apophenic dreams.

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in a casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

- C.S. Lewis

Permalink behindtintedglass: I never wanted the throne. I only ever wanted to be your equal. Loki - Thor. Arthur staggers backward as his vision whites out and the sheer force of the images—prophecies, his mind whispers—renders him breathless.  His knees buckle and he leans against the stone wall of the cave as he wills his limbs to stop trembling.  It takes him a while to realize that he is still tightly clutching the crystal in his hand.  Merlin’s voice, quiet, resigned, and inexplicably sorrowful, is still echoing inside his head. I only wanted to be your equal. “What,” he gasps.  ”Is this supposed to tell me?” Beside him, the old man—the sorcerer—watches him with eyes that seem to pierce through his armor, under his skin, inside the marrow of his bones. “The truth,” the sorcerer quietly answers. “That can’t be the truth!” Arthur lashes out.  He throws the crystal onto the ground, where it shatters into a thousand shining pieces. Merlin’s tears are glistening in each one of them. Arthur curses as he rapidly shakes his head, trying and failing to rid himself of the images torturing him behind his eyes. “And why not?” the sorcerer queries calmly.  ”Are you blind to the truth that is laid bare before you, Prince of Camelot?” I never wanted the throne.  I only wanted… “That can’t be the truth.”  Arthur finally looks up and meets the sorcerer’s fathomless gaze.  Oddly enough, it is the sight of those mysterious eyes that finally eases his erratically beating heart.  ”Because I already know that.” The sorcerer cocks his head to one side, pondering.  ”Oh?  What do you know?” Arthur thinks back to the visions revealed to him here: The Crystal Cave, the sorcerer had said, where he is to see everything that will be.  He remembers the heavy crown resting on his head, remembers rising from the throne that is now his… and remembers looking down at Merlin, who is still wearing his ragged servant’s clothes, bowing to him, pleading, shaking.  He doesn’t understand the disappointment in Merlin’s eyes.  He can’t bear it.  He can’t accept it. “I already know,” Arthur says quietly.  ”That he never sought the throne.  He… That’s…” He takes a deep breath.  ”That’s what he wanted for me.  But that’s not what he wanted for himself.” The sorcerer narrows his eyes.  ”And what does this… Merlin want?” “A place to belong.”  The sorcerer’s eyes widen at the certainty in Arthur’s voice.  ”Home.” Something in the air changes.  They can feel it thrumming in the walls, sizzling against their skin. “And you think…”  The sorcerer’s brows furrow curiously.  ”That this home he seeks… is by your side?” Clutching the steady weight of Excalibur by his side, Arthur strides away from the sorcerer and towards the mouth of the cave. “You are presumptuous, young prince.”  The old man’s raspy voice, amplified by the echoes within the cave, stops him in his tracks.  ”Why do you claim to know what this Merlin desires above everything?” A smile tugs at Arthur’s lips.  ”Because he told me so.” A heavy pause.  Then: “What did he tell you?” Arthur raises his hand to gaze at the sword he holds, the sword that Merlin has kept safe for him. For years. “He told me once, a long time ago, that the reason he left Ealdor was because he wanted to find a place where he could fit in.  I asked him if he already found it, and the idiot said he wasn’t sure.” The light of the crystals bounce off Excalibur’s blade.  In it, he can see the reflection of sorcerer behind him as the old man’s eyes widen in surprise. He drops his hand, looks over his shoulder, and grins at the old man. “Seeing how incompetent he is, if he can’t find that place where he fits, I’ll just have to create that place for him.” And with a final flourish of his sword, sliding it back in the scabbard, Arthur smiles at the sorcerer and steps outside the cave where the Knights are waiting. At the Prince’s words, the crystals in the cave stop glowing for a moment.  Intrigued, the sorcerer crouches down and picks one up.  The crystal comes alive at his touch, but this time, the light is different. “The Once and Future King finally seals the fate of Albion.”  The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle into an amused smile. “The prat did a much better job at changing the future than I did.” And with that, The Last Dragonlord disappears back to his own time. Back to his King. And his place beside the throne.
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“Besides, John thinks, Sherlock doesn’t need a keeper. He needs someone willing to be in on the ride. After all, while it’s true that John can never be as all-reaching as Mycroft, who better to keep an extra eye on Sherlock than someone right there with him? Always.”

behindtintedglass:

This story has my heart.

