The Flying Detective

So, it's been a while, I know. No excuses (beyond my stupid computer and our muck up). Just been real busy. But, I wanted to let y'all know I'm not quite dead yet. So, have another fun story with a weird prompt. And, Sherlock and John because, why not?

The Flying Detective -- an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “An air mattress?”

     “Shut up, Sherlock,” John muttered darkly. “It’s the best Greg could do on short notice, alright? Just go get ready for bed, I’ll blow the damn thing up.”

     Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the inflatable device before spinning out of the room and towards the bathroom. John rolled his eyes, but quickly found the pump and plugged it. Flipping the switch, the room filled with noise as the machine blew air into the mattress. A few minutes later, John switched it off and stored the pump somewhere out of the way.

     “Bloody prat,” the doctor muttered as he stood and stretched, glancing around the DI’s flat. “His fault for nearly killing us with his damn experiments.”

     “Miscalculation, John,” Sherlock snorted, coming back into the stare at their makeshift bed for the evening. “Won’t happen again. Are you sure he doesn’t have anything else?”

     “You’re lucky you’re even getting that!” Greg snapped as he stormed in through the door. “Sorry you’ll have to share, but it really is the best I can do. Don’t trust the couch to hold either of you for long.”

     “No, of course not. It’s nearly dead as is, you should purchase a new one.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, eyes still fixed on the bed.

     “Yeah, I’ll do that, when I win the lottery next.” The DI rolled his eyes. “I’m off. I’ll probably be back some point tonight, make yourselves at home.” He paused and glared at Sherlock, quickly making a correction. “John, you can make yourself at home. Keep him contained, yeah?”

     John snorted but nodded his agreement. “I’ll do my best, mate.”

     Greg nodded, hesitating only a moment more before darting out the door, leaving the two alone. John groaned and rubbed a hand across his face before muttering something about needing the loo.

     He left Sherlock staring at the mattress, probably trying best how to proceed, but he didn’t care. No, he wanted to get as much of the damn stink off of himself as he could. He’d deal with Sherlock’s irritation at the mattress in a few minutes.

     He looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. God did he look tired. Worse, he looked tired and old. He felt it a bit, then, staring at himself. A man his age should not be running after murders and rapists and other criminals. It was at this point he was more than glad his leg was nothing more than a passing injury, real or not.

     With a grunt, John tore his eyes away from his image and ran through his nightly rituals as quickly as he could. Exhaustion was pulling at him and he wanted to do nothing more than flop down into bed and let it pull him down.

     Returning to the living room, he smirked as he noticed Sherlock had assumed his usual position of mock-prayer on one side of the air mattress. His eyes were closed, hands pressed together right under his lips, legs crossed at the ankles. It seemed the mighty detective could live with sleeping on the air mattress for one night after all.

     John stumbled on his way over the bed, tripping over his own feet, and landed next to the taller man with a loud whump. The sudden impact of John forced the air from the mattress on his side to Sherlock’s, easily launching the other man into the air with a startled squawk. He flailed wildly as he flew, landing on the ground and his backside with a thump.

     “What the hell was that?” Sherlock demanded, sitting up. His hair was in disarray and his cheeks were pink.

     John struggled to hold in his laughter, but couldn’t the longer he stared at Sherlock. “God, you should have seen your face!”

     “John!” Sherlock snapped.

     “I’m sorry,” John said between laughs, wiping away the tears that slipped out. “It was an accident, I swear! Just so tired and I stepped wrong and tripped. I didn’t mean it.”

     “Is it going to be like this every time one of us gets on or off this stupid thing?”

     “No.” At Sherlock’s skeptical look, John sighed. “I promise. I won’t get up and fall back down and if you get back on carefully, I won’t go flying either.”

     “Hardly doubt I could send you off that high,” Sherlock muttered darkly, crawling back onto the air mattress as carefully as he could. “You obviously have me at a disadvantage there.”

     “Oi!” John snorted. “No fat jokes!”

     “Hardly, John, just pointing out that you are, in fact, built differently than I and would find launching me far easier than I would be at attempting to do the same to you.”

     “Might have a better chance if you ate more,” John muttered, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “G’night, Sherlock.”

     “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, resuming his previous position. “Goodnight, John.”

Happy Halloween!

Surprise, surprise! I actually managed to get a Halloween story done in time for the holiday this year! I've always wanted to do one, but could never get it to work right. This year, thanks to one of those lovely headcanons floating around Pinterest, I was able to get this done back in July! I couldn't be happier.

