The car ride is uneventful and quiet. Neither of them knows what to say anyway. Not without bursting into tears.
They reach their destination an hour before sunset, and finds the location vacated. At this time of year, the sea is too cold to swim in, and the air is quite chilly, though there’s no wind to speak of.
Sherlock parks the car and retrieves everything they need from the boot. John takes the small picnic basket, while Sherlock slings a bag carefully over his shoulder. He places a protective hand over the protruding objects which rests inside the bag.
“Careful, love,” John says when they’ve descended the staircase and starts walking across the uneven pebbled beach.
He places a palm on the small of Sherlock’s back and gets a faint smile in return. When he stumbles seconds later, John’s strong arm wraps around his waist and steadies him.
“I can literally hear her tutting about my choice of shoes,” Sherlock murmurs.
His voice is sorrowful and John tightens his grip around him.
“All too easily imagined,” John agrees, feeling tears burning behind his currently closed eyelids.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Sherlock’s deep voice coaxes John back from his near-breakdown, and he looks out over the blue-grey sea. Waves are lapping at the flint stones, leaving them shiny, while others are adorned with traces of sea foam. The setting sun makes the water look golden and the white cliffs are blushing pink.
“It really is. She chose well,” John says reverently.
“Indeed. She sure had moments of genius.”
John laughs quietly and rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. The scent of seaweed and kelp is refreshing; one he remembers from his childhood. It’s oddly comforting.
***
“How do you want to do this?” John asks.
“Well, her instructions weren’t very detailed, which gives us some leeway. Any suggestions?”
“Bring her out, toast her, before… you know.”
“I suppose that is a good start,” Sherlock agrees and opens the bag.
His large hands cradle the purple urn, and he crouches down to place it where John points. He’s removed enough pebbles to make the spot even, so the urn won’t wobble and fall over.
When Sherlock stands up again, John has opened the small bottle of champagne. Sherlock finds the flutes in the basket and holds them out so John can pour.
“Raise a glass to the eminent and incomparable Martha Hudson.”
“Raise a glass to the fiercest and kindest woman known to mankind.”
“You will forever live in our hearts, Mrs H.”
“How will we cope without you, Hudders?”
The raise their glasses and drink. Salty tears mingle with the wine, which enhances the experience; makes it more significant.
***
John removes the lid on the urn, strokes Sherlock’s back, then nods.
“It’s time, my love.”
“One last kiss in her honour,” Sherlock proposes.
John chuckles despite the momentousness of the situation.
“I suppose she would approve.”
“Obviously.”
John cups Sherlock’s face, angles it just so, and kisses him softly. Sherlock hums appreciatively and swipes his tongue once over John’s bottom lip, before he withdraws. His eyes are closed; he seems to gather himself for the next move. John follows the sharp cheekbone with his thumb, then stands back.
Sherlock walks closer to the water. His steps are determined; he’s on a mission, John thinks to himself. Gone is the laxity of his back and shoulders. John marvels in the sight of him and when the orange sun caresses his curls, they take on an auburn hue.
Sherlock bows his head and murmurs something to the remains of the woman who treated him like the son she never got. He takes a deep breath and swings the urn in a wide arc. The air current carries the ash and when the grains land on the water, it makes the waves opaque. Seconds later, the sea is yet again crystal clear. Martha Hudson has become one with the cycle of nature.
***
With their arms tightly around each other, they watch the sun disappear like a fireball over the horizon. Sherlock kisses John’s temple, entangles himself, and picks up his violin case from the bag. John already has tears in his eyes, when Sherlock starts tuning the instrument. They are unstoppable when a medley of Mrs Hudson’s favourite pieces sound loud and clear over the crashing waves.
Sherlock looks statuesque, utterly engrossed in the music. John forces down the sob that’s determined to escape his mouth, but he’s unable to quell the sound completely.
Without missing a beat, Sherlock turns to him and says: “Let it go, John.”
John does. A film starts playing in his mind. Glimpses of years of interactions with their former landlady; the woman who came to mean more to him than his own mother ever had. Martha Hudson was family.
The music fades, John’s tears have dried on his cheeks, and when Sherlock has tucked away his violin and bow, he opens his arms to John.
Sherlock’s face is wet; his eyes are red rimmed. He had seemed so composed when he played, but apparently, he wasn’t as unaffected as John had assumed.
“I love you. So much,” he whispers and clings to Sherlock for dear life.
“And I you, John. More than I can ever express.”
