffs and rolls her eyes; an attempt to save face.

"listen, princess. i'm takin' your money. end of story. now stop tryin' to distract me." she waves a hand at him and sits back in the chair, attention fully on the screen and the game as it starts up. brows furrow as her thumb quickly glides over the screen. fingers of her other hand fiddle with her lower lip, even as she tugs the inside of it with her teeth. a habit she's never fully manage to break.

      𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓   𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔   𝒉𝒆   𝒉𝒂𝒅   —   either   sitting   there   and   pouting   at   her   dismissal,   or   doubling   down   with   his   flirtations   to   take   her   attention   off   his   phone   —   died   pretty   quickly,   his   thoughts   coming   into   a   screeching   halt.   If   anyone   was   doing   the   distracting   it   was   Jo,   so   very   obviously   not   even   aware   of   it   herself.   Such   an   innocent   action   too,   picking   at   her   lower   lip   with   her   fingers,   tugging   and   twisting   at   the   soft   flesh, leaving it redder and puffier,   making   it   the   singular   point   of   Dean’s   focus.

      So   he   misses   her   question   completely,   eyes   glued   to   her   mouth,   his   gut   twisting   up   with   heat,   with   a   craving   that   he   should   try   his   hardest   to   trample   down.   It’s   not   alcohol either;   he   had   the   same   feeling   before   several   times,   and   one   of   them   happened   while   he   was   stone   cold   sober.   It’s   her,   and   the   forbidden   nature   of   fantasies   that   flashed   through   his   mind,   lightning   quick,   one   filthier   than   another.   “. . .W-what?”   Dean   eventually   stammers   out,   blinking   back   into   reality,   his   eyes   slowly   crawling   back   to   hers.   

eleanor would claim it a moment of madness. the heat of the sun. but the truth of it was much simpler: she wanted to. flint stood there, looking as fine as he always did, and reason and social decorum had both gone out the window. she acted before she could think, and when she felt his strong arms wrapping around her, pulling her flush into him, she completely melted into him, and the kiss, forgetting they were out in public for the duration of their heated kiss.

      𝙁𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚   getting   tangled   up   with   Eleanor   like   this   was   a   wise   decision.   He   kissed   back,   he   took   the   initiative   to   deepen   it,   to   pull   her   in   closer   and   hold   her   tighter.   But   that   was   instinct,   that   was   a   base   urge,   a   primal   need,   muscle   memory.   Wasn’t   it?   The   brief   break   from   her   lips,   the   hundred   or   so   steps   they’ve   taken   let   his   brain   gain   control   once   more,   and   it   was   screaming   for   him   to   nip   this   in   the   bud.

      What   little   semblance   of   control   he   had   gained   was   ripped   out   of   his   hands   the   moment   his   back   collided   with   the   wooden   wall   behind   him.   It’s   impressive,   really,   how   the   woman   of   her   build   and   stature   could   so   easily   overpower   him,   and   it’s   concerning   how   pliant   he   was   to   her   command.   While   Flint   might   have   had   half   a   mind   to   resist   the   kiss   she   bestowed   upon   his   lips   next,   all   the   rationale   evaporated   into   thin   air   once   he   felt   the   friction,   their   hips   pressed   together,   the   many   folds   of   her   skirts   rubbing   roughly   into   his   crotch.   “Fuck,   Eleanor,”   he   breathed   against   her   mouth,   his   fingers   sinking   into   her   waist,   pulling   her   in,   even   if   the   initial   intention   was   to   push   her   away.   

he was chatty. and recently, anybody who would converse with him regarding anything other than his current work situation was a breath of fresh air. science was his life, but at least here in this present discussion it wasn't about the energy - eating alien microbe that threatened to freeze the earth out of life itself. so, ryland made himself comfortable with a borderline stranger, who he was certain was privy to at least what was happening.

it wasn't outlandish to him that stratt would keep billionaires in the loop, in case her authority wasn't enough. maybe she needed additional funding for... he doesn't know, blowing up kilimanjaro or explore the ruins of chernobyl, or something. whether tony cared about the mission or not was not of importance to him. ryland just wanted an escape.

"i teach eighth grade outside of all of this," he says, a bit of a smile at the rim of a glass of guinness. he didn't really hide the fact that he was extremely overqualified for the job, being introduced to everyone as 'dr. grace, molecular biologist' gave it away before he could. he felt the need to keep talking to fill in any silence, "i was probably going to end up teaching, anyways. i just didn't really think i'd end up teaching, y'know... general science at a public school. not that i'm really complaining about it, i love my students."

( @storyuntrue: "surely… you could have chosen another place?" / tony to ryland ! )

      𝑻𝒐   𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉   𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓   𝒐𝒘𝒏   —   now   there’s   a   saying   that   could   be   applied   to   this   situation.   For   the   life   of   him   Tony   couldn’t   figure   out   what   would   make   a   mind   as   brilliant   as   Grace   end   up   working   as   a   teacher.   Tony’s   had   his   fair   share   of   embarrassing   headlines;   most   of   them   about   his   personal   life,   but   that’s   besides   the   point.   If   he   allowed   humiliating   stories   stop   him   in   his   tracks,   his   own   career   would   have   ended   decades   ago.   