The headcanon: Sherlock likes to pretend not to see himself in mirrors, be averse to garlic and crosses etc., just to freak Anderson out. John caught on and started reminding Sherlock to stay out of direct sunlight when Anderson's around. They have a bet on when Anderson will break and start carrying around a wooden stake at work.

It's a bit rough, but it's not horrid. Makes me giggle anyway. I hope you enjoy it!

A Vampire for Halloween -- an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “What’s that look for?”

     Sherlock blinked and turned to John. “What look?”

     “You know the look.” John sighed as Sherlock raised a brow. “The ‘I have something devious planned’ look. You were wearing it not a minute ago.”

     “Halloween, John.”

     “Is next month. What about it?” John frowned and folded his paper, setting it aside for later. Sherlock was wearing that look again. It worried him a bit. “Murders will go up. Is that what’s got you all excited?”

     The tall detective groaned and stood, pacing in the living room. “Obvious, John, but something far more entertaining. You’d enjoy it too, I suppose. It does target Anderson.”

     “Anderson? What’s gotten into you?”

     “Halloween!”

     Sherlock stood on the coffee table and grinned widely. It was a bit haunting, that look, but John couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. He waved a hand at his flatmate.

     “Out with it, then. What are you up to?”

     “Something devious, John, something wonderfully fun!”

-

     October first came and John should have been prepared for Sherlock’s game. He’d started bits of it at Baker Street, but John had been on the lookout for cases deemed interesting enough for the great Sherlock Holmes. So when they pulled up at the crime scene and Lestrade looked amused, it caught him a bit by surprise.

     “Careful, Sherlock,” Lestrade called out. “Heard this one loved her crosses.”

     Anderson’s head popped up, eyes narrowed as he watched the tall man stride into the room, close enough to the victim, but well away from the kitschy collection of bedazzled crosses. He muttered darkly as he paused at the jewelry around the woman’s neck.

     “John!” Sherlock straightened, turning to look at the doctor. “Kindly remove her jewelry and give it Lestrade. Can’t touch the bloody corpse like this!”

     John looked to Lestrade who nodded, looking a bit put-out, and he sighed. “Really, Sherlock? Do you have to touch her? Can’t you get close enough for a good look and give your deductions that way?”

     “You know my methods, John.”

     “Of course, you bloody git.” He smirked as he did as he was asked, handing the evidence to another officer who’d stepped up to take it. “There you go, free of any blessed items.”

     Sherlock quickly then began his usual manner of determining the death of the woman and who the killer was and where they were hiding. John glanced at Anderson to see the man wearing a confused and concerned scowl. Sergeant Donovan wasn’t sure what to make of it either.

-

     “If you’re not going to take the bloody umbrella, then stay out of the light, you bloody idiot.” John snapped, swinging the umbrella he was carrying. He’d never admit he’d brought it both to annoy Sherlock and to watch Anderson panic a bit more. “I can’t patch you up, remember?”

     “Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock muttered, frowning at the mirrored glass. “Wouldn’t dream of going into the sunlight; would ruin my complexion. How’s my hair? Do I need a trim? Can’t see a blasted thing in these mirrors.”

     “Your hair’s fine,” Lestrade spoke up. “If you’re done here, bugger off, yeah?”

     “Can’t see your hair?” Anderson huffed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

     Sherlock spun and gave the medical examiner a dark grin. “Oh, I don’t know, Anderson. What do the facts tell you?” He laughed as the man backed up a pace.

     “Vampires aren’t real, you know!”

     “Oh, have proof of that, do you?”

     “Sherlock, come on,” John rolled his eyes. “You may not eat, I sure as hell do! I’m leaving to head to Angelo’s, you coming or not?”

     Anderson paled a bit more at John’s comment, though it was unintentional. He swallowed a laugh as he took off down the sidewalk, not waiting for Sherlock to catch up. He was hungry, that much was true, and if Anderson wanted to add that tidbit to his list of ‘facts’ then who was John to stop him?

     “Now you’ve done it,” Sherlock chuckled, catching up. He’d pulled his Belstaff around his ears, “hiding” himself from the sun. “Did you really have to bring the umbrella? You know how much I despise Mycroft and his.”

     “Oh, it was a bit of fun,” John giggled. “I’ll leave it home next time. And Anderson can think what he wants. I was telling the truth that time. I am hungry and you rarely eat unless I force upon you.”

     “Delightful. He’s nervous, going to start carrying a stake at the next crime scene.”