New tears trickle down John’s cheeks at that admission, but he admits that it’s quite cathartic to have a good cry now and again.
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Nursing one massive hangover, John was getting paracetamol and water, not in the least surprised to find his lover experimenting in the kitchen at 6 a.m.
Granted, the metal tongs Sherlock tapped loudly against a glass container as he concentrated on the microscope might have had something to do with it.
John (im)politely snatched the tongs away.
“Sorry, love.” Sherlock looked abashed for .2 seconds, “But not really.”
John frowned at the container. “For Greg? Do I want to know?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
John blamed himself for asking when Sherlock held up what appeared to be entrails, turning his stomach. “I deserved that.”
“I never said that.” Sherlock chuckled, “Stopping by Lestrade’s before he heads to work for new cold cases.” Sherlock looked at his watch. “He should be awake…”
“Might want to call first. He did a good job keeping up; we both got pretty pissed.” John pulled out his phone. “No text he got home. Probably crashed. You have his GPS, can you…?” Sherlock already had his own phone out. “Never mind.”
“That cannot be right.” Sherlock frowned, standing.
“Where is he?”
“According to GPS, Mycroft’s.”
“About time!” John raised his glass.
“What?”
“Sherlock, it’s only just after 6. That means he spent the night…”
Sherlock’s horror in realization was simply priceless.
Flash fiction for @flashfictionfridayofficial 's prompt #FFF369 "Raise a Glass"
Fandom: Zelda
Words: 980
Warnings: Blood, needles (but in a blood donation setting, no one is hurt)
Summary:
Zelda hates hydrating for her blood donation appointment, but it's all worth it to make sure things go smoothly. And if she's spending more time thinking about the cute phlebotomist than about saving lives, well, no one needs to know.
"Just one more glass," Zelda muttered grumpily inside her head as she took a sip of water.
Donating blood had seemed like such a PR win when she'd thought of it. Hyrule's monarchy had all these stories about having the "blood of the goddess" flowing through their veins. Nowadays the supposed descendants of the goddess Hylia weren't involved in the day to day running of the government, but she still accepted the modest royal stipend because it was so much better than writing grant proposals for her research. But accepting public funds came with with a quite reasonable amount of public scrutiny and expectations. So with all those fairy tales of sacrifices it seemed like literally donating this supposed goddess blood was a nice feel good story for the press to go alongside her actual research results and scheduled public appearances.
Zelda glared at the glass of water and took another sip, trying to find joy in the cool liquid. Trying to focus on the way the condensation on the glass felt under her fingertips. Trying to think about anything other than how she felt like she was floating away from the sheer amount of water she'd consumed in the last day.
"Small veins," the kind phlebotomist had said on that first appointment, not unkindly. "Maybe try drinking more water the day before."
It had been a hassle to get the needle placed that first time. The tourniquet and squeezing the ball did the trick eventually her blood was flowing.
Until it stopped. Apparently the blood of the goddess was not eager to leave her body.
The phlebotomist wiggled the needle in her arm and gave her a smaller ball the squeeze and it started up again. Together they watched as the machine stopped its warning beeps and the flow picked back up. She asked some questions about the machine and it helped to know how it worked.
By the third time her blood stopped flowing and she hadn’t reached 450, Zelda was internally panicking, trying to imagine what she was going to say to the nice university newspaper students who’d asked her to text when she was done so they could do a photo op. But the phlebotomist smiled at her and said “Congratulations! It’s not quite a full donation, but it’s enough to use.” So Zelda consumed cookies and juice and pinged the students with the good news then smiled for the camera with her bandaged arm in front of the donation signs in the student union building. It had been hard, but it had been worth it.
Zelda glared at her glass of water and took another sip. Drinking more the day before had made a huge difference in her subsequent donations, but she still hated feeling so full. She reasoned that her ancestors had prayed in sacred springs until they fainted. Surely even as a princess in name only, she could at least handle a few extra glasses of water. Even praying in freezing cold springs sounded better than writing grant applications; she was getting off easy.
At the end of the semester, the phlebotomist had said while she adjusted the tube taped to Zelda’s wrist, she said, “If you’re going to donate when we don’t do the university mobile clinic in the summer, you should go down to the main office and ask for Link.”
Zelda had laughed, “Sounds like he could be my hero with a name like that.”
The phlebotomist gave her a smile while she filled the sample vials for testing, “He trains everyone. Best phlebotomist we’ve got and a whiz with small veins.”