And this is the Mycroft Holmes I believe in.  

(via behindtintedglass)

Permalink behindtintedglass: “The Very Worst Sin” Story by Nicodeimus Illustration by Feriowind — page 15 .end.
Permalink tiger-dicks: moriarty-lives: tiger-dicks: cement pit or the thames, darling— choice is yours so we’ve decided dark-haired chap aiming at john is sebastian right right The gunshot that echoes from the roof of St Bart’s is quickly forgotten in the wake of the flurry of panic that Sherlock Holmes’ suicide brings about. Sebastian Moran doesn’t forget it, though; it sits heavy and cold in his chest, coiled around his heart and stomach, pulling the muscles in his arms tight as he disassembles the rifle with calm, steady hands. It’s hours until he enters the hospital himself, even footsteps echoing as he strides through the eerily quiet corridors, the smell of disinfectant thick in the air as he winds his way up through the building, through key-card protected doors, past chains and padlocks and up grey concrete stairs to the rooftop. It’s raining, a fine, light drizzle that sprays into his face with the cold wind, and it burns his lungs as he inhales deeply. Sebastian knows death. It’s never clean; there’s shit, there’s piss, there’s sometimes vomit, there’s the cloying iron smell of blood. It’s visceral, and it’s human, and Sebastian has never before felt this sense of detachment that he feels now. Jim’s body is a dark shadow on the pale concrete floor, pale fingers curled loosely around the grip of the gun. Sebastian lights a cigarette, taking a deep drag before he crosses to Jim. He sighs heavily, exhaling the smoke in a thick plume. “Mad bastard.” He drops to his haunches and reaches out his left hand, pressing two fingers to Jim’s neck. The skin is wet, ice cold, just as Sebastian expected. He presses his hand to the concrete floor, fingers splayed as he resettles himself, lying down briefly on his side, the dull orange glow of the cigarette held in his curled fingers illuminating Jim’s features. Jim’s profile is a familiar one. His expression is frozen in a triumphant death mask, the dull gleam of the city lights reflected in his glassy, open eyes. Sebastian rolls onto his back and sits up on his elbows, watching thick clouds tinted a grey-orange by the artificial light slowly drift by. “Well,” he mutters. “Always did like lookin’ up.” There are no stars to be seen. Later, he will make arrangements so that Jim’s body is never found. Later, he will strip Jim’s flat of all his possessions, will spend hours ringing around all of his contacts, days working to keep Jim’s delicate web assembled. But that’s later. For now, he sits next to the corpse of of a jewel thief, of the most deadly criminal mind, of the most dangerous man in London, of his friend, of Jim, and the cigarette smoulders down until the filter burns his fingers.
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A New Tradition: A Sherlock Christmas Fic

afrogeekgoddess:

On a walk through London, Sherlock and John enjoy the Christmas snow and discover the depths of their friendship. Inspired by MarieLikesToDraw’s delightful Sherlock and John Christmas drawing, That Winter Feeling.

PG (references to drug use, war violence). Unabashed holiday fluff.

The snow swirled around them as they walked back home from their latest case, a debacle involving a Christmas goose and a precious gemstone. The fluffy, white flakes blanketed the whole of London, silvering the edges of the buildings and trees. They walked in a comfortable quiet, side by side, arms nestled in their thick winter coats. The streetlamps and shops were decorated with fairy lights, casting their faces in a warm, sparkling glow.