     “Nah,” John shook his head. “Not yet. He’s definitely far more scared of you now than before. By Halloween, though, he’ll be carrying one. Sally too?”

     “Oh, she’s got Holy Water in her pocket and has started to wear a cross around her neck. Haven’t you been paying attention to how she holds her head up when I get close to insult her?”

     “Right. Still having fun, then? Halfway through the month, ought to make sure you’re still not bored.”

     Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly dull. Lestrade plays along well, you know. Did you tell him? Why did you tell him?”

     “Because one of them should know at least and Greg can help you before you get to the scene, you know, with the crosses, and garlic, and all.” John shrugged. “Plus, he enjoys watching Anderson freak out a bit too.”

     “Marvelous.” Sherlock grinned. “Best idea ever.”

-

     Three days until Halloween and there it was, on the medical examiner’s waist: a wooden stake. John blinked at it for a moment before realizing that Anderson wasn’t the only who had one. Sally and a few other officers carried various ‘anti-Vampire’ kits on their sides.

     “Greg,” John stood next to the DI, his voice low, “How many officers have you told about Sherlock’s little prank?”

     “Most of them. Not Donovan or Anderson, since those were his targets, I presume.” Lestrade shrugged. “Some still think he’s not acting, so I let them think what they will. He’ll get bored of it soon, right?”

     “Oh, no doubt, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, strolling up to them. “But, I do have one final scheme to bother Anderson with, with your permission, of course. And your assistance?”

     “Oi, your hearing that good?”

     “Nope, read your lips. Bit boring, really.” The taller man shrugged. “Will you help me or no?”

     “Of course. What do you have planned?” At Sherlock’s grin, the DI frowned. “Do you know your face does that? Does he know his face does that?”

     “Does what?”

     “That ‘I have something devious planned’ look? No, he doesn’t. Makes him look a bit mad, though.” John chuckled.

     “Which is nothing new, John. Everyone thinks I’m mad.”

     “Only a bit,” Lestrade said. “Some of us think you’re only a bit mad. Know you, is all. Your plan?”

     “Of course,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The plan.”

-

     ‘The plan’ would have waited until after Halloween night, but as luck would have it, a ‘fresh body’ showed up Halloween night and put it all into motion. Bless Molly and her wonderful ways. After a bit of an argument, Sherlock agreed to wear the vest under his clothing, just as a precaution. John didn’t want a trip to the A&E just because the idiot wasn’t willing to be prepared. They met Lestrade and most of his team outside the scene. Sally stood a bit off from the group, watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes as they wandered into the house. Lestrade grinned at her before the door shut behind them.

     “She wonders why you don’t get attacked, either of you since I’m a psychopath.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Thinks you’re working for me, under some spell, Lestrade. Should really set that one straight.”

     “It’ll sort itself out tonight,” Lestrade waved a hand, dismissing it all. “No crosses and this one was allergic to garlic. Everything else is in place outside, Anderson will be out in a bit. So, what happened?”

     Sherlock took in the room and gave his deductions at rapid speed. John rolled his eyes as he steered away from the mirrors. He gave his solution to Lestrade (heart attack, not murder, boring) before stalking his way outside, clearly in a dark mood.

     John and Lestrade were close on his heels as the younger Holmes brother threw open the door and practically flew at Anderson. The medical examiner squealed and fumbled for the wooden stake at his side, but it was a bit late for that. Sherlock had his mouth around Anderson’s shoulder, ‘biting’ as hard as he could.

     At Lestrade’s shout of “Sherlock!” another officer threw a bucket of faux blood at the detective and medical examiner, causing Anderson to rip himself away from Sherlock. John stepped up, simply to make sure neither man was actually injured (beyond Anderson’s fall – he’d tripped and landed on his backside in his hurry to get away).

     “Brilliant!” Sherlock crowed, ignoring the fact he was covered in red corn syrup. “Wonderful! It’s Christmas day! Look at him!”

     John and Lestrade shared a look before dissolving into laughter along with nearly the entire squad. Sally had rushed to Anderson’s side only to be brushed off as the medical examiner stood to glare at them.

     “What the hell what that about!” He snapped, stalking up to Sherlock. “You trying to kill me or something!”

     “Hardly, Anderson,” Sherlock grinned. “Bored, needed entertainment and you were the easiest to fool. Should have suspected Sergeant Donovan as well, but that wasn’t the point, really. Thank you for playing along.”

     “Playing along – what do you mean by that?”

