elegance walking arm in arm with a lie

[FANMIX] would rather be waltzin' with you

sariagray — Fri, 10 Jan 2014 02:40:32 GMT

Medium: TV
Fandom: Sherlock
Subject: Sherlock/John (unrequited love : pining Sherlock)
Title: would rather be waltzin' with you
Warnings: Possible thematic and visual spoilers for S3:02 The Sign of Three.
Notes: This fanmix is made entirely of songs by Rufus Wainwright, because I am on a bit of a jag, and it fits. I don't make a lot of fanmixes, so I welcome comments, etc. Images are edited (marginally, poorly) by me.

Listen
On Spotify
Via Download

01. one man guy
i'm gonna bathe and shave
and dress myself and eat solo every night
unplug the phone, sleep alone
stay away out of sight
sure it's kind of lonely
yeah it's sort of sick
being your own one and only
is a dirty selfish trick

02. in a graveyard
worldly sounds of endless warring
were for just a moment silent stars
worldly boundaries of dying
were for just a moment never ours
all was new
just as the black horizons blue
then along the bending path away
i smiled in knowing i’d be back one day

03. foolish love
i don’t want to hold you and feel so helpless
i don’t want to smell you and lose my senses
And smile in slow motion with eyes in love
i twist like a corkscrew, the sweetness rising
i drink from the bottle weeping
why won't you last?
why can't you last?
so i will walk without care
beat my snare
look like a man who means business
go to all the poshest places
with their familiar faces
terminate all signs of weakness

04. candles
turn one day in the cathedral
i finally lit you a candle
and all along the vaulted halls
the virgins did smile from their mantles
it’s always just that little bit more
that doesn’t get you what you’re looking for
but gets you where you need to go
but the churches have run out of candles

05. the one you love
i'm trying, trying to tell you
all that i can in a sweet and velvet tongue
but no words ever could sell you
sell you on me after all that I have done
i'm only the one you love
am i only the one you love?
the lady gloom and her hornets circling round
is now before us, the screaming's done without moving
one little move and for sure you will be stung

06. go or go ahead
but oh medusa kiss me and crucify
this unholy notion of the mythic power of love
look in her eyes, look in her eyes
forget about the ones that are crying
look in her eyes, look in her eyes
forget about the ones that are crying
go or go ahead

07. this love affair
i can't say that i'm waltzin'
not that i don't like waltzing
would rather be waltzin' with you
so i guess that i'm going
i guess that i am walking
where?
i don't know
just away from this love affair

Oh hi. Just sneaking back in....

sariagray — Sun, 29 Dec 2013 19:01:57 GMT

So I know I've been not-on-Livejournal for a while now...

But between trying to form a career and going back to school full-time, and taking care of my family (and sometimes even myself), it's been a bit hectic. I can be found on Tumblr (mostly because it's easier to update on cigarette breaks!) as sariagray, if anyone's interested in finding me!

In any case, just wanted to swing by and wish everyone a Happy New Year! :D Hope you're all well!

Torchwood Survey - Results

sariagray — Sat, 20 Jul 2013 22:44:38 GMT

Before I begin, a disclaimer. I am not a statistician. I am not a scientist. I’m just a fan with a vague question: ”What happens to a fandom when it dies?” or, more accurately, “Where did everybody go!?” This is in no way meant to be a hard and fast realistic view of the Torchwood fandom; the sample size was relatively small and my analysis is amateurish. My interpretations of the data, while I try to be as unbiased as possible, are my own interpretations and are therefore subject to personal opinion. This is meant to be a fun exercise/experiment and nothing more.

ETA 7/20/2013 9:36p: I also want to stress that this is correlated data. There is not necessarily a direct line between one data point and another.

I would also like to pause here to thank all of the people who participated in this survey. Because I am not about to pay a fee to satisfy a whim, I was only able to collate the first 100 responses. I know I would have gotten more, and there were a total of 104 when I closed the quiz (apologies to the four people whose data I could not use). There was a fantastic response to this and I am beyond touched.

Now, let’s get into the hard results, per question.

Question 1: Were you an active member of the Torchwood fandom? (Where active includes blogging meta, discussing, writing fan fiction, creating fan art, etc.)

Question 2: What about Torchwood held your interest?

Question 3: What, if anything, did you dislike about the show?

The interesting thing about Questions 2 & 3 is that people sometimes chose the same thing – for example, they liked the Quality of Storytelling and they disliked the Quality of Storytelling. Each result was counted in this case.

Question 4: What was your favorite season/series of Torchwood?

Question 5: Are you still active in the Torchwood fandom?

Here there is some major discrepancy – I noticed that a lot of people put “No” for Question 1 and then “Yes” or “No” for this question, when a “No” to Question 1 should result in a “NA” response for this question.

An interesting note about this: of the 69 people in Question 1 who said that they were once active in Torchwood fandom, approximately 48 – bearing in mind the discrepancy – said that they were still active. That is almost 70%. Even if it is assumed that 10 people made the error mentioned above in favor of putting “Yes,” that is 55%. This is far higher than I anticipated.

Question 6: Have you moved your focus/activity to another fandom? (Choose only one fandom in which you participate the most.)

When I began this, I was not expecting such a huge group of people to move to the Doctor Who fandom, or such a small group to have moved to Sherlock. In retrospect, however, it makes sense. A fairly substantial group of people in Question 2 favored Aliens and Supernatural/Fantasy. Also, the timing of this survey affects the results – a show like Sherlock, which has not had new material in over a year, is going to have a less-active fandom than a show like Doctor Who.

Question 7: Which category below includes your age?

Question 8: How often do you watch television shows?

Now, for some minor analysis.

I wanted to take a look at a couple of perceived polarizing forces in the Torchwood fandom. There may be others – these are simply the ones that I have witnessed firsthand and so used them as a sort of guide through the data.

First, Specific Character: Gwen Cooper.

The data about Gwen paints a very interesting picture – personally, I expected more polarization than I found.

Granted, there are a lot of pieces of data in this survey that can be “sliced and diced” in a lot of different ways. I chose to take three other “likes” and compare them to liking Gwen and disliking Gwen. The three I chose were Character Death/Angst (which I will also look at later on), Specific Character: Jack, and Specific Character: Ianto.

Of the 32 people who specifically said that they liked Gwen, 78% said they also were interested in/liked Character Death/Angst. 93% of the 32 said that also were interested in/liked Specific Character: Jack, and 66% were interested in/liked Specific Character: Ianto.

Filtered in favor of Gwen, the split between new fandoms ranges from 4-8 people in each category, with a “Miscellaneous” (manually entered “Other” fandoms, or one-offs of minor fandoms like “Teen Wolf” that were listed) lead at 26%.

Of the 20 people who specifically said they disliked Gwen, only 24% said they were also interested in/liked Character Death/Angst. 86% favored Specific Character: Jack and 90% favored Specific Character: Ianto.

Of these same 20 people, 57% remained active in the “Whoniverse” (a combination of both Torchwood and Doctor Who). This is an astonishing number that well takes the lead over the other fandoms.

Character Death/Angst is also another dividing aspect of the show.

Of the 30 people who disliked Character Death/Angst, about 40% stayed in the Whoniverse (6 in Torchwood and 6 in Doctor Who) and a solid 25% moved on to Glee. 3 people each (10% each for a total of 20%) went to Sherlock and Supernatural, and the rest went to a variety of other fandoms (or no fandom at all).

Staying within the fandom (or, in this case, fandom universe including Doctor Who) or moving to Glee makes sense. No new characters will be dying in Torchwood anytime soon and on Doctor Who, true character death is relatively rare. Glee, as far as I understand, has little character death (or, at least, the ratio of dead characters to active main characters is marginal). The interesting thing here is that 3 people did not like the character death/angst of Torchwood and then proceeded to move into the Supernatural fandom. While it is a minor percentage (3% of the total sample size), it is still very intriguing.

Conversely, 23% of people who liked Character Death and/or Character Angst in Torchwood moved on to Supernatural. 27% remained in the Whoniverse, and the rest is scattered in smaller percentages amongst Glee, Sherlock, and miscellaneous other fandoms. It seems that liking Character Death and/or Character Angst has less bearing on one’s next fandom of choice than a dislike of Character Death/Angst.

59% of all respondents felt that death/angst played an important role in what they liked or disliked about the show. It ends up being an interesting split – 1/3 liked it, 1/3 disliked it, 1/3 had no opinion. As something upon which the show focuses heavily, this may have a lot to do with the split of fandom, even more so than the apparent split between people who liked and people who disliked the character of Gwen Cooper. Here, 1/5 like her, 1/3 dislike her, and the rest (more than 1/2) felt her character had no bearing on what they liked or did not like about the show.

Finally, a quick look at the Quality of Storytelling category.

Of the 100 respondents, 36 selected the Quality of Storytelling as at least one of the reasons they enjoyed Torchwood. 83% of these individuals also favored the Individual Character Development/Character Stories of Torchwood. Of this total, 12 (33%) remain within the Whoniverse, while 17% each moved to Glee and Supernatural, with the rest made up by other miscellaneous fandoms.

Meanwhile, 27 respondents selected Quality of Storytelling as one thing that they disliked about the show. 67% said that they favored Individual Character Development/Character Stories. About 19% of this group moved to Sherlock, while 22% moved to Supernatural. Approximately 30% stayed within the Whoniverse. The rest is made up by Glee at 11% and miscellaneous making up the remaining 18%.

It is interesting, because again this is polarized (more than interest in Gwen as a character, but not as evenly split as Character Death/Character Angst).

Now, before I finish this off, I wanted to take one look at Female Character Portrayal.

27 people liked the portrayal of female characters in Torchwood. Of these people, 33% stayed within the Whoniverse, 22% went to Glee, 22% went to Supernatural, 4% went to Sherlock, and the remaining 19% was split amongst miscellaneous fandoms.

13 people disliked the portrayal of female characters. Of these people, 31% stayed with the Whoniverse, 23% went to Glee, 8% went to Supernatural, and 8% went to Sherlock, while the remaining were again split amongst a variety of other fandoms (mostly variations of “None” and “Other”).

To be completely honest, I am surprised that liking and disliking the portrayal of female characters in Torchwood leads to what is relatively the same result. I’m not entirely sure why that is in this case.

