#jhwmd

Having it was an accident. It turned up one day, a small, mahogany chest with silver clasps. A simple thing he'd had lying around that had wound up full. Overflowing even and he'd kept it to himself. For himself. 

He wasn't sure why, really. He wouldn't be ashamed if John found it or anything. He might be incredibly embarrassed, sure but... It wasn't what it was for. It wasn't for secrets. 

The box started with a poem. "The Wound Dresser" by Walt Whitman. The page was rich, thick paper pressed with petals from a blue flower that had matched John's eyes perfectly. Over time the color had bled into the paper. The result was absolutely stunning. 

The poem of a healer, haggard and feeling so very old. Loved by men and women whom he cared for in return. With soothing hands, overflowing compassion and a voice that caressed just as readily. It was impossible not see his own healer in the lines. To feel his beautiful doctor's words swell over him like the most incredible balm. Reading those words he knew what they meant. He heard John's voice, he felt John's presence in them. The poem laid at the bottom of the box, pressed and bled blue. Right there.

The day journal was in there too. A rich, small leatherbound book that had stayed empty on a shelf for years until he knew what to do with it. 

It started with day one. 

"Day one: Smile."

"Day two: Eyes."

"Day three: How he types."

"Day thirty-seven: How he looks in my shirt."

"Day sixty-eight: The lille yawn he gives right before he falls asleep."

"Day one hundred and eighty six: He calls me James when he's cross with me."

Every day there was something new. Some days were pages. Some days no more than a word. Days like their wedding only had the boutonniere there. Days where they went to the market had together could be a novel. But there was always something. Every single day.

The earpiece John had worn when they met was there. A set of knitting needles Jim had fallen on the first time they fooled around on his couch and John had to give him stitches rather than an orgasm.

The paper he'd written his phone number on in the lab.

The napkin stolen from the restaurant they'd had their first date.

Their wedding invitation.

Song lyrics he'd written down on scrap paper.

A copy of John's dog tags.

The only cufflink left from their first dinner party together. He'd lost the other one somewhere dancing with him all evening. Or possibly in the coat closet, they'd spent a good deal of time there too. 

A note John had left on his pillow promising coffee and doughnuts when he came back from an emergency call at the clinic.

And pictures. 

Most of them Jim had taken with his phone and John hadn't paid much attention to them. 

John lying on the beach with color in his skin and sunglasses on his nose. the ocean gleamed behind him under the low hanging sun that set his hair ablaze with color. Yellow, gold, white and gray. And a precious smile lighting his face. His heart skipped away every time he looked at it.

Another of John leaning over a rail on a bridge looking down at the Thames. 

Another of him peeking out from under a blanket early in the morning. 

Another of him napping on the couch in sweats and an old T-shirt, laptop slumped on his stomach, one arm hanging down to the floor.

The rarest of them was the accidental tourist snap when they went to Dublin. This one had Jim in it too. 

They'd just stumbled up the walk, his personal car that had taken them from the airport stuck at the bottom of the hill in the ice and the mud. They were wet with the cold rain and beaming. They were too happy to be discouraged by the weather and the photographer had captured this moment. 

They were hanging off of each other from the long walk up, giggling and laughing and heaving their luggage. 

Jim was shocked at how happy he looked. His eyes were bright in the gray afternoon, smile wide enough to dimple his face and wrinkle his eyes. So wide, so genuine, and clinging to John. He was bursting at the seams with love. 

And John. God, his hair was a mess about his head and wet. His face was pinked with the cold and wrapped around Jim to keep them both warm. They were tired but so very happy with the gray sky and the ornate inn behind them. 

John didn't know he had the picture, why would he? Evidence of their relationship, evidence they were together at all was dangerous. So very dangerous but he couldn't help himself. Just this one. He purchased it from the photographer and put it in the box. 

For him. 

When John needed it, when he needed to see that Him loved him after the lies he told, the harsh and disgusting things he'd uttered to save him, he'd dug into the box. He'd given his beloved a tiny glimpse into it. To what was in it so he could see. 

He cared about him so desperately. He needed him to breathe, to sleep, to live peacefully and finally have something good. 

John taught him how to be.

John taught him love was real. 

For all of our lovely members to meet each other! 

We've been open for a couple weeks now and we wanna get this plot a-rollin'! Therefore, we are doing a Great Becoming meet-n-greet, or an RP Social. Group Mixer? 

Anyway! Starting SATURDAY JULY 19 AT 5PM EST we're going to have a nice getting to know you session in the group chat where everyone can meet and talk and get threads going and generally break the ice. 

Don't worry though, we're not doing any of that first day of school stand up say your name whatever, it's honestly an excuse to get everyone together! 

-*- If you do not have the web address for the chat or the password please send an ask to the main blog so we may provide it for you! -*- 

Can't wait to get this party started! 

Three strikes you're out. 

That's how that game worked, wasn't it? Ms. Morstan, or he supposed Mrs. Watson now, had struck out several times. 

Letting Magnussen get to John and hurt him was strike one. The drugs, the fire... God how he had screamed and threatened her, and if not for her being engaged to John he might've killed her then and there for letting someone get their hands on him. SHe was supposed to be better than that, she was supposed to be the best. She made a shot from two rooftops over and struck a blood pack in his collar and she couldn't stop John from getting kidnapped and hurt? 

He scowled at the thought, raking fingers through his hair. 

Second was lying. She lied and lied and lied and never stopped with it. One was enough, the lie about who she was and what she did for a living, fine. But...but everything else?

And then actually attempting to kill Sherlock? Firing a gun and- How Sherlock survived that he'd never know, but she tried to take him from John again, and that wasn't part of their agreement. 

She was supposed to keep him safe, keep him right and make sure he was alright  and keep...keep him from rattling him apart. 

And then the baby, such a clever little ruse to get John closer, to keep him with her even after everything she'd done. 

This had gone far enough. 

Magnussen was dead -luckily for him Sherlock killed him quickly- but Jim wasn't going to allow this any longer. 

Time for Daddy to come home. 

The button was pressed, the message being displayed on every television in London and a text pinged on John's phone. 

//Ppppppssssst. Lizzy. Have you ever considered mocking up a Johnstache for one night of silly IC fun? I’m curious is all :D

KIM OMG! YAAAAAAY! your cosplay is perfect and you are gorgeous <3

Tommy gritted his teeth against the pain. It hurt like hell without any kind of painkillers, and his previous dose was wearing off by now.

Goddamn the hyper-active metabolism.

He checked the address on the card again. Tommy swallowed and took a step forward, before halting again.

The arm hurt like hell. Tommy knew this wasn't good. And frankly, the idea of visiting anybody who could help him terrified him. Even the idea of the Scarlet Witch or Wiccan, of family seeing him like this..

They'd be fucking disappointed in you, failure.

At first, he'd considered visiting the man in the hospital. It had been years since he'd last set foot in a hospital, before juvie. It had been to use the latest techniques to see if he was a mutant. He'd never gotten the results from that, the speedster realized.

He'd been standing there for a full fifteen minutes before realizing that he physically could not. He'd left in a blur, throwing up in a nearby bush. It was embarrassing.

I wish I could put. Like. Sailor moon sound effects over this. <3