     “Just that, Anderson,” Lestrade managed over his laughter. “Bloody good trick, it was. Should have seen your face! Squealed like a girl!”

     “I do not squeal!” Anderson denied adamantly, stomping his foot, “Besides, I was only trying to protect myself from that bloody Vampire!”

     “Oi, you do, mate!” John grinned. “And Sherlock’s no Vampire. He could see himself in those mirrors just fine and none of your stuff would have worked on him.”

     “Well, the stake, John, but that hardly matters. Stab anyone with a stake and they’d die. Obvious.” Sherlock said. “Come on, I’d like to get home before this sets in too horribly. Afraid it’ll ruin my Belstaff.”

     “Don’t drip on the floor, Mrs. Hudson will kill us,” John looked at his flatmate and sighed. “Oh, we’re going to have to walk. No cabbie will let you in like that.”

     “Fair enough, come on then.” Sherlock strode ahead, waving a hand as they left the DI and half the Yard behind them. “Happy Halloween, Lestrade. Do try and have something more interesting next time please!”

     “Of course, you git.” Lestrade laughed. “Happy Halloween to you too!”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Tone is Everything when Speaking

I worked on this one for a long while. In the beginning I wasn't sure if I wanted this to be Sherlock/John or my own characters. Of course, as I started writing, Sherlock simply took over and decided for me. Not that I mind, of course. It's nice to have characters help out now and again.

I'm not fully thrilled with this one as I think it could be a whole lot more, but again, the thought was to put words on a page and move on. Which I did. It turned out well enough, but if I have time during NaNoWriMo, I may go back and edit it a bit. We'll see.

There is a companion piece to this. Two, actually. I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to post them here or not yet. If I don't, I will definitely link them to my deviantArt page. One is in the middle of this and the other is floating around through time and space, but it fits in this AU.

Without further ado, I give you the story inspired by the prompt: Don't sign to me in that tone.

Don't Sign to Me in That Tone -- An original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     His hands flew quickly, signing in an angry tone if his face was anything to go by. Damn it! I nearly had it that time! You should know better than to interrupt me!

     I rolled my eyes and signed back just as quick, speaking aloud as I did so, “Don’t you sign to me in that tone. Be nice, your hair was about to catch fire.”

     To hell with my hair! A scowl settled on his face as he sat back and glared at me.

    “You say that now,” I huffed, “But you love your hair. You’d sulk even more if you’d burnt your damn hair.”

     The tall man snorted and pushed away from the table angrily. He stalked off towards his room and the door slammed shut. I sighed and rolled my eyes, not bothering to walk down the hall and find out how upset he was with me. He’d probably forget to sign and simply make rude gestures instead.

     I cleared the table off and threw away the burnt bits. He’d sulk now, but he’d be fine later and, if I was extremely lucky, I’d get some sort of apology. He really did love his bloody hair, but the experiment was probably just as important. I’d find a way to make it up to him.

     A few hours later, the dark haired man finally decided to grace our living room with his presence. He sat in his chair, legs curled up beneath him as he looked at me, studying me. I didn’t look up from my paper beyond that initial look, waiting for him to make some noise to get my attention. I didn’t have to wait long.

     I… He snorted, frowning. I’m sorry, John. I would have had an awful strop over my hair, thank you for preventing me from setting it aflame.

     “You’re welcome, Sherlock,” I gave my response and raised an eyebrow, on hand on the paper.

     Fine, go back to reading. I’ll entertain myself then.

     “Just don’t set anything else on fire,” I mumbled, returning to my paper.

-

     “Damn it, Sherlock! Stop signing to me in that bloody tone!” I snapped, forgetting to sign this time. He rolled his eyes, pretending he couldn’t understand me, but I knew the idiot could read lips. “Keep it up and I will leave you here! Greg can take you home and he’s horrible at signing.”

     He wrinkled his nose before blowing out a steam of air. Fine. Tell them. He paused for a moment before adding a Please at the end.

     I turned to the DI and outlined what the detective had said, leaving out the insults and ‘obvious’ remarks. Sherlock gave a sort of growl, something he always did when I didn’t repeat what he said exactly as he’d told it to me, but I ignored it.

     Sally opened her mouth and Sherlock made a handful of gestures and I let out a hissed, “Sherlock!” before turning to the sergeant and shaking my head. “Please, don’t, Sally. I’d rather not repeat that.”

     She blinked, turning a shade darker from blushing most likely, and shut her mouth with a click of teeth. A quick look toward Lestrade and she spun, disappearing behind a car, probably to mutter darkly where the tall man couldn’t see her.