ETA 7/20/2013 9:36p: There is, however, a big drop in Supernatural fandom that I forgot to mention. Those who liked Female Character Portrayal in Torchwood had a 22% group in Supernatural, while those who did not like the portrayal had an 8% group in Supernatural. Supernatural is notorious for its perceived negative portrayal of women, which makes this a very interesting correlation.

To conclude, a lot of my expectations were trampled. Were yours? Do you have any speculation based on these results? Is there any other correlation that you might like me to take a look at? Any questions? Any recommendations of ways that I might better spend my weekend?

Thanks again for your participation, and I hope you find the results as interesting as I did!

ETA 07/21/2013 9:51am:

Questions!

A user on tumblr asks: I’m mostly wondering now if the enjoyment level of any particular season is at all correlated with the fandom the person moved on to. Do more COE fans move on to angstier shows vs season 1 fans?

Of the 17 people who liked Season 1, 35% went to Doctor Who, 17% went to Supernatural, 12% stayed in Torchwood, 12% went to Glee, and the rest were in miscellaneous.

Of the 59 people who liked Season 2, 24% stayed in Torchwood, 19% went to Doctor Who, 19% went to Glee, 12% went to Supernatural, 10% went to Sherlock, and the rest was miscellaneous.

Of the 22 people who liked Season 3, 23% went to Supernatural, 18% went to Glee, 18% went to Doctor Who, and 9% stayed in Torchwood; the rest went to miscellaneous fandoms.

I did not calculate results for Season 4 or No Seasons, as there was only one person in each category.

It looks like, yes, more people who liked COE went to, say, Supernatural than the population that did not like COE. But also, a good chunk went to Glee.

Torchwood Survey

sariagray — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 17:36:47 GMT

Hi All!

I have created a new survey to track what television fandoms took over for individuals when the Torchwood fandom collapsed. Basically, I want to analyse the split amongst new fandoms.

It's a quick survey, and I'd love if you would take a moment and go through it.

The survey is HERE

And please feel free to share to anyone/any group.

Thanks! :D

Imma Play Too!

sariagray — Wed, 19 Jun 2013 00:16:55 GMT

I found this on a bunch of people's LJs, so...yes? I want to talk about ~things.

(Also hello! Also I got a part in a one-act!)

One of the most helpful words of advice my first creative writing teacher gave me was this: “Sometimes, people don’t want to see how the sausage was made.”

Naturally, what he was really talking about was art. Good writing does not make itself evident; rather, a well-composed work hides its bones. The pains (and joys) of composition cannot be seen in a finished work. However, sometimes people *do* want a tour of the sausage factory, particularly in communities with a lot of creative activity - like fandom.

So, send me the title of one of my fics and I’ll peel back the sausage casing by answering the following questions:

What part was most difficult?

What are you most proud of?

What’s a reference you made no one has picked up on yet?

What’s a bit that sums up your take on a character?

Favorite line(s) of dialogue?

Favorite lines(s) of prose?

Were there any points where you were trying to do something specific with sound, vocabulary, or rhythm?

How many drafts did the work go through?

Were you listening to anything while writing the fic? If so, what?

Imagery that is important to the fic, either while composing or in the fic itself?

What were you most worried about during the composition?

How do you want readers to react to this fic?

What did you want them to take away from it?

What inspired this fic?

If you used a beta, what did you agree or disagree on?

Did anything surprise you during the writing?

Were any parts written under the influence?

[FIC] The Paper Burns, But the Words Fly Free

sariagray — Sun, 26 May 2013 02:02:13 GMT

Title: The Paper Burns, But the Words Fly Free
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Word Count: ~2000
Warnings: None.
Summary: If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you be more careful of what you say? Magical realism AU.
Beta: My gratitude and adoration belongs to tymewyse. All mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: Credits for quotes can be found at the end of this work. This was inspired by this picture, that I found on Pinterest of all places.

The Paper Burns, But the Words Fly Free

“Where do the words go
when we have said them?” – Margaret Atwood

All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.

“You can read them. You can read their Stories,” John says, fists pressed into his thighs.

Sherlock frowns. “Words are so small as to be practically illegible in any normal, native speaker. Besides, they’re often meaningless. A distraction. I observe their actions, their habits, and I deduce from that.”

John lets out a breath. He looks at his own left arm with That was amazing. Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary. What do people normally say? and, a little below, You don't have a girlfriend then? Alright. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way. So you got a boyfriend? Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good. No. I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine. He cringes.

“The Words can be taken out of context,” Sherlock continues, “even within the Story. Look at my right hand.”

He holds it out for John’s perusal, dangerously close to the soy sauce. There, directly beneath his thumb, is new writing. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his own and leans close to read, I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees.

Sherlock gives John a moment and then says, imperiously, “And what might you deduce from that?”

“Well,” John answers, “that you’re a complete prat, actually.”

There is a pause; John clenches his fists tighter, presses them harder against his jeans. And then Sherlock chuckles.

“Perhaps not the best example, then,” he says, eyes glinting.

Their food comes, steaming on top of large plates, and the subject is dropped in favor of Sherlock’s deductions of the other patrons.

***

Words are a pretext. It is the inner bond that draws one person to another, not words.

He was twelve when he met Elizabeth, who had the sky at night on her chest, surrounded by the rest of her Story. It wasn’t a very remarkable phrase, something said in passing, but it was scrawled in vermillion, brilliant in a black sea.

“Why’s it red?” John had asked her.

“Because I wanted it to be.”

John had kissed her on the front porch of her parents’ house.

He had kissed Alex, too, years later, for the sloping script of to the craving in my bones.

“It’s Yeats,” Alex had whispered. “A poem, like.”

“And how’d you get it like that?” John asked, palm pressed against the Words on Alex’s shin.

“I said them, and it just happened.”

They fascinated him, these Variations, and for a time he sought out lovers that had them; jewel tones and unique fonts. They were few, and he was young.

***

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

The English Words were a fact of life for John, as immutable as hair color or the shapes of noses. He had never thought much about them until he was deployed in Afghanistan with its unfamiliar landscapes and cultures. There, the people had Words, too, but the Arabic was written in soft sienna against sun-warmed skin, its sweeps and whorls like the waves of an ocean; seductive and exotic, and forbidding in John’s lack of understanding.

He watched the Words appear, watched as they formed Stories that he had no hope of reading – they seemed gentle to his untrained eye, no matter the tone of voice or disposition of the speaker.

He learned a little bit of Pashto, picked it up on patrols and from friendly informants and from the local children as they played. He repeated them, over and over and over. He whispered them when he was on watch late at night, muttered them under his breath as he bandaged minor cuts and doled out the standard medications, used them in conversation whenever he could manage, but they only ever filled his skin with squat, neat black letters – familiar and yet made strange by the foreign Words they tried to represent.

***

When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been.

When they met, Sherlock had told John that there were stretches of days when he wouldn’t speak at all, and for the first few months, John hadn’t believed him.

That was before the past five days, when silence cloaked the flat only to be interrupted by the low notes of Sherlock’s violin or the garbled throat-clearing John did just to break the quiet when it became too uncomfortable.

It was fascinating, though, to watch the inky black disappear from Sherlock’s body. It retracted slowly, receding across his hands and up his arms and down his neck, over his feet and past his calves, until it was all hidden beneath his soft pyjamas and silk dressing gown. John wondered if it had faded from his thighs, his chest, his stomach, too; wondered until his hands began to twitch and ache with the desire to remove the fabric and see for himself – to run the tips of his fingers over pale, unmarked skin.

It makes him think of monastic brotherhoods with their vows of silence – the Benedictines, the Cistercians, the Trappists – and how their mute worship might be reflected; their skin always as clean and fragile as fresh sheets of vellum.

“What was your first Word?” he asks every night.

Sherlock ignores him until his silence has ended, and then when he does answer, he says, “I deleted it.”

John frowns. “There must be a picture – everyone has a picture of their first.”

“I suppose you’re rather proud of your first Word – what was it? Something inane, like ‘Mummy’?”

“‘Puppy,’ actually. And it’s not – I’m not proud of it. Just curious what yours might have been. Probably something ridiculous. Like ‘tibia’ or something.”

Sherlock stares at him.

***

Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.

John’s own Words had always been the simple, standard font. Black and evenly spaced, as though he had been seized by a printing press, like most of the people he had met. Still, he was surprised to see such uniformity on Sherlock. He’d half expected the graceful arabesques of one hundred different languages, in as many different shades, standing out in sharp contrast against their pale canvas.

He often finds himself staring, his mouth dry, as though such anomalies might be hidden in the secret places; the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, the small of his back, the curve of his arse. He is shocked when he begins to think of pressing his lips against these illusory Words, more shocked when he imagines what they might say.

“I can feel you thinking,” Sherlock grumbles, the long line of his back presented to the rest of the room as he lies on the sofa. “It’s hateful. Do it elsewhere.”

***

A word is dead when it's been said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

The sky is thick with darkness when they finally get home, their bones heavy and their hearts still racing from the chase that had culminated in the capture of two notorious blackmailers.

One of the women they had caught had Words written in a deep forest green down the length of bare arm and, while Sherlock had seemed to pay it no mind, the image stuck with John.

Although it is so late, although he should be sleeping and encouraging Sherlock to do the same, he heads straight for the kitchen to make tea. He pulls two cups from the cabinet and sets them down, roughly, against the countertop. They make a satisfying thump that he would appreciate more if he were angry rather than simply exhausted.

The water in the electric kettle boils over quickly – he loses track of time staring at the corner of the refrigerator, deep in thought; perhaps it wasn’t very quick at all – and he pours it into the cups before bringing them to the sofa.

Sherlock is sprawled across it, a small stack of photographs against his chest, his eyes closed.

“Teabags, John,” he says as John places the cups.

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock slides open one eye. “Teabags. You’ve forgotten them. Are you ill?”

“How did you know I – oh, sod it. Sorry.”

When John returns, Sherlock is sitting and staring at him, his brow slightly furrowed by the half-frown.

“Something is bothering you.”

John sits, says, “No, not – yeah, actually. Yeah. The woman with Variations –?”

“Ah. It’s nothing more than a trick of genetics. I can get no more information about an individual from that than I can from webbed toes or green eyes. Words are meaningless, Stories even more so. They can be crafted, altered, or deleted simply enough.”

***

The true poem rests between the words.