So Zelda signed up for an appointment. All the phlebotomists had been nice, it was part of the job to make people feel comfortable and safe and cared for. And they were all so much better at needles than any lab tech. But from the moment Zelda met Link she’d felt more than just comfortable, it was like a connection. She didn’t believe in love at first sight looking at him felt like seeing an old friend. Her arm had tingled as he palpated her arm looking for a vein, his motions confident as he tightened the tourniquet and patted her.
“There you are,” he’d said, as if greeting a puppy rather than her recalcitrant vein. He smiled up with eyes so blue, it made her think she’d have been willing to drink a whole glacial lake of water just to hear his pleased noise.
She’d never had a donation go so smoothly. From the first hot rush as the warm blood flowed down the tube in her arm she knew this was different than the other times. No beeping machines warning her her flow rate was done, so she could put all her attention on the cute phlebotomist. His pretty long dark blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail. The way he smiled at everyone. Those impossibly blue eyes. His gentle fingers. They managed only snatches of conversation about the book she was holding, but she was smitten before the machine beeped to say that her donation was complete.
She’d scheduled every appointment at the main clinic ever since. She slept well the day before, she made sure to keep her iron levels up, and she drank so much water, just to make sure Link would only have smiles for her on the day. She donated, then then watched Link work while she sipped her juice and waited for 10 minutes, trying to think of a way she could ask him out that wouldn’t be creepy. But every time, she couldn’t think of one.
Zelda raised her glass one more time and chugged the rest of the water. If anyone asked, she was hydrating for Hyrule. And if she was picturing some blue eyes to help her get through it, well, no one else had to know.
Bonus: Blood donation korok from this post in my 100 koroks series.
Notes: One day I'd like to write a whole blood donation AU where we take the "blood of the goddess" literally. After Zelda becomes the first royal to donate blood, people who receive medical transfusions start having magical side effects. Todays' flash fiction is inspired by both the AU in the back of my head and also the fact that I didn't quite manage a full donation last time because my poor vein gave up early. (But like in Zelda's case, I did manage enough!) More water and no last minute coffee next time!
~Disclaimer for all drabbles- none are considered 100% canon; the more recently made, the closer they are to canon, but these are mostly for fun for me to figure out the characters+plot!~
Author's note: I couldn't think of one for last week, but back again for this one! ; Uncle Enrico and Serpico are the same guy, he just likes his nickname
Lilith
"So, how has my little Anna been doing?"
Lilith stopped eating, her food turning to stone in her stomach.
Her father did the same. His face was tense, jaw clenched. "Enrico," he said, stern voice low. "We've made an agreement."
Uncle Enrico laughed and threw his hands into the air in surrender. "Surely I can ask after my old charge! How's about this? You bring her here, in the dining room with all of us in the room, and I can ask her myself. After all, we did agree I could see her with supervision."
Lilith's breath caught as the two men stared at each other. She wrung her napkin in her lap as her father glared while her uncle just grinned with his bone-chilling smile.
"Fine."
"Dad!" Lilith whispered. Then tensed as Uncle Enrico turned his gaze to her.
Her dad looked at her softly. "It's alright, sweetheart." he said before looking behind her. "Gregory? If you would, please."
"Of course, sir."
Tears filled her eyes as Lilith heard the door open and shut. But she forced them down with Uncle Enrico still staring at her. She focused on her lap, twisting her napkin back and forth. Just breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
When the door opened again, she spun around to see Anna there, her voice swallowing into her throat as Uncle Enrico spoke first.
"Anna! How wonderful to see you again, baby girl."
Anna's face quickly flickered between fear, anger, then neutrality. "Hello, sir." she said, tone dull. "It is nice to see you, too."
"Oh, come now," Her uncle sounded sickly sweet now, practically purring. "Come say hello properly. I taught you better than that."
Like some horrible puppet show, Lilith watched as no one stopped Anna from stiffly walking around the table to Uncle Enrico. She looked at the guards, who were looking at her father, who was... glaring at his brother. But saying nothing.
She wanted to puke.
When Anna was in front of him, Uncle Enrico smiled with all his teeth again as she knelt to the floor, bowing and kissing his shoes. "That's my baby girl." he cooed as if talking about a dog.
Lilith waited for Anna to get up. To get away from him. She wanted to help, but felt frozen in her chair, breath stuck in her throat with her voice.
But Anna didn't move. She didn't even flinch as Uncle Enrico shifted over her.
Her uncle took up a glass from the table. He made direct eye contact as he raised it up as if toasting. "To your continued loyalty and health to my dearest niece."