      He   keeps   his   tongue   in   check,   locked   away   behind   a   curious   smile.   Head   tilted   sideways,   eyes   wide   and   firmly   set   on   Ryland;   whatever   thoughts   were   running   through   his   mind,   Tony   made   sure   not   to   let   them   showcase   on   his   face.   Anything   he   had   to   say   was   already   too   little   and   too   late.   Recruiting   him   outta   this   place   when   Stratt   had   already   sunk   her   claws   into   him   would   be   impossible.   

      “And   how   are   they   treating   you   here?”   It’s   not   a   dig,   not   an   attempt   to   stir   the   pot —   Tony’s   genuinely   curious.   Perhaps   an   attempt   to   bond,   or   just   find   someone   friendly   enough   to   pass   the   time   here   in   between   all   the   tests,   and   decisions,   and   training,   and   experiments.   There   is   only   so   much   conversation   he   can   have   with   fellow   engineers   before   it   becomes   repetitive   and   boring.   Ryland   over   here   could   be   something   fresh.   Something   to   keep   him   engaged   in   this   entire   project   enough   not   to   bail   on   it   within   a   month. Something that could give him inspiration for new projects of his own.   “Is   it   worth   leaving   the   school   for?”  

"Fuck off!"

It's heated, spat out with malice as he winces away from Flint and gives him a harsh push to keep him away. Always at an arm's length. It's not his fault that Silver is shit at dealing with pain. It's not his fault that he got hurt in the first place either, but fuck it all to hell. The scent of gunpowder still lingers in his nostrils as if it's settled there like a memory. And dear God, the stinging pain of the wound still burns brightly where the bullet had entered the back his shoulder. He's staggering, difficult to navigate anywhere with only one leg and no sense of direction in this pained and panicked haze.

"Fuck... fuckfuckfuck"

Back hits the wall for the tilting of the ship does nothing to steady him, and so he stumbles and drops none too delicately down onto the floor. His fingers, slick with his own blood, clutches at the wound and digs into the flesh of his shoulder in an attempt to remove the pain. Parts of him tries not to think about the fact that the bullet is still there, lodged somewhere into the meat of his shoulder for he is fairly certain that will be the bane of his sanity at this very moment.

' Steady your breathing. One in, one out '. He has straightened up a little, head tilted back and eyes aimed straight at Flint.

The bullet, he was certain, had been aimed for Flint, and overtaken by some foolish heroic force, he had done something he never thought himself capable of. This self sacrificing crap... things he often scoffed at now had overcome him and he had taken the bullet.

( if only he could handle pain like a hero, then maybe this would have been less pathetic )

      𝑵𝒐𝒕   𝒂   𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆   𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏   that   had   met   Flint   would   consider   the   man   to   be   gifted   with   copious   amounts   of   patience,   and   he   was   not   even   trying   to   pretend   otherwise.   What   little   patience   he   did   have   was   trickling   out   of   him   incredibly   fast,   his   jaw   tightly   set   and   narrowed   eyes   tracking   Silver’s   wild   flailing,   his   attempts   to   get   away.   

      Yet   another   thing   he   was   not   known   for   —   his   affinity   to   help   those   in   need.   And   seeing   as   his   help   was   rejected,   Flint   had   to   battle   the   urge   to   simply   turn   on   his   heel   and   walk   away,   leaving   the   other   man   to   his   own   devices.   But,   Silver   did   take   a   bullet   that   was   seemingly meant   for   him,   for   reasons   Flint   was   not   aware   of,   and   something   akin   to   guilt   kept   him   rooted   to   his   spot,   waiting   for   Silver   to   stop   his   fit.   

      “It   means   that   all   of   your   moving   and   squirming   around   the   place   could   lodge   the   shot   deeper   and   make   it   harder   to   extract,”   he   responds   slowly,   through   gritted   teeth,   the   sound   low   and   hissed   out.   Pushing   the   tails   of   his   coat   out   of   the   way,   Flint   crouches, forearms on the tops of his thighs,   keeping   his   gaze   firmly   on   Silver.   “The   less   you   move   around   and   behave   like   a   hysterical   child,   the   less   it   will   hurt   taking care of  it,   that’s   what   it fucking   means.”   

"Guess all my secrets are out, shame .. I enjoyed keeping this one" Was it a secret to anyone other than Sherlock, that Amelia could fight? Absolutely. Did everyone else know that she could fight? Definitely. Amelia took a lot of pride in knowing she kept at least one secret from her father. A grin crossing her features as she bounced on her toes, knees slightly bent. She was slightly out of breath, but hardly. "British Government, Military Of Defense, just to name a few" The brunette mused giving a slight shrug of her shoulders.