The Words fill up the curve of Sherlock’s neck and disappear beneath the collar of his coat as he rattles off the history of the dead man on the floor of the bar. John has stopped listening long ago – instead, he watches as they appear and solidify, his eyes tracing their progress.

The deep silence suddenly hits him, his mind light-years away, and he looks up. Sherlock is staring at him, his mouth slightly open as he exhales a soft “Oh.” And then he moves on, coat swirling around him.

John swallows roughly, closes his eyes for a moment, and then follows after him.

***

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them.

When they kiss, when their lips press together for the first time, John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s neck where the Words are, where the Story of the dead man and the Story of Sherlock interlink. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse, and it is as though the Words themselves are throbbing with life.

It had been unexpected, this kiss. When they had returned to the flat, rain-soaked and cold and unsuccessful, Sherlock had shucked his coat and stormed away to his room. John had thought, had hoped, that he hadn’t revealed too much at the crime scene. There was a chance that Sherlock hadn’t even noticed – a small chance, but it existed.

And then, while John had been cleaning up the previous day’s breakfast dishes, Sherlock had marched into the kitchen, forced John to turn around, and kissed him.

John’s hands were still soapy then, but now they are merely wet where they press against Sherlock’s skin and up into his hair. The edge of the sink digs into his back. The air is stuffy, too hot, too much to try to breathe in, and anyway, he has no desire to tear his mouth away.

“Please,” Sherlock whispers against his lips. “Please.”

The Words appear across his right cheek, just beneath a heavy-lidded eye, and John gasps a “Yes” that is barely a word at all, and wonders where it will show up on him.

***

We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.

John’s name is burned against Sherlock’s clavicle, down his chest, circling his left nipple, against the thin skin over the bones of his ribs. It is a litany of JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn without rest or stop, just as the voice in his ear had been – rushed, fluttery, heated.

He traces his own name over and over, writing it there himself as if it might solidify the intangible something that fizzes in his chest.

Sherlock’s name is on John’s shoulder, right over the scar tissue, in a deep purple.

He drags a finger along that lettering, even though he knows that there is nothing new to feel. He also knows that, in time, it will fade as all Words do. As he drifts off to sleep, his hand stuck between Sherlock’s head and a sofa cushion, he hopes it might stay for a while.

End.

----------------------------------------------------

The line of Yeats’ poetry is from “A First Confession”
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.

The quotes, in order, are:

"The Paper Burns, But the Words Fly Free." Akiba Ben Joseph

"All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time." Ernest Hemingway

"Words are a pretext. It is the inner bond that draws one person to another, not words." Rumi

"He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music." James Joyce

"When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been." Margaret Atwood

"Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away." John Clare

"A word is dead when it's been said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day." Emily Dickenson

"The true poem rests between the words." Vanna Bonta

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them." Hart Crane

"We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable." Neil Gaiman

[FIC] safe with but a slight scratch

sariagray — Fri, 10 May 2013 22:21:14 GMT

Title: safe with but a slight scratch
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Martha Jones
Word Count: ~1700
Warnings: Post - KKBB
Summary: It’s like being battle-weary all over again.
Beta: analineblue, the ever lovely.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: Here. Have a long author’s note! First, this story is for star54kar, who won me in the AO3 Auction. She requested “a story exploring what we didn't see in canon when Jack came back from running off with the Doctor” and specifically asked for “what he needed to do to regain Ianto's trust and how they re-established their relationship.” She has given her approval, so it can’t be that bad! :) I had decided to work on this story while visiting at my parents’ house. On their desktop, I noticed a document called “Wehavehad.doc” and, thinking it may have been one of the wayward half-finished fics I’ve left lying around, opened it up. Turns out it was a transcription of a letter that my brother had put together for my mother. As I read it, the story I had been struggling to write faded away and the story herein slowly began to grow around these words. I liked them so much, I kept them! The letter was written to Martha Twyman Gilbert, who was the first wife of Andrew Jackson Gilbert (my great-great grandfather). The letter is from Travis J. Twyman, Jr., her brother, a Confederate soldier in the 19th Volunteer Infantry of Virginia. The letters came to us from my great-uncle in Virginia. The letter is dated with: Chafford Farm/May 15th, 1864.

safe with but a slight scratch

Dear Sister Martha,
I received your truly welcome letter yesterday and was very glad indeed to hear from you and to learn you all were well. I have no news of interest to write other than that the Yankees are trying their best to take Richmond. They have a large force on the south side of James River between Petersburg + Richmond.

- - - -

Ianto raps his knuckles against the frame of the door, and Jack looks up from his work – not work, really. Just pushing ink against a piece of paper in swirls and blotches, waiting for his mind to sort itself into something like leadership. He’s been waiting for a little over a week now.

Behind Ianto, the Hub is dimly lit and quiet. It might be late at night or early morning. It’s been hard to tell; time may have reset itself in the world, but it’s done strange things to his head.

“Yeah,” he says.

It takes Ianto some time to respond. Jack feels his eyes, how they skitter over his face, but refuses to look back into them. Ianto’s been cagey, vibrating like a trapped animal since his return, and Jack’s been too out of his depth to do anything about it.

There was something about a date, he remembers.

Vaguely.

He sighs, puts his pen down, says, “What do you need, Ianto?”

Saying his name, any of their names, out loud is still odd. The sounds don’t mean the same things they used to – now they stand for an autonomy he’s almost too willing to let them keep, except that it could kill them in the end.

“Just closing up, sir.” He takes one hesitant step into the office, then another. “Jack. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

- - - -

There was a Large force Yankee Cavalry Raiders came around Lee’s Army to the Number of 15 or twenty thousand with the object of cutting the Railroad and taking Richmond if possible: our Brigade was sent above Richmond to keep them Back and last Thursday our Regt was ordered to help drive them out of a piece of Woods and as our Company was going in the Yankees shelled us and one shell burst right in our Company wounding Ben Gilbert severely in the groin. The piece of the shell flew all round but I came out safe with but a slight scratch.

- - - -

“How’s your family?” Jack asks.

He presses the receiver close to his ear, feels the heat of it against his skin. Martha’s voice seems far away, static and metallic, when she speaks.

“Good, yeah. Mum’s been a bit off, but she’s holding up. How’s yours?”

“Seem to be just fine without me, actually. Maybe I’ll take a vacation. I hear Barcelona’s nice.”

He lets Martha’s laugh take up the space in his head. He’s floating and shivering and restless in his skin.

After a moment of dragged silence, he says, “I’ve been in wars, you know. Deep in them, so deep everyone forgets what we’ve been fighting for – you just try to get from one day to the next without losing too much blood.”

He pauses.

“Or too much of yourself,” Martha says.

“Yeah, that too. So you, you cling to this idea of home, and how much better it’ll be when you get back there. And when you get there finally, you realize that everyone’s moved on without you. They’re different, the world’s different, and you aren’t sure where you fit in it anymore. The same thing always happens, no matter where or when you are. And the funny thing is – for them, it’s only been three days.”

“I know. But maybe it’s not them, or the world. Maybe it’s us. We’re the ones who’ve changed, and they haven’t had time to catch up. We watched them all die. This wasn’t a war, it was genocide. But we won, for whatever that’s worth.”

It hurts, suddenly, to breathe. More than the blades and bullets and beams. He exhales something that he hopes sounds like agreement.

“Listen,” Martha says, “I’ve got to dash. But maybe – just, talk to them, yeah?”

Jack is still holding his mobile when Martha rings off, and doesn’t put it down until a few seconds into the dial tone.

- - - -

How Thankful I am to that kind Providence for thus preserving me from all the danger for the Bullets flew thick + fast around me. There was no one hurt besides Ben in our Company. Even now while I hear the sound of Musket on the other side of James River next to Drewer’s Bluff and I don’t know how soon we may have to go in it but my Trust is in that All wise being who doeth all things for the best of those that Love + Serve Him.

- - - -

His legs feel heavy with disuse as he steps out of his office. He hasn’t looked at the time all night. The progression seems either too quick or too slow – hours pass in minutes, a day trudges by in a week.

Seated in Owen’s usual station, Ianto is sorting through a thick stack of paper.

Jack clears his throat. “Thought you went home.”

“Oh. I just remembered you wanted that expense report before you…and I know it’s here somewhere.”

“And that’s important at – what time is it, anyway?”

“Half past two. And more important than the circles you’ve been drawing for the past two hours all over the memo from the Cardiff constabulary. Sir.”

Jack almost feels like laughing, but that requires too much energy and the use of muscles that feel long atrophied. He smirks, instead, and it still feels like a victory.

“Although,” Ianto says, tilting his head thoughtfully, “you certainly managed to improve it.”

“I was actually drawing angry faces.”

“Ah, yes. Much improved.”

And then Ianto smiles at him, genuinely smiles, and it’s like everything slots back into place. Just for a second, but it’s a really good second. It’s been a long time since he’s had a moment like that.

He folds his arms across his chest, even as he feels the corners of his lips tug upward. “As your boss, I really should order you to go home.”

For a moment, Ianto looks panicked, and suddenly, it all makes sense, this increasing progression of late-night tasks that could be put off until the morning. Jack lets his arms fall to his sides and sighs.

“But you won’t go, will you? It doesn’t matter that I promised you I’d still be here tomorrow.”

“There’s a lot to be said for trust.”

It feels like a punch, and even now the need to fight back rises in him like heat. He lets the words slip past his lips before he can convince them to falter.

“You’re the expert.”

Ianto nods. It throws Jack, this easy complacency, this lack of defense, and he reels with it for a second. There is a new confidence, a blanket acceptance, in Ianto’s eyes that he swears wasn’t there a year ago. He looks both intimidating and safe, as though different casts of light reveal unknown features.

Jack pulls Toshiko’s seat over and sits in it, backwards, because relying on habit is what’s kept him sane this long.

“Are you awake enough for a story?”

“No,” Ianto admits, and smiles. “But I’ll make coffee.”

- - - -

You spoke of my making you a Basket, but it is Too late now as I don’t make any, but I wish you had let known it sooner, but I have a little blue key Basket which you might have if I could get it to you sooner. I do hope I may be able to get home this summer to enjoy some of your nice vegetables but I don’t expect it. Unless I get wounded or hurt in some way. It seems a very Long Time since I have seen home and how glad I would be to see Tommy. I was so surprised to hear he could walk. I have not heard from home for a month. When you see Pa jog his memory. Be sure to write to me as soon as you get this. Kiss Idella + Tommy for me and tell them I want see them badly. Give my love to Home folks and retain a large portion for yourself. Hoping this may find you well.
I am your affectionate Boo.
Travis J. Twyman, Jr.

