#decrstalker

please? fandom meme + @decrstalker

When I started shipping them:

I liked the ship at the beginning of the series, because Molly is wonderful, and they have such chemistry.  But it didn’t become a proper ship for me until I started writing with your amazing self!  (Honestly, your voice for Sherlock is just the best thing, and I don’t know how you do it!)

My thoughts:

This ship just makes me happy!  My whole Unexpectedly Wonderful is pretty much just domestic Sherlolly goodness...  I love the way they balance each other out, and how she brings out the best in him.  Well, in each other, really!  

What makes me happy about them:

Is everything a good answer?  They’re a pair of geeks in love, what’s not to like?

What makes me sad about them:

The fact that the end of the series completely forgets to address anything.  What happened to them?!  You can’t just say “I love you” under those circumstances, and then ignore it!

Things done in fanfic that annoys me:

Molly bashing.  The number of fans that use her as a punching bag as revenge for existing.

Things I look for in fanfic:

A good plot, usually!  MrsMCrieff is my go-to writer for amazing Sherlolly content!

My wishlist:

A Mycroft/Sherlock/Molly ot3?  My first ship in the fandom was Mollcroft, so best of both worlds?

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other:

Lots of people!  Myc, Greg... Molly and Jim is interesting, in a generally unhealthy way... 

My happily ever after for them:

“Oh, I know. Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes, I know exactly who you are.” Kate lifted her glass a little, raising it towards him as if toasting to something she hadn’t said out loud. The smile that accompanied this action was charming, if not a little sly in one corner--but, still, it would have disarmed a lesser man on the spot. Her keen green eyes were fixed on him, picking his looks and his body language apart to see if she could find any weaknesses in them, but she would hardly have been surprised if this search yielded her nothing. 

As it was, however, he did gave her a couple of little clues: leaning in to listen to what she had to say ( so she had caught his interest, captured his imagination, then, good ), just a hint of curiosity beneath his tone when he began to speak himself. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I wonder, how much of it is true? Do you, for example ... Do you really like to play games? Because I do, and I’ve been looking for a new partner for a while now.” 

There were not many times that Mycroft Holmes felt totally out of her depth and at a loss for what to do. Most of those rare occurrences failed to last longer than a moment; the remainder inevitably had one thing in common: one Sherlock Holmes. Her brother was the single largest source of anxiety and concern, which was remarkable considering all things she regularly dealt with that had global implications. The simple reason for it was that Mycroft knew how to predict the world and how to manage it, what the world needed to stay on the proper path. Sherlock was much more adverse to a gentle guiding hand.

Now they were far past the point of needing a ‘guiding hand’, and she was again left wondering what to do with her baby brother. How to help him. Another close call, a near brush with death, and now he was recovering in the spare bedroom of her home while she tried not to agitate him by hovering. It was hard not to, though, when she felt that window of opportunity to help him fast closing. 

LETTERS // PROMPT MEME. (accepting) — @decrstalker007. a letter written in the case of my muse’s death

Mr S Holmes221B Baker StreetMaryleboneLondonNW1 6XE

Dear Mr Holmes

At the risk of sounding entirely too cliché, if you’re reading this, then the likelihood is that I'm already dead. I’m sure this fact won’t come as much of a surprise to you— apparently I am simply unable to stop getting myself into trouble, even when actively avoiding it. And if you don’t believe me after my last ‘stunt’, well, I don’t suppose I can really blame you. The words ‘boy’ and 'cried wolf’ immediately come to mind. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

To give you a bit of context, for the past fortnight I’ve been held by what I can only assume is some form of terrorist cell, somewhere in the south of Pakistan. Though my knowledge of the dialect is admittedly more lacking than I’d like, I’d make an educated guess that we’re just north of Karachi. Though, I could be completely wrong— I did spend the majority of the journey gagged and blindfolded in the back of a van. A taste of my own medicine, apparently. Untimely use of morbid humour as a coping mechanism aside, it seems I really have upset the wrong people this time. My execution is scheduled for just after nightfall. A very Tudor-esque fate, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Surprisingly, however, my captors have allowed me to send this letter as my dernière volonté. I have one of them watching over my shoulder, of course, but I suspect the prat can barely read Urdu, let alone English. Even still, I won’t be using it as some sort of final plea or request for rescue— I’m afraid you’ve already heard me beg once more than I had ever planned. I’m not really certain why I chose to write to you of all people. It is, of course, essentially your fault that I’m here in the first place, and not at the plush safe-house in Bermuda I’d had in mind (God, what I’d do for a rum cocktail on the beach right now). I’d like to think it’s because that blasted address of yours is one of the few I can remember in full under the circumstances. Though, I’m sure you’d beg to differ, and in all honesty, I’m not certain I have it in me to argue any more.

Christ. My last hours on this earth and I’m choosing to waste them on you, Sherlock Holmes. Just what can you deduce from that? I’d love to know, if only to hear a familiar voice. I’m getting rather tired of my own thoughts at this point, and conversations are never as fun when they’re only being had with oneself. Hence the incessant rambling you’re receiving from me now, I assume. This is the most intellectual interaction I’ve had in weeks and it’s with a piece of bloody paper. How drôle. 

People are usually expected to confess in their final moments, aren’t they? It’s not really my style, all of that nonsense. I can only imagine that my sins are far beyond any form of repentance, as I’m sure you’ll understand, but I do appreciate the drama of it all. Somehow, though, I fear that my some of actions may have confessed for me far more than any words could have done long before I knew of my imminent fate. Your fault again, detective. But what tragic foreshadowing! And yet ever so funny, depending how you choose to look at it. My pulse was what lead to my downfall, and in just a few short hours, it won’t be there at all. Taken from me, both times, in two very different ways. God, how disgustingly symbolic.

Right, then. I suppose this is it. But before I go, there’s an overwhelming part of me that wants to thank you. I’ve always loved detective stories, and you went and made me part of one. How’s that for ticking off a bucket list?

Goodbye, Mr Holmes. We’ll have that dinner when we meet again.

“Oh you are so paying for my therapy. The amount of times I have opened your fridge and found body parts. And to cover all the childhood trauma of growing up with you as a brother. They’ll make us into a case study or something; someone will experiment on you for once.” 

“No, it wasn’t Donovan.” It had been her, though; a few choice comments, the odd murmur in Greg’s ear as Sherlock shot his deductions from across the room. He’d ignored it for ages, not wanting to believe what she was saying but, really, it was all starting to add up.