#fff255

Sherlock fandom.

Warnings: mentionings of torture, injury.

Don’t Tell Him

The pain is greater and more agonising than all the beating he got in that filthy cell in Serbia, because this pain isn’t just physical. Sherlock knows that if he answered John’s insistent questions about who the shooter was, it would break John’s heart, despite what Mycroft says.

“Tell him, brother mine,” Mycroft urges. “John is far more resilient than you give him credit for, and his feelings for you…”

“Don’t!” Sherlock snaps. “The love of his life shot me in the heart. I refuse to add that burden to his confused mind.”

“I agree that he is confused, but not for the reasons you think, Sherlock,” Mycroft says cryptically.

Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He’s not only in constant pain, but he’s also exhausted with all the emotions that this whole business regarding Mary Watson throws his way. It’s so much harder to stay focused and aloof when the painkillers leave his brain all foggy and relaxed. His pining for John comes to the surface, tugging at his heart.

“Go home to Mary,” Sherlock urged John before Mycroft arrived. “She needs you more…”

“I’m staying,” John interrupted in his stubborn tone. “Just fetching some clothes and stuff before I’m going with you to Baker Street tomorrow. Non-negotiable!”

He had lifted his chin in defiance, daring Sherlock to protest. His last words are a puzzle Sherlock still hadn’t been able to deduce.

“You need me, and I need…to…”

***

John has gone to Aldi to buy milk, bread and eggs, wile Mycroft stays to keep an eye on his brother, with strict instructions from the good doctor to call if anything changes regarding Sherlock’s pulse, heartrate, temperature, and several other unnecessary trifles. (Sherlock’s words)

“John, for Christ’s sake, go!” Sherlock says exasperated. “I’m fine.”

John looks sceptically at him, grabs his wrist and takes Sherlock’s pulse. When he’s satisfied, he hurries out of the bedroom and descends to the front door, probably running all the way to the shops to reduce his absence to a minimum.

“Are you still convinced that he only has friendly feelings for you?” Mycroft asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Don’t tell him, Mycroft! He can’t know. If he’s ever to realise how much…I…I wish she had finished…”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft rarely raises his voice but when he does, it speaks volumes.

“I would not survive your demise, brother mine. She can count herself lucky that she didn’t kill you. Even John’s plea for her life would’ve been in vain, her pregnancy notwithstanding.”

Mycroft’s voice trembles with emotions, which is odd to witness.

***

Sherlock has no sense of time anymore, but he thinks it’s been days since his conversation with Mycroft. Something is being delivered, and John’s steps are heavier than usual when he ascends the stairs.

Carrying something. Not groceries. Two bags. One over each shoulder.

When John brings his meds later, Sherlock observes that something is different. John’s face is displaying a variety of conflicting emotions. There’s determination and insecurity, sorrow and relief, anger and hope. The last deduction does something to Sherlock’s shattered heart.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks calmly, although he’s terrified of the answer.

John’s voice sounds mechanical, as if he’s rehearsed what he’s about to tell Sherlock.

“Mary left a note. She’s gone. The baby isn’t mine. Her name isn’t hers. She’s apparently an assassin. Worked for Moriarty. She shot you. You knew, and you wanted to shield me. I want you to stop doing that.”

He sheds his clothes down to his pants and tee and climbs carefully into bed. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

Is this real, or a hallucination?

“It’s real, Sherlock,” John tells him, as if he’s the one who’s become a mind-reader.

He lies down beside Sherlock, letting his palm rest over the wound, over his heart. The heart that beats solely for John.

Does he know? If so, how?

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sherlock. What I saw traces of before this, became clear as day when your brain function was compromised by painkillers. Am I wrong?”

Don’t hide. Tell him.

“No, John. You’re not,” Sherlock says and places his hand over John’s.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

@helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear

(aka, what can be found in the heart, or somewhere like it).

A @flashfictionfridayofficial promptfic.

--

When I first had an inkling of this idea, it was meant to be Link POV of a missing scene from the start of ch3 of Seed of Song. Then Revali stole it, and this prompt got me to finally write it.

(This becomes infinitely funnier after @avenin was doodling sleep-deprived Revali + chick earlier this evening as well. Yes we were watching the same osprey livestream what of it.)

--

The fire crackles and spits, launching red-hot embers into empty space.

Eyes closed, Revali imagines himself back at his Flight Range—comfortably alone and resting, for a little while, just like this: listening to the lapping tongues of the fire and the murmurs of a distant wind...

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF255 In the Heart

Fandom: Buddy Daddies

Pairing: Kazuki Kurusu/Rei Suwa, Kazurei

Word Count: 605

Warning: Not so fluffy, a bit angsty, written during the first scenes of Episode 11 : Everyone Will Be Hypocrites

~~

“I'll never know which way to flow/Set a course that I don't know.” (“Everything Flows,” Teenage Fanclub)

WHEN Kazuki took the last batch of what he owned from the loft already prepared at the foyer, he realised that Rei was not in. There was, however, a note on the dining table.