     Sherlock spun and took off, signaling the end of our help and I sighed, following closely behind with a shout to the DI. I had to nearly jog to keep up to his long legs and ridiculously billowing coat, but when I caught up he signed a simple thank you which I smiled at.

     He wasn’t so bad, not really.

-

     “Don’t sign to me in that tone, John.”

     That was the first time I had ever heard Sherlock’s voice beyond a handful of grunts, growls, and irritated noises. I had also been wrapped up in semtex at the time, signing back what Moriarty was spouting off in my ear. I’d been so startled that I stopped and stared at him like some idiot.

     “So the great Sherlock Holmes can speak!” Moriarty appeared around the corner, delight rolling off his tongue as he laughed and clapped his hands together. “How interesting!”

     “Don’t be stupid,” Holmes rolled his eyes, gun pointed at the madman, “Talking is boring.”

     “You bloody git!” I hissed, glaring at him, but he didn’t spare me more than a glance. If we survived this, I would strangle him myself for forcing me to put up with him for this long.

     They both continued to ignore me, I assumed because I was no longer useful to either of them at the moment, which gave me time to prepare an attack. Of course my meager attempt was useless and we eventually got away with our lives, all three of us that bastard, and we headed back to Baker Street.

     Once there I simply headed to my room and locked myself in, effectively ignoring my flatmate. I went about doing so for several weeks, during which Sherlock spent his time obsessing over his new puzzle (one Jim Moriarty) or sending Lestrade frustrated texts because I refused to accompany him during his consultations with the Yard. He could just talk to Greg anyway, so why did he need me?

     I ignored his off-handed remarks and piss-poor attempts to explain why he refused to talk since childhood. I found a reason to be out of the flat: work at the surgery or need to get some air, might go see what Mike’s up to today. Hell, I’d put up with Harry if it meant I didn’t have to spend time with that lying bastard. Whatever reason I could come up with, I used, no matter how stupid it seemed.

     It was only after Mycroft interfered with a black car pulling up to the curb and driving me away from the flat that I begin to think that I should probably listen to what Sherlock had to say. Blessfully, the elder Holmes simply insisted that I listen to his brother than explain the whole thing for him. He sent me back with a smile I knew was fake, and I stalked up the stairs and demanded an explanation.

-

     “For the thousandth time, do not sign to me in that tone, you bloody git!” I snapped at the crime scene. I signed rapidly, if you keep up your attitude, I’ll out your damn arse to the entire Yard.

     Sherlock hesitated and stared at me, eyes wide. You would. He decided. His lip raised in annoyance. That would be not good, John, you know that. It would ruin everything.

     “Exactly,” I muttered. But I wouldn’t be the only one putting up with your insults and foul signs.

Lestrade guesses, or knows, haven’t decided yet. Need more data. He doesn’t care though, either way. Likes it when you take charge of me. Interesting. He began wondering if he’d prefer Mycroft more because of how controlling his brother was and I blushed.

     “Oi! Case!” I snapped.

     Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I saw my name and his brother’s a few times. What’s going on?”

     I shook my head as he switched gears and began to outline his deductions. I repeated them back, glad for the change in topic. The DI said nothing as I accepted the switch of conversation and shouted orders to his officers.

     Come along, John! Sherlock signed, The game is on!

-

     Don’t sign it, I smiled, stilling his hands, “Please?”

     He sighed and rolled his eyes. For several long moments, there was silence before Sherlock took a breath and spoke,

     “I do.”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Grey not Gray

So, when I was writing this, I vaguely remembered that I have this GIANT list of writing prompts. Okay, giant is perhaps a bit much, but that hardly matters. It's called 100 Themes Writing Challenge. It's still a huge work in progress, but it's full of fun stuff.

This week's story isn't really based on a "prompt" per say, but rather a fun little ficlet I found on Pinterest (because I find nearly 100% of my prompts there). The link to this can be found here, as a photo, (please, PLEASE, PLEASE let me know if this disappears, I can link it from another source).

The work below, titled "Shades of Grey" has ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with that blasted book series. It was number 34 on the list of 100 (as can be found above), so please don't bother with those sorts of jokes. Besides, this is actually rather sad and a bit depressing. I killed John (sorta).

Shades of Grey - An original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     The sky was grey. The clouds were grey. His bloody Belstaff was grey. The man standing next to him was grey, or rather his clothing and hair were grey. The damn stone was grey. It was as if the colour was stolen from the world and it made him sick. He could only pray it didn’t bleed into his mind palace.