- - - -

It is a quarter to five when Jack’s story ends, the two cups of coffee he’d finished off making him jittery enough that he can feel his fingers tremble. His eyes are closed. Ianto’s hand is on his knee, has been for the better part of an hour.

He hasn’t told everything – there are bits that are still too painful to talk about, but the important things (one year, everyone dead, torture, time resetting) come out clear enough even with the slight editorializing.

“It’s late.”

“Early,” Ianto corrects.

“You can get a couple of hours sleep, at least. Go home, Ianto.”

His name is suddenly easier to say. Everything is a little easier, and a little harder, now. He breathes for a moment, just focuses on that, and opens his eyes just as Ianto reaches for his hand.

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” Ianto says, and he looks so much older than he had when Jack hired him, “but – well, I’m here.”

Jack nods. He feels even more exhausted, while his body thrums with synthetic alertness. It’s like being battle-weary all over again. He stands up, pushes Toshiko’s chair back, and turns.

There’s an awkward moment of tentative hands searching for a proper hold, and they end up with Ianto’s hand on Jack’s shoulder before Jack pulls him close and hugs him. They stand like that for a moment, orienting themselves, maybe, or just prolonging this until they both collapse from fatigue. Finally, Ianto pulls away and clears his throat.

“I’d better –”

“Stay.”

“I don’t have –”

“Please just stay. You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. Just – stay?”

Ianto bites his lip and closes his eyes, and Jack feels whatever last bit of strength he had slip away like silk from his fingertips.

“Yes,” Ianto says at last. “Fine. Yes. Just – don’t sleep on the floor. It’s fine.”

“Okay.” Jack smiles; it’s a little thing, but it feels right. “Fine.”

The End

In a Wide World after All

sariagray — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 21:55:49 GMT

Title: In a Wide World after All
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, Charlie
Word Count: ~2100
Warnings: Spoilers for 8x20 Pac-Man Fever and all episodes prior.
Summary: After Charlie leaves, it’s time to move forward. On an adventure. Coda to 8x20.
Beta: analineblue looked this over; all mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: Quotes are from Tolkien’s The Hobbit. The title is also from a quote in that book.

In a Wide World after All

After he’s hugged Sam, after he’s felt the warmth of him and made a silent promise that he hopes he can keep this time, Dean grabs an unfinished beer from the counter. There’s nowhere for the two of them to run off to right now. They have to do research, call the few contacts they’ve got left, make a decision or two.

Dean takes one swig from the bottle, then another, as he stares off at the wall. He can see Sam looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s laptop is open, and his face glows a soft blue as he types. There is still a part of Dean that wants to tie Sam down somewhere so that he can’t leave, so that he stays safe, because letting go just isn’t something Dean’s good at. But what argument can he make now? ‘You could die’ has become almost as meaningful as ‘you could stub your toe.’ It’s a joke, if not a particularly funny one.

The beer is weak and not as cold as he’d like. He takes a long gulp that finishes it off. It tastes sour and hoppy and stale on the back of his tongue.

Thing is, Dean still trusts Sam with his life. He always will, he thinks, no matter what happens. Even when he tries not to, even when his gut tells him he shouldn’t. He just has a hard time trusting Sam with his own life.

There’s a soft thud of glass-against-wood next to Dean’s hand. He looks up; Sam stares at him from behind his hair, the neck of an open beer bottle clutched in his hand. This one looks colder, frosted with condensation.

“You okay?” Sam asks, nudging the bottle forward.

He has deep purple smudges under his eyes and his skin is pale and his mouth is a thin line, and Dean just wants to erase it – erase the pain, the past, whatever. Sam always seems to hurt, and Dean always seems to fail at making it go away.

Dean says “Yeah,” shrugs, and tries to smile.

“Right. I think I’m going to call it a night. I sent a few emails. You may get a call from Garth.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Look, Sammy, we don’t –“

“Dean, I’m fine. Really. I just need some sleep.”

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and walks away, and Dean almost believes him, for a minute, until he hears Sam coughing on his way to bed. It’s more of a hacking, really, a horrible wheezing sound followed by something brittle. It goes on for what seems like hours.

Dean brushes the back of his own hand against his shoulder where Sam’s had been, feels the damp from where Sam held the bottle, and then rubs his face.

His phone beeps. He picks it up; he hadn’t heard it ring, but he has a new voicemail. Sighing, he plays it, expecting Garth’s eager, high-pitched voice.

Instead, quiet words, just shy of a whisper: "’In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.’"

Dean waits for more, but there’s nothing except silence. He can’t tell whether he wants to smile or not; it’s good to hear her voice, even after only a couple of hours, but she sounds so ragged, like she’s close to tears. He knows what that’s like, what that sounds like, too well.

---

Hey Kiddo, he writes, we’re going to Tulsa. Sam got some reports about activity. Still looking for Yoda. How are the zombies? He shuts the laptop.

An hour later, on the road, he gets a text from an unknown number that just says, Yoda was not a prophet.

He grins, sends back something like It’s a codename. Deal. Sam shoots him a look from behind the wheel, still pale but more alive in the sunlight – the glance is half smile, half concern.

“Charlie’s correcting my Star Wars references,” Dean says by way of explanation.

“Ah. I see.”

---

Dean doesn’t get another voicemail until their first night in Lyman, South Dakota. Again, he didn’t hear it ring. He considers that she may have somehow hacked his phone to go straight to voicemail when she calls. Normally, something like that would annoy him, but now all he feels is an inexplicable sense of pride.

Charlie’s voice is clearer this time as she reads. Stronger, brighter. Dean feels something in him relax, like there had been a ball of tension in him that only this could ease. He settles back on the rickety motel bed and closes his eyes.

She reads for a while this time, somehow going past the usual time limit. Definitely hacked. There is a long pause and Dean assumes that she’s done, except then she starts again, repeating one small passage in a tone that somehow fills his head with echoes.

"Far over the misty mountains cold, to dungeons deep and caverns old, we must away ere break of day to seek the pale enchanted gold."

A click, then silence.

---

Anyway, we’ve moved to North Dakota. Sam said to tell you that he thinks we found Lord Voldemort. That work for you, Princess? Anyway. You good? You better be. Oh, Sam wants your Monster app. Any way you can get it to him? Guess it could come in handy.

---

"’Some sang too that Thror and Thrain would come back one day and gold would flow in rivers, through the mountain-gates, and all that land would be filled with new song and new laughter. But this pleasant legend did not much affect their daily business.’"

---

Wendigo today. Got Wendigos on that app of yours? Still no luck on He-Who-Whatever. Haven’t heard from you – you okay?

---

They spend almost a full week in Burnett County, Wisconsin, tracking down a Buruburu. Practically a whole street was sick, all awful people in their own way; petty sniping, backstabbing, the usual suburban run of atrocities. At least, that’s what Sam had said. Dean had left him to handle interviews – oh, he could’ve used the backup, the pain in his arm is enough proof of that, but Sam’s been looking more drawn and grayer lately, and it wasn’t worth the risk.

Sam still insists that he’s fine, despite bloodshot eyes that can barely stay open and a cough that’s getting worse by the minute. There are blood-stained tissues in the garbage of every motel they’ve stayed in this past month.

He’s also worried about Charlie and her radio silence, but what can he do? He has no idea where she is, or where she’s been, or what she’s doing. It’s like he’s friends with a ghost.

God knows he doesn’t need the worry: Cas is gone, Kevin is missing, Sam is dying by inches, and now Charlie is quiet.

And the last Trial still needs to be completed. He barely remembers what they’re for anymore. What’s the point of sealing the gates of Hell? They’ve tried similar things before, and they’ve failed. What makes anyone think they’ll succeed this time?

The sun has gone down, and the road reveals itself slowly as he drives, like they’re just going to keep going into something black and endless. Not Heaven, not Hell, not Purgatory – just nothing for all eternity, just dark and quiet. It’s a tempting thought, but it’s the one impossibility.

“I’m sure she’ll call,” Sam says gently after the silence stretches on for too long. “She’s probably just caught up in something.”

Dean tries to agree, but his “yeah” comes out cracked and fragile. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Listen, Dean, she’s fine.” Sam pauses for a minute, his breath short and sharp with whatever the hell has got him falling apart at the seams. “You know, I used to wish we had a sister.”

A quick glance to his right – Sam is clutching his hand into a fist on his thigh, his fingers tightly pressed together. It’s what he does now when the shaking gets bad, hides it from Dean, as though Dean is completely blind.

“You and Dad, all you ever talked about was protecting me. ‘Watch out for Sam.’ ‘Don’t let Sam out of your sight.’ And I think I just wanted someone to protect, too. Someone who needed me.”

Dean swallows, lets his eyes close for just a second. “I need you,” he says.

“Sure, now. But then? You didn’t need me then.”

The conversation ends there – Dean can’t think of anything to say and Sam’s breathing has evened out into a continuous rattle of air.

---

"’The mere fleeting glimpses of treasure which they had caught as they went along had rekindled all the fire of their dwarvish hearts; and when the heart of a dwarf, even the most respectable, is wakened by gold and by jewels, he grows suddenly bold, and he may become fierce.’"

---

Where the hell have you been, Princess? Slaying dragons? I told you, no hunting without backup. Anyway, Sam’s…well, Sam’s barely able to walk without hacking up a lung. But he says hi. I think he wants to adopt you. We think we know where Kevin is, so we’re headed there now. Call that number I gave you last month if you need anything. Kid named Garth. He’s a good guy. Well, he grows on you, I guess. But call him. He’ll help.

“She’s – she’s okay?”

In his hands, Sam clenches a bloodied tissue. Dean can’t tell if it’s relief or dread that he’s feeling now that Sam can’t even be bothered to hide it anymore. Still, he’s alive and maybe this is almost over, finally. They’re close now, at least, and Charlie’s okay if not completely safe, so maybe….

“Yeah, she’s fine. She left me a voicemail last night. We’ve got about twelve hours on the road, and then we’ll stop for the night. You good to go?”

“Of course.”