“Give me some more time,” it said. Kazuki rolled his eyes and shook his head. He angrily crumpled the paper and discarded it to the next waste bin which was at the kitchen. He missed the target. Kazuki walked on and didn’t bother to pick it up.

He headed back again to his old room to check if he forgot something, just in case, like the rest of his collection of crime fiction that he kept underneath his bed, and the empty vintage American gin bottles he got as birthday presents. For the last time, he savoured the moment to take one last look at the place he once called home for almost three and a half years, which was now devoid of his computers, clothes and other paraphernalia.

And the kitchen? It was his favourite place in the apartment. He ran his fingers onto the tabletop, glanced at the tidied jars and the cans of spices. Until his sight fell on the bottles of Balsamico and olive oil that one of them forgot to bring back to the cupboards. It irritated him that none of them bothered, i.e. leaving the condiments stay untouched since Miri had lived with her mother. Come to think of it this used to be his kingdom once, but he felt hollow now more than ever.

He let out a sigh he was keeping for so long. When he closed the door of the apartment it felt final and infallible that he never looked back. The action pierced his heart.

Time to move forward, Kazuki.

~~

The Comedian knew the way to the Fairy Lips by heart. He knew it even if his eyes were closed. He could tell the alleyways and pinpoint the correct shield. This was where he always went whenever his heart was heavy, full of sorrow. Just like tonight.

“Well, well, look who’s here? The Comedian is here, Carol, ready to make us laugh,” the violet-haired Dorothy told her girlfriend.

“What can we do for you today, Kazu-kun? Didn’t it work out with your new love?” Dorothy’s punches went straight to his guts.

“Kazu-kun, we miss your jokes! We haven’t seen you in a long time,” Carol quipped, grabbing his arm, kissing his cheeks.

After Rei had decided that they had to go their separate ways, he was without anchor. Miri pointed them to the right direction of their relationship and most of all, held them together like a glue. First it was Yuzu, then Miri was gone. Now Rei too.

~~

He was heartbroken, but what could he do? He was used to it. He was used to people “abandoning” him. Intentional or otherwise. The sound of a rush-hour traffic in downtown Fukuoka couldn’t assuage the pain he was feeling inside.

Truth to tell it baffled him the moment Rei decided it was better for them to be separated after being partners for less than four years. And in order to save face, he told Rei that he could keep his loft by himself. Besides, the apartment was too big for one person.

But the younger man was insistent on giving him a parting gift: his ST Dupont lighter and a promise that he would abandon smoking forever. It remained to be seen if he would keep it and Kazuki would pretend that he never cared.

tbc

Leave Nothing Out

1940

The CO calls them each in by turn in to his office. One after one after one, all about his age, all the newcomers, really. On his turn, Calder looks up, accepts the salute he presents with a nod and then holds out a piece of paper over the desk.

Andrew takes it, looks down to read the orders, only to find it blank. He turns it over, blank on the reverse too.

“Sir?”

“I want you to take that paper, find somewhere quiet, and write a letter to your parents. Do you have a sweetheart?”

“No Sir. And it's only my father.”

Calder nods a little “Write to him then, Foyle. And tell him everything you want to, everything you feel, any thank you's you want to give.” The man's eyes are soft but he tries to smile “Any apologies you might think you owe.” The gaze steadies but is still the kindest he's seen from Calder, “No censorship now, not for this one.”

His eyes drop to the paper, the emptiness sharp now.

This – this is in case I don't come back one day. What do you even say for that?

Protocol brings his head straight up to a parade stifness, his hand to his forehead in the salute. Calder looks at him. “Foyle, remember to put it all down won't you, don't leave anything hiding back in your heart. Let this letter carry it all, just this once.”

For Keeps

Brenda/ Sharon (The Closer/ Major Crimes) Rated T 595 words @flashfictionfridayofficial

If reading almost 1k words on tumblr isn’t for you, here it is on AO3.

Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial for a great prompt!

“We ought to go hiking. The weather is perfect. What do you think?”

Watson sits forward on the picnic bench, elbows on the table in defiance of the English manners of the two gentlewomen fussing over a younger girl at the next table.

He watches his companion’s face for any sign of interest, but Holmes merely shrugs.

“Your doctor said plain food, fresh air and exercise will improve your health.” He reaches his hands across rough, wooden slats silvered by years of rain, snow and sun. “This doctor agrees. There’s a waterfall I would very much like to see, and I would very much like you to come with me. It’ll be a far more pleasurable excursion with your company.”

There’s a sigh and a shift. Holmes lays his hands on Watson’s forearms and offers a flicker of a smile. “Then I will make the effort to be a better companion.”

Watson’s heart soars. “I’ll order a picnic.”

Holmes watches his dearest friend trot away to pester the kitchen staff. He flicks a covert look at the trio of women at the next table but there is no mystery to solve. The youngest will give birth in due course and the married but unblessed older sister will dote on the babe as her own while the new grandmother fusses with pride.