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Permalink afrogeekgoddess: khorazir: Working on reducing my fanart to-do pile. Not that it’s getting significantly smaller … This one’s inspired by In Character, one of Valeria2067’s delightful fics featuring Hamish Watson-Holmes. I think I squealed with glee when I read about the boys’ respective Hallowe’en costumes. *flabbergasted squee of utter cuteness overload*
Permalink behindtintedglass: feyuca: seb v john Moran leans forward, pressing the majority of his weight down against John’s bad shoulder, and the pain makes John wheeze.  He feels the warm, wet liquid flow from his mouth, and he watches, almost hypnotically, the crimson blood pooling on the ground before his eyes.  Moran is unmoved by the sight of the trembling war veteran below him, and his face twists into a grimace of disgust. “You know, Watson, I almost felt that connection with you,” Moran says quietly. “I thought we were the same.  Here we are, two men bound by fate, willing to do anything for our master.  Anything.” His foot presses down again, and it takes John nearly all of his willpower to hold in his cry of pain.  ”My master is dead because of him, Watson.  Dead.  My master left me behind, and now I am alone again.”  He clicks the safety lock on his pistol and aims it at John’s head. “But no matter.  I will be joining him soon.  I just have some unfinished business to attend to.  It’s my master’s last assignment to me.”  His gaze takes on a fond, almost tender look.  ”I am honored that I have his trust.” John’s fingers curl into fists, his nails scraping the ground beneath him. “I won’t let you.” Moran raises an eyebrow sardonically.  ”What’s that?” “I won’t let you hurt him.” Moran blinks.  Oddly enough, even though the rest of his body is shaking from exhaustion and abuse, the doctor’s hands are steady. “That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?” Moran says casually.  ”Because he’s very willing to let me hurt you.  And…” Moran mercifully takes off his foot, and John coughs out an exhale just in time before Moran steals his breath away once more as he crouches down and whispers sweetly in his ear: “He left you behind.” John’s head shot up at that, and Moran meets his piercing, angry glare with something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes.  ”You know,” Moran says softly. “I can kill you right here, right now, with this gun.  But why will I do something so quick, so obvious, so boring?” A small, feral smile spreads across Moran’s handsome face.  John’s eyes narrowed. “Because that’s not painful enough, is it, Johnny-Boy?” says Moran distractedly as he drags the point of the gun along John’s hairline, and John grits his teeth at the same nickname Moran’s master used a long, long time ago.  How long ago was that?  A lifetime, perhaps? A lifetime without him.  When he left you behind. “No,” Moran says softly.  ”That’s not what’s killing you right now.” John’s breath catches in his throat. “And I will remind you, Dr. John Watson, what exactly is killing you.  And I will remind you, over and over, until that undeniable truth will be your own personal hell here on Earth while you live.” Moran slips his fingers under John’s chin and forces their gazes to meet.  And then… Moran smiles. “You are never enough. And you will never be worthy of Sherlock Holmes.”
Permalink behindtintedglass: For those (like me) who are in need of and/or easily amused by lighthearted meta of our favorite duo in three of its recently popular adaptations. ;) Fanart above by Sadyna. Fanfic below by mific. —   “I think you’ll find,” said a tall, thin Holmes with an aquiline nose, “that I am the original. Jeremy Brett played me from 1984 to 1994.” He turned. “Ah, Watson. What is the meaning of this summons?” “Excuse me,” said a short, rather scruffy-looking Holmes in need of a shave, elbowing thin Holmes aside. “I’m sick and tired of people saying I’m too short to be the real Holmes. I was in a full-blown blockbuster movie, not some made-for-television nonsense. Just because I’m a tad shorter than the previous clichéd portrayal!” Thin Holmes sucked in an angry breath but scruffy Holmes overrode him. “I’ll take on any man who says I’m not the real Sherlock Holmes and believe me,” his smile was cold, “you don’t want to fight me.” “Right,” said Watson, “I’ll just–” He ducked back into his office, grabbed the brandy bottle and took a swig, not bothering with the glass. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good plan, after all. He steeled himself and opened the door again. A tall, younger man leaning against the wall in a long dark coat waved at him casually from across the room. “Hello Watson, this is fun. Sherlock Holmes at your service, and at least I can claim to be the only one not past my use-by date.” The other Holmeses glared at him. Gracious, he was tall, and with much longer hair. Watson craned up at him, mouth gaping. Young Holmes stared back at the other two Sherlocks impassively. “Despite being asexual myself, I at least know what being gay means, which I doubt either of you two do.” — Hah. :)) Read more here .
Permalink - Dr. Watson’s Inner Monologue by Elina and Katri —- I have reasoned and bargained, even pleaded, but still he is packing to go. “I cannot take any more of this,” says he. “I shall only stay if you promise to quit your addiction.” Quit my addiction? I need my Watson more than I need the air I breathe. I cannot quit pursuing him, not now that I know my love is returned. I tell him I shall never quit, and he flees the room, shouting that he shall dispose of the poison himself. The poison? What an ass I have been! In a flash I am at his side. - Sherlock Holmes’ Inner Monologue by Jem’s bird —- Taken from “However Improbable”
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