The Whipped Cream Hand

This article explains the impracticality and illegality of Project 2025, and why most of it is very likely to be legally struck down.

This article explains how, even with a narrow Republican majority in the House, Trump will only be able to pass very bland partisan laws or bipartisan laws.

The ACLU has already prepared a gameplan for combatting the effects of Project 2025.

The state of New York has contingency plans to fight against Project 2025.

like obviously it's still gonna be a rough 4 years, and i'm not dismissing any legitimate worries. i'm just hoping this might ease some anxieties just a little.

if anyone else has some similar pieces of practical information that can dispel some of the panic, please feel free to share them!

Inktober No. 26 - Fallen

The second time Sherlock shed his own blood and ‘fell’ to save John Watson.

Ink on brown paper, A4

From @whumptober2021 prompt list.

[written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt #125 - banner by the awesome @helloliriels - read it on Ao3 here - word count: 825]

“You alright?”

There it is again. The same short, efficient question: two words, regular as clockwork, coming from John as soon as they step into the foyer and the main door clunks shut behind them.

Equally punctual, Sherlock’s reply follows. A curt “Fine”, or “Obviously”, or some slight variation of it. Sometimes accompanied by a pretentious wave of dismissal; seldom, by a too revealing combination of frown-and-sigh that he quickly overwrites by climbing up the stairs, flaunting fake indifference, shedding off his scarf and Belstaff in dramatic fashion, asking a bit too loudly: “Takeout?”

Whatever lets him quickly change topic and file away their exchange as perfunctory.

John doesn’t prod, ever. John doesn’t ask “Sure?” or “Really?”.

At worst, John hums briefly and throws a doubtful glance at him - something Sherlock can’t fail to notice out of the corner of his eye - but eventually, he just chases him up the steps, inquires about Thai or Indian for dinner, invariably makes tea for both of them. John doesn’t comment, ever, but he always looks over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Normally, Sherlock is grateful for John’s quiet, subdued way of caring; for him not needing any further explanation - because how do you even begin to explain, to someone that has made caring his whole reason for being, that caring is not an advantage? Repeated like a mantra, the severe motto has led him all the way to what - who - he is now. An infallible solver of puzzles. As cold and unforgiving it might seem, he needs the aura of invulnerability it gives him. He needs to be seen as a functional machine, to do what he does and to do it at his best.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, there’s a part of him that would beg John to pry, for once.

Truth is, Sherlock is not alright, at all.

Tonight, as Sherlock goes up the seventeen steps in bouncy strides - fighting not to look at John behind him, feeling his gaze on his back, nonetheless - there’s something dense and muddy pushing behind his sternum, something that turns his guts upside down and makes him gasp for air as he fumbles with keys to unlock the door. He hopes he can mask it as a momentary shortness of breath and, once inside the flat, he hastily announces: “Shower!” and rushes to the loo.

-

Clothes discarded, he tries to wash the dreary thing away. Hot water on skin should be soothing, but it rumbles in his ears and the sudden humidity leaves him dizzy. Tonight, it’s too much.

The last few weeks have sent their way a string of grim cases, one after another.

It’s not the actual blood or the corpses that unsettle him. It’s the utter banality of evil. It’s the loss it leaves in its wake.

Ultimately, it’s seeing it all reflected on John’s (otherwise stoic, to the untrained eye) features. His jaw clenching as they hear the umpteenth foreboding story of domestic violence. His demeanor changing in front of a hurt child. The slight falter in his voice as he offers words of consolation to a shocked witness.

If the challenge of deduction allows Sherlock to act like a sharp magnifying glass, John is the grit on the lens. It’s knowing, deep inside, that the same maddening, stupid evil could, in the form of a cruel sleight of hand, forever rob him of John’s quiet caring.

Too much to grasp, even for his gifted mind.

-

A faint knock brings him back to present reality. He finds himself seated in the tub. Shivering. The water’s gone cold. How much time has he been in here?

Another knock, and a tentative call.

“Sherlock? You alright?”

Those two words, once again, and any conceivable reply stays lodged in his throat like the bitter pit of a peach.

The door’s handle slowly turns, and he doesn’t dare look over.

John doesn’t say anything. John quietly turns the icy water off, quietly grabs a towel, quietly wraps it on Sherlock’s shoulders.

John quietly cares.

Sherlock gets a hold of himself and pouts out an excuse, “I just got lost in thought.” A bit harsher voice. Feigned embarrassment should do. “Is dinner here already? Be right there in a minute.”

Eyes fixed on a nondescript point in front of him. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him.

“Look at me.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up on its own as though tugged at by an invisible string. John’s look is piercing and tender at the same time, which should be impossible, if it wasn’t John.

He comes to sit on the rim.

“Sherlock,” he says, soft-spoken, “if you think I actually believe you’re a sociopath, think twice.”

Sherlock can’t look away, can’t think of a comeback, can’t reply, can’t breathe. He can just shiver and nod, humbled, against all his efforts.

John takes a smaller towel and starts drying Sherlock’s hair.

Gentle hands and silent understanding.

Something heavy in Sherlock’s chest - slowly, quietly - unravels.

~~~

[a few tags under the cut. let me know if you'd like to be added/removed]