He wonders that the three women all look radiantly happy. One unfortunate error—he silently berates himself for assuming instead of gathering facts—one event that may or may not have been an error will cause joy for a whole family.

Boots on gravel make him look up, and something in his chest twists at the sight of Watson’s worry. Could he become a cause of joy instead of anguish for his dearest friend?

He could try. Perhaps. In short bursts. He forces his lips into a curve and Watson’s return smile shines like the sun, softening Holmes’s features into something more natural.

“Get ready, old boy. We can collect our picnic in fifteen minutes.”

Holmes follows to their spacious room on the top floor of the clinic. From the outside it looks like a chalet hotel. Inside, all that’s needed to turn the hospital into a magnet for English tourists is a cuckoo-clock on every wall.

He makes a mental note to amuse Watson with the observation later.

The view from the window of their shared bedroom is of green hills and grey, rugged mountains under a blue and white sky. Sunlight and shadows scud across the landscape in a mesmerising display. Holmes is under no illusion: Watson is his doctor and his nurse and his keeper. The lack of privacy is to discourage Holmes from any repeat of his drastic action in Baker Street. Watson’s nightly habit of slipping into bed beside him he attributes to his friend’s desire to be alerted to any attempt to abscond from his care, rather than any carnal desire. Still, he sleeps more easily cradled in those strong arms.

He whirls to face Watson. “How long have we been here?”

Watson studies Holmes’s face for any sign that one of his moods may be lurking, ready to drag them both down into an abyss of dark silence. He relaxes when he sees only genuine inquiry in those familiar features.

“Only five days. We have plenty of time to explore, and by all accounts there is plenty to see.” He’s encouraged by Holmes’s renewed attempt to smile. “Dr Moriarty says there’s a quaint village with a lovely little inn a day’s walk away over the pass. Later in the month, when you’re feeling up to it, we could stay there for a night or two.”

Even Holmes’s sardonically raised eyebrow gives him hope for at least that much of a recovery.

“Not today.”

“No. The Falls of Reichenbach will be far enough today. Ready?”

Watson leads. Their food is waiting in a knapsack that Watson shoulders before they head out of the hospital and along the road, diverting off where the trail marked on the map says they should. He’s mindful of Holmes’s sedate pace and need for frequent rests brought on by the drug-induced damage in his heart. It may improve with rest and a change of lifestyle. It may not, but he doesn’t want to think about that.

He wonders if Holmes knows why he pauses so often to re-tie his bootlaces or to adjust his knapsack or to sit on a rock and admire the view.

Being mostly uphill, the one-hour walk takes them three. But the falls are, he declares, quite the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he has ever experienced. As he stands and gapes at where the deafening torrent crashes into a churning, treacherously rocky basin far below, he’s surprised to feel Holmes’s hand grasping his hard enough to hurt.

He turns. Holmes stands still, eyes screwed shut, free hand reaching out as if to find balance. Watson steers him carefully back along the path one step at a time, to a flat rock where they can sit safely.

His heart gives a lurch at Holmes’s tear-streaked face. “You’re safe, my dear. Squeeze my hand.” He breathes relief when Holmes grips tightly. “Were you light headed? A touch of vertigo is not unexpected. Perhaps I made you exert yourself too much, too soon. We can rest here. Are you hungry? You should eat something. Let me—”

“Oh, Watson, do shut up.”

Watson grins at the welcome blast of Holmes’s characteristic snappishness. Their hands remain loosely clasped.

“I gazed into the maelstrom and had a sudden, overwhelming sensation of plunging into it. And of you trying to catch me and falling to your death too. I couldn’t bear that I might be the cause of your demise.”

Watson pulls off his glove and wipes Holmes’s damp cheek with his thumb. “Let’s eat. And talk, if you like.”

In the Heart

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 255: In the Heart. An Outlander Fanfiction

AO3

“I couldn't help it,” she sighs as she tries to explain it to them,” he became a part of my heart.” 

Brianna and Roger share a look. “So, you didn't love daddy?” Her daughter stares at her, arms crossed. Roger, for his part, tries to sooth her. He runs her back but her stiff posture doesn't change.

“I loved him as much as I could. Before Jamie,” what a relief it was to say his name after all these years, “I couldn't see loving anyone the way I loved Frank. There is just something truer about the love I feel for Jamie.”

“The love you feel?” Roger focuses on her.

“Yes Roger, time doesn't matter. Even two hundred years. There will never be a time that I won't love him.”

The couple share another look. Roger nudges her. “I am sorry mama. I thought,” she blushes, “that you were just another bored housewife that had an affair. I didn't realize that he, my real dad was…”

#255 - In the heart, @flashfictionfridayofficial

Pairing -Bilbo/Thorin

Warnings - MCD x2, Murder suicide

Words - 1033

Summary - Thorin hasn't recovered from the Dragon sickness, he is just able to trick everyone but his hobbit.

Bilbo takes matters in his own hands to save his dwarves and Erebor. He will save them the only way he can.

A03 link here