---

The warehouse is completely dark. They’ve been watching the place from different locations all day, and they’ve seen no one coming or going, or any wards against anything. But none of that means a thing.

Dean finishes off the last bite of his burger and moves in on the fries. Sam has barely eaten in the past day and a half, and now only picks at his piece of plain toast and a cup of water. He’s got to eat, Dean knows, if they’re going to survive this, but he just doesn’t have the heart to scold right now.

The café is quiet. Well, it’s late, and they’re in a small town. The only other people are two teenage boys smoking and splitting a plate of gravy fries, the cook (presumably) in the kitchen, and the waitress (Betty). It’s nice, warm and well-lit and sparkling clean.

Dean leans back in the squeaky upholstered booth and sighs. “Sure you don’t want something else? You want my fries?”

Sam gives him a half-hearted smile. “Don’t tell me you’re full,” he says. “They’ve got pie, I’m sure.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but then his phone beeps. He fishes it out of his jeans, and plays it on speaker so that Sam can hear, too. Maybe it’s a last-ditch effort, he isn’t sure, but for the first time since he’d started receiving these messages, he wants to share them with Sam.

Charlie’s voice seems loud against the hush of the restaurant, and tinny. But it’s still clear and strong as she reads to them for a solid ten minutes.

"’And why not?’” she finishes. “’Surely you don't disbelieve the prophecies just because you helped them come about. You don't really suppose do you that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck? Just for your sole benefit? You're a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I'm quite fond of you. But you are really just a little fellow, in a wide world after all.’"

There is a long pause and Dean’s finger rests above his phone to shut it off, but he lingers for a moment.

“Time to save the world, boys,” she says. And then a click.

Dean glances up at Sam, who has somehow finished his toast, his water, and the rest of Dean’s fries. He doesn’t really look any better, he’s still gray-toned and tired, but there’s something about his face that makes him look…renewed. Dean grins.

“Right. You heard her. You ready?”

Sam nods.

End.

Bid on me!

sariagray — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 23:49:43 GMT

I am for sale!

Here is my specific page:

Here! Ignore the misspelled name!

Here is the full list:

Browse for your favorite authors!

I Am Selling Myself, Yes I Am

sariagray — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 19:15:42 GMT

Hi friends!

As you may or may not know, AO3 is going through its April fund drive. As a big fan of AO3 and also as a not-for-profit employee, I know how huge this is. Unfortunately, as many are, I am a bit too strapped to donate at the moment (between weddings and doctor’s visits and bills and all of those lovely little things that add up this time of year!).

Turns out, there’s a fic auction that will be taking place in a couple of weeks! The proceeds will go to help AO3, which is great!

More information about this can be found here: AO3 Auction on Tumblr

And more importantly, I have signed up! And am willing to write either Sherlock or (dun-dun-dun!) Torchwood. Because I miss Torchwood, I think.

Anyway. If you have any interest, you should consider either signing up yourself or bidding during the bidding period (April 15-25 – I’ll post a reminder!). You should especially bid on me, because I want to feel like a validated individual, and if no one bids, I will probably cry hysterically for hours in my room with the lights out. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?

So yes, let’s do this thing! :D

Fanmix: all gravel and glass

sariagray — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 00:52:20 GMT

Subject: Post-Reichenbach Sherlock/John
Title: all gravel and glass
Rating: PG
Warnings: Reichenbach spoilers, I suppose, if those still exist.
Beta: Yeah, I had this beta'd. Of course I did. By the lovely analineblue.
Summary: A post-Reichenbach story // A conversation
Notes: Nine tracks; zipped with cover image.

Act I
John

Goodnight, Moon – Shivaree

There's a nail in the door
And there's glass on the lawn
Tacks on the floor
And the TV is on
And I always sleep with my guns when you're gone

Return – OK Go
For a while, with the vertigo cured
We were alive -- we were pure
The void took the shape of all that you were
But years take their tool and things get bent into shape
Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face

Give Up The Ghost – Radiohead

What seems impossible (in your arms, in your arms)
I think I have had my fill (in your arms, in your arms)
I've been told to give up the ghost (into your arms, into your arms)

Blame It On The Tetons – Modest Mouse
Blame it on the web, but the spider's your problem now
Language is the liquid that we're all dissolved in
Great for solving problems, after it creates a problem
Blame it on the Tetons. God, I need a scapegoat now

Perfect – Smashing Pumpkins

So please, you always were so free
You'll see, I promise we'll be
Perfect
Perfect strangers when we meet
Strangers on the street
Lovers while we sleep

Act II
Sherlock

Gold Dust – Tori Amos

Gaslights glow in the street (flickering past)
Twilight held us in her palm as we walked along
And we make it up as we go along
We make it up as we go along

Letting The Cables Sleep – Bush
Whatever you say it's alright
Whatever you do it's all good
Whatever you say it's alright
Silence is not the way
We need to talk about it

Passenger Seat – Deathcab for Cutie

Then looking upwards I strain my eyes and try
To tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites
From the passenger seat as you are driving me home.
"Do they collide?" I ask and you smile.

Act III
John

Shatter – Liz Phair

I don't know if I could drive a car
Fast enough to get to where you are
Or wild enough not to miss the boat completely
Honey, I'm thinking maybe
You know, just maybe

~.zip here~

TV Recommendations Please!

sariagray — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 13:56:00 GMT

So, I have ONE EPISODE LEFT of S7 of Supernatural. And I don't know what to do next.

(Obviously, watch S8, but I'm waiting to go to California for that!)

So. I need some TV recommendations, if you have any.

I use Netflix and Amazon. I like shows like Torchwood and Doctor Who and Firefly, but I do not like shows like Star Trek. I liked most of Buffy (I guess I should eventually finish that, too, maybe...whatever) and Angel and I really really love Supernatural, I do not like Tru(e)Blood (I always forget there's an e in there somewhere). I like Sherlock and Downton Abbey and Law and Order (Criminal Intent is my favorite, but I'll watch the others), but I don't like NCIS or CSI or any of that other stuff. I like Xena. I don't generally watch modern comedies/sitcoms. I don't get them - but I did like The IT Crowd a lot. I can't stand shows like Glee (I liked the first season, and then it got weird and annoying).

So, if you have any suggestions, I would be happy to hear them! :D

The Internet Is A Source For Good (Sometimes)

sariagray — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 05:05:12 GMT

Louise Brealey (Molly on Sherlock) wrote this amazing blog and you should read it. I only have the tumblr links, sorry!)

And I responded when I reblogged. Well, it wasn't really a response - more of a reflection. You don't have to read that part, but you can.

http://sariagray.tumblr.com/post/44261881891/sherlockology-what-molly-did-next

I signed into tumblr today for the first time in ages. I usually peruse on my phone, you see, which is limited. Anyway, I saw that I had a new message.

A very sweet message. From Louise herself. Or a kind person pretending to be her. It was anonymous so I can't really confirm. But it was a beautiful message regardless, and I'm going to assume with blind faith and joy that it was her; joy not because she's a famous person, but because we had that dialogue and she took the time to respond.

And it made me cry (a lot) and shake (just a little).

The end.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Valentine's Day

sariagray — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 18:18:10 GMT

I wanted to write a fic about Sherlock and John and Valentine's Day, but it ended up being either:

Angsty:

John: Sherlock is dead and it's Valentine's Day and all I have is this violin that I will smash!

Sherlock: I'm back! Why are there heart's everywhere?

Fluffy:

Sherlock: Let's retire and look at bees!

John: Uhm, okay.

Romantic:

John: I got you an actual heart.

Sherlock: *Squish*

Creepy:

John: I got you an actual heart. It's Moriarty's.

Sherlock: *Grin* *Squish*

Stupid:

Sherlock: There's a strange Valentine's-related case! And look, it has a thousand plotholes!

John: I think I'm going to go back to bed.

Porny

Sherlock: < insert something here >

John: Yeah, exactly that.

----

So I gave up. I'll try again later.

Maybe.

Life Things

sariagray — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 16:46:28 GMT

Does anyone care? Je ne sais pas!

But I'm fixing up my car! Yay!

And I finally paid off one of my credit cards! And then proceeded to buy airplane tickets with that credit card!

Because I'm going to see analineblue for my birthday! Well kind of for my birthday? Mostly just because.

Weee!

Also, my roommate wants to move out in 6-8 months, which means I get to play Sherlock as I try to find an ex-army doctor with a shoulder wound. Or whatever.

How is everyone here? Is anyone here? Hello? Is this thing on?

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

The Density of a Material Inversely

sariagray — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 22:17:30 GMT

Title: The Density of a Material Inversely
Author: sariagray
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, Molly; mentions of Irene, John, and others.
Word Count: ~1800
Warnings: None. Contains smoking and brief, non-graphic mentions of violence.
Summary: Sometimes, the work is done for you and your debts are left unpaid. What then? Before the reunion, after the fall.
Beta: analineblue who, as always, is patient and amazing, even without her glasses.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: Title and quote come from a Google search, and an answer from a WikiAsk page, that I could not properly source beyond the blurb provided in the Google summary.

The Density of a Material Inversely

A difference in temperature usually affects the density of a material inversely.

Two cigarettes left. Sherlock crumples the packet and tosses it on the ground. He thinks better of it soon after and reaches down to pick it up, dusts the bits of sand-and-salt, of ice, off of it. The cellophane is wet, and the cigarettes are bent, but it’s fine. All fine.

Winter is cold in a way that he’s not felt before, not since he was young and jacketless, eager for snow. He’s not eager for it now, nor is he without his coat, and he feels so much older than he ever has before – and not in a way that makes sense with the progression of time (three years; a blip, nothing more).

The gravel-ice-salt-sand crunches underneath his shoes. They’re worn now, but not unusable. Besides, there isn’t time for new shoes. Or money. He grips the packet of cigarettes (two) to his chest before slipping them into his breast pocket.

(There is time. There is money. He just refuses to accept any of it.)

It’s dark. Winter nights usually are, but there are clouds overhead and the streetlamps in this section of the city are dingy and dim, coated as they are with grime. It’s a familiar place, and yet it isn’t. The graffiti has changed – he sees his name occasionally, interspersed with a lingo he doesn’t recognize, sometimes misspelled – and the faces that peer from shadowed corners are strange, more moon-pale and wide-eyed.

He walks. He walks for hours, looking for something (nothing left to look for).