Then he poured the wine on top of Anna, the red liquid soaking immediately into her dress and hair.
His following grin made all the blood drain from Lilith's face.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Word count: 947 (No content warnings)
Life in Hyrule had been many things—exhilarating, terrifying, lonely, boisterous—often multiple things simultaneously and contradictory and divinely and impatiently all at once. When he was the only Kokiri without a fairy, he learned he actually wasn’t a Kokiri at all. When he pulled the Master Sword from its pedestal, he’d been a child but awoke as an adult and learned that he’d been asleep for the past seven years. When Ganondorf used that time to corrupt Hyrule, Link learned it was his place in fate to become the hero the land needed.
Confusing things at least seemed to make some sort of sense in Hyrule, even in dark, twisted ways.
Link’s arrival in Termina was met by theft, a laugh, and a cursed mask that seemed to bend the laws of reality like hot water does pasta, for no reason other than that it was hungry in a way that only the moon could fill. Whether it was Skull Kid or Majora’s Mask who repositioned the moon to collapse into Clock Town’s Tower with a fanfare of fireworks didn’t matter, as now that the moon was knocked out of its steady, constant trajectory, it was Link and Link alone’s problem. He’d live the same three days over and over again, watching as the town around him shifted from festival prep, to curiosity, to denial, to arguments, to terror, and back when Link played the Song of Time just before obliteration.
And just like that, everyone would forget. Forget how they cried, how they fled, how they cowered, how their reckless, stubborn pride insisted they stay despite the certainty of death. Then Link would play a song only he would remember, and then it would all happen again like nothing had happened at all. Like, despite his best efforts, Link hadn’t done anything worth remembering, and the moon was going to fall again, and there was nothing he could do but let it play out once more. He’d live the same three days over and over again, and over and over again, and over and over again, all while knowing the only person who could possibly help him cared more about masks than the fate of the world and only bothered to lift a finger when it was to play three stupid notes.
In this bustling land of what should’ve been celebration, festivities, and good-natured fun, despite being in the center of it all, Link had never been more alone. And if everything was going to happen again, and no one was going to remember, then did anything Link did, has done, or will do matter?
If he asked a question like that back home in the Kokiri Forest, at least Saria would’ve snapped him out of it, and probably would’ve gotten him to smile too with a joke for good measure. Tatl flitted overhead in the way Navi used to, but he didn’t dare tell her his thoughts. Not when her jokes and quips would’ve made it worse. Tatl wasn’t mean-spirited, but she was careless at times, and she would never understand.
No one here would.
If nothing mattered these next three days, he could afford to take a break. The clock he’d grown apathetic to chimed for 10 pm on what he’d come to call The First Day. The Milk Bar was the only place in Clock Town he hadn’t visited yet, and it seemed good as any to shut out the worries of the days to come and pretend like everyone else that everything would be fine.
His boots rattled the metal steps all the way down the stairs, each one turning a new set of eyes on him until he’d caught the stares from the entire bar. But this was the night he’d decided to take a break, and he wouldn't let them take it from him. No matter what everyone else thought about a guy who looked like a kid walking into a bar, he wouldn’t let any of them get to him. He marched right up to an empty stool and slapped his palm atop the lacquered, cow-print bar top and tried to flag down the bartender, who, now that Link was seated, found polishing the same glass infinitely more interesting. Link waved, politely only at first, until Tatl swooped by and chimed like a bell so he couldn’t ignore them any longer.
“Sorry kiddo,” he said, still not even bothering to look his way. Kiddo. Link bit his tongue to keep from saying something Navi would’ve disapproved of if she were within earshot. But he hadn’t pulled the Master Sword and lived through a different stage of his life to be constantly reminded of how he wasn’t that person anymore. The bartender cleared his throat. “But the bar is for members only.”
Oh.
It wasn’t that Link still looked like a child.
But he still wasn’t welcome.
And he should’ve known he wouldn’t get the break he wanted, not when he knew he was going to have to be the one to stop the moon from falling. Everyone else got to sing and dance and rest, but Link was the one who had to remember it all.
Maybe this was his cue to finally venture out into Ikana instead.
As he turned to head back outside to steel himself for the desert, a man in a cow-print hat raised a frothy glass and encouraged others to raise their own. “To the moon!” he hollered over the music. “May it enjoy the festival too!”
In two days' time, the man would be huddled under a blanket in the corner of his basement, cursing that his toast had to come true.
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