      𝑰𝒕   𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔   𝒂   𝒍𝒐𝒕   𝒐𝒇   𝒆𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕   to   keep   the   purse   of   his   lips   looking   stern   and   bemused,   not   at   all   like   a   pout.   There   was   something   about   Amelia;   she   was   the   only   one   that   Sherlock   had   a   hard   time   deducing   —   he   could,   but   it   took   more   effort   than   usual.   And   it's   an   effort   he   didn’t   want   to   put   in,   not   when   his   tongue   had   a   tendency   of   slipping,   of   forming   biting   remarks,   of   pointing   out   flaws   and   blemishes.   

      The   idea   of   hurting   her   with   a   poorly   timed   observation   left   a   feeling   of   a   heavy   weight   in   his   gut,   so   Sherlock   simply   took   his   short-sightedness   when   it   came   to   Amelia   in   stride.   Sometimes   that   cost   him,   like   in   this   instance,   he   had   to   endure   her   gloating   and   even   suggesting   letting   up   on   him.   “No,”   he   responds   after   a   while,   gnashing   his   teeth,   fixing   his   stance.   “Keep   going.   Show   me   everything   you’ve   got.”   

"Not particularly? I mean, there was the-" He gestures to the list, the top one of which refers to case with the monks and the drug smuggler, "The monk one, I told him, I said; it doesn't really take Sherlock Holmes to find a blonde woman amongst a load of bald men, y'know? That was the only one that- that felt like he was grabbing for anything that might remotely help his theory. He was bang on with all the others though."

      𝑻𝒉𝒆   𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌   𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉   Mycroft   bestows   upon   the   detective   inspector   could   be   described   by   a   singular   word:   unimpressed.   Though   his   own single   interaction   with   Anderson   was   brief   at   best,   Mycroft   was   confident   in   his   belief   that   the   man   was   simply   not   smart   or   clever   enough   to   have   sound   proof   and   irrefutable   logic.   There   are   always   weak   spots   to   exploit   and   expand,   until   even   the   strongest   of   convictions   collapses   in   on   itself.   

      “That   one   should   be   regarded   as   utter   nonsense.   It’s   weak   and   it’s   preposterous,   and   Sherlock   would   never   bother   with   a   case   that   simple.”   At   that   sharp   glint   in   his   eye   appears,   near   predatory   in   nature.   They   are   guarding   a   very   fragile   secret,   and   if   it’s   needed,   he’ll   find   a   way   to   smear   Anderson’s   name   until   no   one   will   believe   him   even   when   he   says   that   the   sun   shines   during   the   day.   “Everything   else   is   clutching   at   straws.   Is   that   understood?   We   need   to   turn   this   obsession   of   his   into   blatant   delusion.   Don’t   even   entertain   his   theories   as   passable.”   

@storyuntrue .

                   IF   THERE’S   ONE   THING   that   christina   consistently   is   ,   it’s   curious .     and   ,   sometimes   …   her   curiosity   just   so   happens   to   get   the   better   of   her .     this   is   one   of   those   times .     she’s   always   thought   that   tony   gets   a   little   more   nervous   around   her   than   he   normally   does   around   other   women .     who   knows   ,   perhaps   she   is   just   dense   when   it   comes   to   matters   of   the   heart    (    she   absolutely   is   ,   but   that   somehow   adds   to   her   quirky   charm    )    .     so   ,   one   train   of   thought   led   to   another   and   now   ,   they’re   in   this   particular   situation   and   she   isn’t   even   entirely   sure   that   she   knows   how   to   proceed .     her   cheeks   flush   right   pink   ,   the   shade   almost   comical   given   how   quickly   it   overtakes   alabaster .     and   then   ,   she   laughs .

      𝑻𝒉𝒆   𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅   𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒓   𝒉𝒂𝒔   haunted   Tony   ever   since   the   society   deemed   him   of   an   appropriate   enough age   to   label   him   as   such.   And   he   had   never   shied   away   from   such   a   title   either;   why   would   he?   If   anything,   Tony   took   those   accusations   in   stride,   made   them   part   of   his   brand.   It   served   to   only   heighten   everyone’s   interest   in   him,   solidify   the   foundations   of   his   legacy   —   no   such   thing   as   bad   press,   isn’t   that   what   they   say?   As   long   as   his   name   was   fresh   on   everyone’s   lips,   he   couldn’t   give   a   rat’s   ass   in   what   context   it   was   spoken   of.   

      Hearing   Christina   merely   imply   it   is   enough   to   make   Tony   stop   and   consider   if   he   actually   wants   that   to   be   a   part   of   what   people   remember   him   for. What she takes him for.   

    Lips   curl   into   a   smirk,   a   little   tight   around   the   corners,   eyes   glinting   with   shallow   mischief   ( anything   deeper   than   that   remains   guarded ).   “You   think   I   give   my   heart   away   to   just   about   anyone?”   He   asks   it   like   it’s   entertaining;   quirks   his   eyebrows up   for   show   too.   The   warmth   of   Christina’s   fingers   curled   into   his   shirt   spreads   across   his   chest,   and   he   doesn’t   dare   make   any   movement   that   could   make   her   take   her   hand   away.   “My   body   might   have   seen   a   lot   of   action,   but   my   heart   was   never   invited   to   those   kinds   of   parties.   Not   really   a   good   scene   for   it,   you   know?”