Moran has been dead for seven days. Shot, through the head, in a lush hotel room in Dubai. He had been shrouded in immaculate linens, the entrance wound cleaned – postmortem – with rubbing alcohol (90% solution). There had been a peculiar sheen of tenderness about the day-old scene that shocked him when he arrived, his own pistol at the ready.

A note had been pinned to a fold of cloth over Moran’s chest.

The sword was at your neck. I removed it. You’re not dead.

He reads it and crumples it in his hand. He keeps it all the same.

(They aren’t equal, are not squared away. Not really. The pent-up tension from the hunt still stiffens his shoulders. Hers had relaxed in relief.)

He doesn’t have gloves anymore; he left them – somewhere. A shop, a gutter, a restaurant, a train. Doesn’t matter. His fingers are thick and numb with cold. He wants to dial out, call someone (Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, even. John), but he can’t get his hands to cooperate. And he doesn’t know if anyone would pick up.

(Why would they? He’s dead, and his number has long since been blocked.)

He turns a corner, walks for a time, and then turns another. More walking. Another corner. Across a street. He moves for what feels like hours, his muscles too distressed to ache with either use or cold. He contemplates lighting a twisted cigarette, but no – not good, not right now.

Moran had been the last to find and, through some trick of fate, had eluded Sherlock in the end. He thinks of calling Irene, too, of telling her that this had been personal – that this wasn’t mere cleanup, that it was vengeance: bloodlust-red and metallic and righteous. That her hand in Moran’s death has made every sharply painful moment of the past three years pointless.

But he doesn’t. Not just because of his (temporary, inopportune) inability to work a simple mobile, but because he understands the weight of a debt (the cloying, heavy weight of his own debt that still crowds the space between his temples) and the sick feeling that persists before it is paid (to himself, to Moriarty, to John).

He was Sherlock’s to kill. Moran was his.

The streets are empty of crowds, but bright now with better lighting and flashier, well-kept signs. He keeps walking, grips the packet of cigarettes in his pocket (once, twice) and then he lets go. He thinks of tea with a reverent fondness that once would have been laughable, but now – now, it hurts. (He is not starving; he ate last night, and he drank water not a couple of hours earlier, but the warmth and comfort of the thought of tea alone makes the cold strikingly bitter in contrast.)

He walks past 221 Baker Street without looking. It will be dark – far past the hour at which Mrs. Hudson retires to her bed, and no one lives upstairs anymore if his network is to be believed (they are). C would not be rented out if B is still available. So. No point in looking.

(He glances, just once, anyway.)

John, it seems, had moved out not months after Sherlock’s fall, though the rent for their flat had been paid to Mrs. Hudson in full for many years in advance. He wonders that she shouldn’t keep that money and try to find tenants despite it. Sentiment, he supposes. He is grateful even as he scowls to himself, alone on the empty streets.

He arrives, soon enough, at Molly’s door without having meant to go there. He knocks against it with his fist; it’s rough on his dry, weathered knuckles.

“Just a tick!”

Her voice is muffled, soft, but he still feels something within him ease at the sound of it. The door slowly shifts open, the chain still attached as though a bit of poor metal could keep danger at bay.

“Yes?” She looks out at him, and gasps.

He notes her wide eyes and dropped jaw with something like the wry disdain that was once familiar, and he smiles through chapped, painful lips.

“Hello, Molly.”

The door closes quickly on his face and, before he can begin to be disheartened, he hears the chain slide through and the door is thrown open once more.

“Oh God. Oh. You’re alive.”

Half pulled, half stumbling, he’s brought over her threshold into a warmth that is startlingly solid after the cold. His eyes and nose thaw enough to water unpleasantly and he sniffs.

“It’s been – it’s been almost a year since you last – you didn’t answer my texts and I thought you were dead. I mean, everyone already thought you were dead, but – you look – you’re freezing. I’ll make tea, um, yes, tea. Sit down. Please.”

She flees into the kitchen and he settles onto the sofa next to the cat (Tommy? Timmy? Tony?). He pulls out his cigarettes and lighter, warmed with whatever body heat he had to give, and lights one in the middle of her sitting room. The smoke stings his throat raw. It’s glorious.

Molly pops her head around the kitchen half-wall.

“Did you want sh – what are you – are you smoking?” She frowns, opens her mouth as though to tell him off, then sighs, resigned. “I’ll find something to use as an ashtray, I guess.”

Sherlock revels in her predictability.

He can feel his fingers tingling by the time she returns with a preposterously large mug and a small dish. She sets both on the table in front of him.

“Don’t get ashes on my carpet,” she says; it would sound demanding, angry, in any voice other than hers.

He can feel her watching as he stubs his cigarette out on the saucer and wraps his hands around the mug. It is deliciously hot, so wonderful that he wants to crawl into it and luxuriate. (A bath. That’s what he needs. Or at least, a very hot shower. God, he’d kill for it.) She lets him take three solid swallows before she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“You just disappeared without saying anything. Did you – is it done, then?”

“The Woman.”

Molly frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“The Woman – Irene Adler – she killed Moran. The last one. The one – the One.”

“Oh, that’s – that’s good then, isn’t it?”

Sherlock slams the mug down so hard that both Molly and the cat jump, and the cigarette rolls off its makeshift ashtray. Anger burns hot in him, and it’s good – it heats his bones, his muscles, his skin until he’s flushed with it.

“Oh, yes, of course it is,” he snarls. “I needed…information from him, I needed to know if there were any others, what his plans were. Now there’s nothing. I’m five steps behind again!”

Molly breathes deep and sits down next to him, so tentatively that he barely feels the cushions shift. Her voice, when it comes, is small and yet, surprisingly, unwavering and strong.

“He’s safe, though. John’s safe now. Isn’t he?”

“It was all in vain,” he says, but his shoulders slump and he can feel the taut lines of his face soften.

She smiles at him. It’s gentle and hesitant, and it still manages to douse the last bit of fire within him. They sit like that, in silence, as Sherlock drinks his tea and relights his cigarette. Molly stares at the wall, and then pets her cat, and fiddles with the cushion behind her back. It’s not completely uncomfortable, as silences go, but it’s tenuous – stretched thin.

She takes his mug when he finishes it, and he looks up at her as she stands. He looks, really looks, and sees the smudged purple under her eyes and the light wrinkles at their corners. Her lips are as pale as her face, and her hair is tucked into a sloppy bun. She’s wearing a tee shirt and sweatpants and utilitarian slippers. She seems somehow older, more worn out, than he remembers her being a year ago.

She says, “I thought you were dead,” and then retreats into the kitchen once more.

He reflects on that as he puts out his cigarette for the final time, his eyes focused on nothing (focused inward), wonders distantly if that is what has aged her, or if something else had happened in his absence from London. He could figure it out – would normally jump at the opportunity to do so – but he is still too frozen inside to be bothered.

Her shadow falls on him, and he looks up at her again. (Always looking up, when did that happen?) She tucks an errant piece of hair behind her ears. It curls – he hadn’t expected that.

“Have you, um, have you seen him yet? John?”

Sherlock says no, his mouth forms the word, but no sound comes out. He clears his throat, tries again.

“No. No. I haven’t. I can’t. I – he’s – no.”

Molly, bizarrely, looks like she’s about to laugh even though her eyes are glistening and sad. It’s a peculiar look that doesn’t sit well on her face. She doesn’t laugh, though. She doesn’t say anything at all. She simply goes to her cupboard and removes a blanket and pillow. She places it next to him on the sofa and leaves, turning out the light on her way.

A moment or two later, and the cat follows her to her room.

End

sariagray — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 01:07:12 GMT

"Hi. This is John Hart, from (insurance agency). Was looking to assess your vehicle for some damage, hoping maybe tomorrow...."

John Hart.

John. Hart.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Welp.

sariagray — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 20:10:55 GMT

I think I'm at the point where I'm flouncing on the sofa in my dressing gown, and shouting in the direction of analineblue about how stupid everyone is.

Maybe she will make me tea and shoot serial killers for me.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

WHAT AM I WRITING?

sariagray — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 06:33:56 GMT

Seriously. I'm 2000 words in and I don't even know what's going on. (Yes I do. I have 1000 words of snarky notes. Whatever.)

I mean, okay, I was driving home from self-imposed work today. And I thought of one thing. And that led to another thing. And then another thing. And suddenly I had built a "False Utopia" and was like, "OMG NOVEL IDEA!" And I thought about this potential novel, and then I thought, "Forget it. I'm writing fan fiction instead. And I'll turn it into a novel if it works, whatever."

Which is fine, except I now need a plot.

Why am I writing plot?

I hate myself and I'm going to bed now.

Oh boy!

sariagray — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 22:17:00 GMT

Remember writing? Remember when I did that? Yeah, me either.

So. It's that time again!

Give me prompts!

Stipulations:
1) Fandoms:
a. Sherlock
b. Doctor Who (Clara canon) (This means I probably won't write about the Ponds or earlier companions)

2) Pairings - I generally stick with canon pairings. Sherlock/John is obviously an exception to that rule. I may also be interested in some form of including Irene in that pairing.

3) I probably won't write sex. Not because I have a problem with it, but because I am bad at it and it makes me turn into a giggly 12 year old.

4) Prompts can be long or short themselves and may be as detailed as you want. The fic length may vary from very short to who knows how long.

Disclaimer: I may not write your fic. I may not write any fic. I may just do an interpretive dance instead. It might take me a day. Or a month. Or 5 years. But try out a prompt and see if it happens I guess!

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

I am impressed

sariagray — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 23:01:00 GMT

With my iPhone! I can legitimately post from my phone. Hello, modern era.

So, have a picture of a thing I found in my usual smoking nook.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

On Snow and Snowmen

sariagray — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 03:28:57 GMT

I went to my parents' house today, to drop off the roasting pan for the annual New Year's Prime Rib That We Can't Afford, But Oh Well Dinner (taking place tomorrow, because my father has to work on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day). I had intended to stay no more than an hour, as we were in a break from the constant snow-fall and getting little more than rain at the time. It was, I suspected, safe.

Then, as often happens, I lost track of time. Next thing I knew, the ground was covered in snow. And I was trapped.

Still am, sort of - the streets have been plowed and the snow has finally stopped, but I had already changed into my pajamas, and I'm the laziest of people. ("But Saria," you're probably saying, "just drive in your pajamas." No. No and no and no. I do not want to get into a car accident with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers* and have to deal with it in my pajamas!)

So, here I am. Snowbound. And bored out of my mind!

Speaking of snow:

Oh, how I loved this episode. I have talked about it a bit on my tumblr, though not really at any great length.

First, I loved the romantic feel. I am a sucker for anything Victorian, especially at Christmas time. I was in love with the costuming, the music, the atmosphere, everything. Especially the spiral staircase, even though it had me humming Stairway to Heaven. If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, it's probably the Doctor?

Clara charmed me instantly, in a way that no other companion has been able to accomplish. I want to hang out with her, and be her, simultaneously. She is wonderful. It's like she has all of the best bits of the previous companions. Including the "dying-and-coming back" part. She's got the sensuality and playfulness of Amy, the sass of Donna, the intelligence of Martha, the heart of Rose. She is clever like River, and as bold as Jack (and perhaps, also a con artist, which - yes, please). I just - I just want her to be forever.

(This immediate infatuation may also have something to do with how utterly tired/bored I was getting of Amy and Rory - I liked them, but they were beginning to get a bit stale. Clara is a new, unsolvable mystery, and I love the potential of it.)

On the same note, can we have Vastra and Jenny and Strax forever, too? I want them to be part of Team TARDIS. Strax is utterly hilarious, and Vastra and Jenny are utterly lovely and wonderful.

The references to Sherlock were fantastic (thank you, Moffat, for giving us Sherlock/John without actually giving us Sherlock/John). I mean, just listen to the music from the scene:

I was very...uhm...excited. The dog for whom I was petsitting was very confused regarding my general flailings. In any case, it was probably as close to Wholock as we will ever get, but I am grateful for the nod. Oh, and Clara fell from some great height and died. So, I think we must all be aware of falling. (Or Moriarty is also the Master, and everyone's owed a fall.)

It was fun, it was funny, it was scary. It was Christmassy, without being too overdone and saccharine. And, while I have little interest in Classic Who, I enjoyed the nods to the past and the continuity they provided, after reading about them in retrospect.

So, what did you all think?

In other news, I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and will have a wonderful New Year! :D

*This is part of the Saria Gray Johnathan Rhys-Meyers At Target Rule, in which the party (being Saria Gray) is not allowed to leave the house without (1) being dressed in sensible, well-matched, appropriate clothing, (2) applied makeup, (3) styled hair, and (4) brushed teeth. Said rule was created when Saria Gray was asked to accompany another party to Target, at which time the other party questioned her clothing-change and application of makeup when embarking on such a quick trip. Saria Gray responded, "You never know. I could run into Jonathan Rhys-Meyers or something, and I'd hate myself forever if I saw him looking like this!"

Happy Christmas

sariagray — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 00:22:44 GMT

I know I've been MIA lately. Between the increasingly-hectic work schedule and the temporary lack of laptop (it had to be serviced, which is slightly ridiculous), and my more active social life, I've not really had time for Livejournal.

Or writing. Or the internet in general. Or breathing.

But I just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas. If you're of any religious persuasion that does not include celebrations of Christmas, I also wish you a Happy Holiday, even though I've clearly missed Diwali and Hanukkah by a long-shot. Well, so it goes.

Christmas, to me, has always been a time of so much joy. We've had a tough year, haven't we? There have been tragedies both global and personal, we've all handled struggles and obstacles. But here we are, hopefully well and stronger for our tribulations.

I've loved Christmas since I was a little kid; I remember, in first grade, Mrs. Ballingham's reindeer feed (essentially just oats and glitter, but I was a child and easily convinced of magic) and, later, being convinced that I saw Santa's sleigh on the neighbor's rooftop. I know, to this day, that I heard sleigh bells. I remember the scented markers that I wanted more than anything in the world, and finding them late in the morning in the mailbox with a note that said that Santa had accidentally left them in his sleigh. I remember the detailed letters I'd get back from Mr. Claus, written in (although I didn't know it then) my mother's careful calligraphy, the same penmanship as used on the tags of presents wrapped in Santa's special paper.

I still believe in magic, though it comes in different ways now. My upgraded Kindle? Definitely Santa's work. The kindness of everyone in the stores, and my friends, and the thoughtful gestures of my coworkers? Guided by the spirit of Santa. The attractive gentlemen from our International headquarters in London showing up at our Christmas celebration to flirt with me? I have clearly been a very good girl this year!

The point of all of this is to say that, if you believe in magic, you'll see it in everything. And that's pretty wonderful.

So, on that note, I hope 2012 brings the most magical Christmas (Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanzaa, Festivus) in the history of the world, and that 2013 is full of health, wealth, and joy for you and yours (and Season 3 of Sherlock, please oh please).

Newtown, CT

sariagray — Sat, 15 Dec 2012 06:51:36 GMT

I've gone antiquing there with my father. I've driven around there with my best friend. I've shopped and eaten there with my ex-partner. The big flagpole in the center of town was my favorite thing when I was a child.

God, I'm wrecked today. My heart goes out to the students, the faculty, the families, and the friends of families, and the emergency personnel who responded to the scene and the nurses and doctors and EMTs who worked at the hospitals.

It was hard not to cry at work. And now I'm going to try to go to bed, little good it'll do me.

Lately, I’m Sure It’s You There

sariagray — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 00:12:31 GMT

Title: Lately, I’m Sure It’s You There
Rating: PG
Characters: Harry, John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Pairings: Gen, but hints of possible John/Sherlock in future
Word Count: ~3200
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism and depression.
Summary: Harry knows too much, and John is still in danger; Post-Reichenbach Christmas in a cabin.
Beta: analineblue, without whom I would never write a thing.
Disclaimer: Do not own, or lease.
Author Notes: Title and end-quote from Tori Amos’s “Our New Year.” Inspired by a need for more Harry Watson.

Lately, I’m Sure It’s You There

I know that Sherlock Holmes is not dead.

I know this because I saw him, alive and well, at his own gravesite. It is a secret that the British Government, embodied by a man wearing a stiff suit and holding an umbrella, has sworn me to keep.

“It is a matter of national security,” he says. “You understand, of course, Ms. Watson.”

“Harry,” I say, automatically. “Just Harry.”

I figure, if the British Government wants to call on me for tea and vaguely concealed threats, it might as well call me by my given name.

---

Six months, two weeks, four days, three hours, and forty-nine minutes.

Fifty minutes.

Fifty-one minutes.

That is how long I have been sober. If I hadn’t been, I might have mistaken what I’d seen that morning, relegated the shadowy figure of the late Sherlock Holmes to a bit of alcohol-induced fantasy. But it was bright out, and my head was clear, and I’ve always had sharp eyes.

He was dressed exactly the same as the one time we’d met: coat and scarf and sour, distant expression, standing over his own grave like an apparition.

I’d gone to give his bones a piece of my mind, because John never would. He would never blame Sherlock for what happened; he spouted off names like ‘Mycroft’ and ‘Moriarty’ and ‘Sally’ and let them carry the weight of it.

“He was pushed,” John had said that first night, sitting on my sofa and nursing a cup of tea like it was the only warm thing in the world.

I had barely opened my mouth to respond before he continued.

He said, “Not physically, not by hands, but he was pushed all the same” and went back to staring blankly past my shoulder.

I didn’t argue with him then. There’s no arguing with a Watson when they get something in their head. And I didn’t know Sherlock Holmes well enough to make any good points, except that he was completely unpredictable and dangerous and narcissistic.

Takes one to know one, as they say.

I punched him – Sherlock, that is – at the grave. He turned around and his eyes widened in recognition, and then my fist was in his face.

He said, “Harriet,” as if we’d just run into each other in Tesco, and wiped at his open, bleeding mouth.

“You utter bastard. Does he know? Does John know? Who else knows?”

He straightened his collar, smoothed his scarf.

“He isn’t safe. John. Don’t – don’t tell him.” And then, an afterthought. “Please.”

“Who knows?”

I let my hand clench into a fist again, which wasn’t really much of a threat, as my knuckles ached and surely the great Sherlock Holmes could tell. Still, he deflated.

“My brother, for one. He will be in contact with you shortly.”

He paused. He looked at me the way he did when we first met, with his eyes narrowed and his face still.

“Five months sober,” he said after a moment. “Well done. Don’t speak a word.”

And then he left.

---

Our bags are packed. It’s almost Christmas, just ten days out, and John is withdrawing even further into himself.

Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother and the embodiment of the British Government, says it’s something to do with being in the battlefield, but not being able to fight. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t feel like asking.

He’s the reason we’re leaving. There’s a cabin in the countryside of Wales, somewhere, and we’re to stay there over the holidays. At least, that’s the idea.

I told John that we both needed to get away from London for a bit. It was getting too bright and too crowded and too bitter. I had some money left over, I said, from the separation settlement, and wouldn’t it be nice to stay in a cozy cabin?

When that didn’t work, I said I needed to remove myself from temptation – from the sadness of the season, from the countless cocktail parties – and that I didn’t want to go away alone.

That did the trick.

The truth of it is that we are not safe. I know too much, and John is still a target. Mycroft picked the location and added the many layers of security that we apparently won’t even notice. We’re getting close to something now, and no one will tell me what that something is.

---

My brother still believes in Sherlock Holmes.

It frustrates me to no end, because he has no reason to. Even though I know he’s right, even though I’m proud of him for being so unerringly loyal, it eats away at me. Because Sherlock believes in John just as much, cares for him in a way I didn’t think he was capable of…and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like that.

Trust, they say, is the foundation of a relationship. I think it’s more the fulcrum, the way it can make a relationship tip and falter if it’s not balanced correctly. But what do I know? I have nothing but a failed love life and decades of blacked out memories behind me.

Clara and I still talk on occasion. She’s seeing someone new, and I actually like her. They’re good together. It makes me want to punch things.

John caught me sitting on the edge of my bathtub, crying, last night. There was an unopened bottle of red wine in my hands; I was gripping its neck and twisting my fingers and sobbing over it. He took it from me and held me, his hand on the back of my head.

It was all I could do not to tell him that Sherlock was still alive, to give him that one comfort in return.

---

The cabin is, if nothing else, comfortable. It has all of the modern amenities – running water, heat, electricity – and all of the classic comforts. There are heavy quilts on the beds, thick and cool to the touch. The furniture is made of warm polished wood and upholstered in plush flannels and fleeces. The rooms smell of sharp pine and deep earth.

There is internet access, of course, but it feels almost a shame to sit down on my laptop or to check my phone. John has retreated into the kitchen to make tea. I’m hoping this place is unfamiliar enough to keep the memories at bay.

Before we left, I’d received a last minute visit from Mycroft. We’ve had to keep these meetings a secret from John, so we either wait until he leaves for work or Mycroft picks me up in one of his sleek black cars and we drive around London, aimlessly.

This time, we met in an abandoned warehouse.

“I appreciate your silence, Ms. Watson,” he said.

I’ve long since stopped correcting him. He seems the type to want to keep a good bit of distance between us. I’m perfectly fine with this.

“How long do I have to keep it?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. I do that, when I’m defensive. At least, that’s what Clara’s told me. I also spread my legs a little and angle my body like I’m looking for a fight. I wasn’t looking for one this time, though. I just wanted answers.

“I’m optimistic that we should be in the clear once you and John return from your holiday. If you have need of anything while there, please contact my assistant. Only contact me directly if it is an emergency.”

He then told me that the cabin was well-stocked with food and supplies, and that we’d want for nothing. Well. There’s a lot I want for, but I doubt I’d get any of it from Mycroft Holmes.

---

John is out cutting firewood for the fireplace in the sitting room. It’s a big thing, rather grand, and I’d mentioned earlier that it might be nice to have a proper fire for Christmas Eve.

It’s cold out, with a light dusting of snow on the ground, but even still, he’s taken his jacket off. It’s resting on a stump next to where he’s chopping.

We cut down a pine last night and brought it in. We have no decorations; it’s just standing in front of the window. There’s popcorn, though, and I bet there’s thread somewhere, so maybe I’ll make a garland tonight. It’s going to be a very quiet, plain Christmas this year. I don’t know if I prefer it this way or not. It might be better if there was a bit more joy to be had between us.

---

We spent Christmas Eve bundled up under blankets, looking at the stars from the front porch. We were facing out across the yard. Maybe that’s why it was easier to talk; we didn’t have to look at each other.

“I miss him,” John said. His voice sounded like it did when he was little, and scared. “Sometimes, I wake up and wonder what he’s done to the flat overnight, and then I remember that he’s not there, and there is no flat, and then it hurts to breathe.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I – is this how it felt, for you? With Clara?”

I paused, remembering. Or, trying to. A lot of that time is painted over black and grey and brown, muddied and foggy. “I felt numb. I was drunk half the time, and angry the other half. I spent so long trying to pretend not to care.”

“I don’t think I could pretend.”

We sat, silent and huddled, for another hour before heading back in to our beds.

---

My first present was a text from a now-familiar number proclaiming us “clear of danger,” but reminding me to continue holding my tongue, as a precaution.

My second was being woken by John as he shook my leg and gasped, with a smirk, that it was Christmas morning.

I laughed; we used to do this to each other on Christmas mornings past, and while his eyes weren’t alight with excitement and anticipation, while I could tell that he was faking it, I knew he was doing it for my sake and I was grateful.

“Not like we have any presents under the tree,” I grumbled, pushing him off of me.

“Um. Well. Actually, we do. And a visitor.”

I froze. Was this to be the big reveal, then?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry I kept it a secret so long.”

He laughed. “It’s fine, really. Although I don’t know how she made it up here with all of those packages and her hip and not a bit of help.”

Not much of a reveal after all.

Still, it was pleasant having Mrs. Hudson in, and things from friends and family to unwrap under the tree. I’d not interacted much with John’s former landlady, but she always struck me as pleasant and maternal, and I had been happy that at least one reasonable adult was looking out for my brother.

We left John to clean up the paper, and I pulled Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen for tea.

“Mycroft’s doing?”

She nodded. “He’s a dear boy, he does try, but oh how he and Sherlock used to be at it all the time! You’d think…well.” She shook her head, then glanced back into the sitting room. John was sat on the floor, surrounded by bits of wrapping and starring out the window. “How is he holding up?”

“He’s not himself, but I suppose he’s getting there. I just wish….”

I trailed off, and she put her hand on my shoulder, her voice low.

“It’ll be over soon, dear. I told Mycroft that it’d be best to ease him into it, but he wouldn’t listen to a word. Too much danger, or some such.”

“You know?”

She nodded. “Just as of last week, mind. I had to take Sherlock’s things back out of storage and tidy up the flat. I don’t know that John will want to move back in, of course, but the rooms needed airing, and there was so much dust!”

So much dust, so much airing. And more to come, I’m sure.

---

“Last Christmas,” John says.

“It was a lovely party.” Mrs. Hudson pats him on the knee. “Although Molly, the poor dear! And that awful business with the morgue!”

“And Jeanette.”

I sip my cocoa and tuck the quilt around my legs. It’s getting late, and we’re sitting by the fire on the couch and the chairs, telling stories. There’s one here, in this mention, if the look on John’s face is any indication.

“Jeanette?” I ask.

“Mm. We’d been dating, oh, two weeks. And then Sherlock insults her, forgets who she is, and then I forget who she is. Thought she was the one with the bloody dog, bugger it all. And she tells me I’m a wonderful boyfriend, and Sherlock is a lucky man.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. It feels good, and soon John is laughing, and Mrs. Hudson, too. We’re all giggling like children; we can’t even look at each other without falling into it again.

“You know, I’ve never met any of your girlfriends since…since you came back home,” I say, once we’ve calmed down a bit.

Mrs. Hudson tsks and gives a wink. “That’s because Sherlock always got to them first. I always did wonder…oh, well.”

John finishes off his cocoa first and leans back in his seat. He’s always had an open face, my brother, and I can watch him sink into some memory or another. If I’m honest, I always did wonder, myself. John had been rather devoted to Sherlock, and I think maybe a little in love with the bastard.

He seems to shake himself out of it, and he smiles. “I’m as straight as a ruler, Mrs. H.”

“Yes,” I say. “You are. But they make rulers out of rubber now, and those can bend.”

I grin. Mrs. Hudson laughs. John throws a cushion at me and the last bit of my cocoa goes all over my shirt.

Not such a bad Christmas, after all.

---

Mrs. Hudson will be staying with us through the New Year. I insisted, and John could do nothing but agree, and so our plan was put into action.

She’s good to have around, not just because she lightens the burden of my secret. She is quick, that one, and I half expect she can see just as astutely as Sherlock could. Maybe that’s why they got along so well. I’d always wondered.

She’s been teaching me to knit. I don’t think I’ll ever really take it up, but it’s nice to have something to do with my hands while we wait. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing right now. Waiting.

John, of course, is waiting for his life to get back on track. He’s waiting for something to break, or to fix itself, or to just disappear completely. I suppose Mrs. Hudson and I are waiting for the same thing, although we have the curse and the blessing of knowing just what shape it will take.

He has been reading a lot, lately. The cabin has a decent bookshelf, filled with classics. He’s on Dickens, now. I don’t know which one, but it looks thick and heavy and, well, boring. I’ve never been much of a fan of Dickens. He writes too much and says too little.

It’s snowing now, too, and we have the fire going again. It makes me nostalgic, which is silly, as I’ve never spent time in a cabin, in the snow, with a fire before. Still, there’s a twinge of the distantly familiar.

“You’re a romantic soul, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hudson says, after a while.

“I don’t think many would say that about me.”

“Not many would say that Sherlock cared too much, either, but he did.”

Her voice is low, quiet – John is in his room, but everything is so still here that sound carries further than you’d think it should.

I nod.

“I can tell,” she continues, still looking down at the blue-grey scarf she’s knitting. “You’ve got the look of the broken-hearted on your face. It’s okay, dear. We’ve all been there. Have I told you about my husband?”

I say no, and so she does, and I feel a little better (selfishly, of course) after.

---

New Year’s Eve passes even more quietly than Christmas. We’ve done most of our packing, and there’s obviously no alcohol in the cabin to be had. We drink sparkling cider, instead. It’s sweet and crisp, and I don’t miss champagne as much as I thought I might.

They both know, of course, and so they keep my brain occupied and my mouth laughing. We don’t even make it to midnight. We go to bed at half past ten and I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, remembering what can be remembered of parties past. Not much, it turns out. But I will always remember tonight.

John’s eyes were smiling, for once. The crow’s feet (oh, when did we both get so old, brother?) crinkle, the lines on his face deepen. It’s lovely; he looks warmer than he has in months.

I’m terrified to think what might happen.

We’ll leave for London tomorrow, and drop Mrs. Hudson off at Baker Street, and then….Well, only time will tell.

---

There’s grey and brown slush on the streets, and the air feels thick with grime, after so long in the country. There’s too much artificial light and no stars. The city is a barrier between us both; John is tense to the point of stillness, and I am fidgety with nerves, chewing on my cuticles. Mrs. Hudson is the only one of us who seems remotely calm.

The cab brings us to the front of 221 Baker Street. It is dark as midnight; it looks almost deserted. The little shop below is closed, too, and the only light comes from the streetlamps. It’s never looked so dismal or foreboding before.

“John, be a dear. Could you help me with my case?”

His mouth is tight, but he nods. He’d help her carry her things into Hell, I know; in fact, for him, that’s probably not so different from what he’s agreeing to do right now.

I step out from the front seat to open the door for them, and tell the driver to wait. It takes them a moment to maneuver and bring Mrs. Hudson’s things (a bag and her case and the duffel of fresh pine we’d collected for her own fireplace) to the door.

I am holding the cab when I hear it – the soft strains of a violin (god, it sounds like weeping). They slowly solidify, and grow louder, until I find I’m quietly humming along to Auld Lang Syne on a London street at quarter past eleven at night.

Looking back, as I climb into the cab, I see John freeze mid-reach for the doorknob, Mrs. Hudson right next to him. Her hand hovers over his back, as though ready to comfort him at a moment’s notice, if necessary.

And then, like a switch has been flipped, he throws the door open and flies up the stairs. The lights on the second floor go on before John could have made it to their old flat. Out of nowhere, it starts to snow.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I just tell the driver my address and rest my head in my hands, my coat pulled tightly around me.

---

Every corner that I turn,
I've convinced myself one day you'll be there.
Choruses of 'Auld Lang Syne' –
Could this be the year?

The End