     “Lestrade,” he murmured, his deep voice soft with confusion. “What is this?”

     The DI looked over at the tall man huddled in his coat briefly before looking back at the stone in front of them. He sighed and ran a hand through his ever-greying hair. Sherlock now wore the same look that John had when the taller man…

     “He waited every day for you, Sherlock,” Lestrade huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his feet uneasily.

     “It,” The consulting detective paused, sounding choked. “It says John Holmes on the stone. Why?”

     Lestrade laughed.

     It sounded dead.

     It felt dead.

     He felt empty.

     “He loved you, Sherlock. He really did.”

     “Why haven’t you changed your name?”

     Lestrade blinked, reeling slightly from the change of topic. “What?”

     Sherlock’s multifaceted gaze flicked over him. “You and my brother,” another strangled sound. “Sentiment, Lestrade. Surely you two have done something about it now.”

     “That doesn’t matter,” Lestrade hissed. “John is what matters right now, you idiot! And he’s gone.”

     “Obvious!”

     The word shattered the silence, yet pulled in more, something worse than silence.

     “Mycroft did this, Sherlock, changed his name as he was…” Lestrade broke off, dropping his gaze to his shoes. “He signed the paperwork, you two are, were legally wed for a bit.”

     Sherlock whimpered.

     Lestrade said nothing.

     “I can’t hear anything,” he muttered after a moment. “The noise in my head is silent and there’s so much damn grey everywhere.”

     The DI had no reply to that. What do you tell the man who clearly couldn’t see that the man in front of him was utterly smitten with him?

     Nothing.

     “I’m, uh,” Lestrade sighed. “I’m going to visit your brother. You’ll, you’ll be alright here?”

     “I’m fine. It’s fine,” Sherlock huffed, waving at hand at the older man. A clear dismissal. “I just… A few moments, alone, yes.”

     He stood, listening as Lestrade was driven away by one of Mycroft’s minions, leaving him in silence and utterly alone as he stared at the name on the stone. Underneath his birthday and day of death was etched a few lines of sentiment.

     John Watson was beloved by many, loved by few, and cared for only one. He saved many lives while he was alive and we’ll miss him when he’s gone. May God bless his soul.

     “John,” Sherlock shuddered, dropping to his knees. “Damn it, John… Why couldn’t you wait a few more days? I was coming home, John, I was coming home…”

     He stayed that way for hours, hand pressed against the name, letting tears flow freely from his cheeks as the world became grey. Who was he without his blogger?

     The sky had no answer, nor did the stone. And, as he had feared, even the walls of his mind palace had become grey to match the world around him.

     “Goodbye, John…”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

I Beg Your Pardon...

The prompt for the story this week was, of course, from Tumblr/Pinterest. "Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you've caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the 'girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft' and I'm trying to figure out how to break it to you that we're on our way to a graveyard."

Of course, with this prompt, I immediately thought of Lynn Anderson's song, "I Beg Your Pardon, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden". Hence the title of the story itself.

I was struck by John to steal flowers from Sherlock's garden. And, of course, Sherlock has bees because it's Sherlock and of course he's got bees. This was a fun little AU (alternative universe) where perhaps they didn't meet at Bart's, but rather on the way to visit the ex-army soldier's parents.

I had fun with it and hope you enjoy it.

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden - An original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     It was nearly a weekly routine. He’d make his way to the cemetery, occasionally pause at the edge of a large field of wildflowers to pick a small bouquet, and finish his walk. He’d stop by the stone that held their names and places the flowers, spending a brief amount of time there, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.
     His return home was by far much quicker. He’d walk quickly through the cemetery, past the field, and return home to lock himself away for another week, maybe two if he thought he could get away with it.
     It went on this way for months, until he hesitated at the edge of the field, suddenly wary of the tall man who stood in the middle of the wildflowers. He had a scowl on his face and quicksilver eyes seemed to bore into his mind.
     “You’re the one stealing flowers from my garden.”
     He blinked rapidly for a moment, mouth hanging open in surprise. His garden? It was just a field of wildflowers, not a garden. Wasn’t it?
     “Once a week you wander past here, sometimes stopping to gather a small amount of flowers, particularly the dimorphotheca aurantiaca and nemophila menziesii.” The man’s frown deepened. “I do not know why, though I suspect it’s for some female, to gain her attention and affections, and those two, in particular, seem to be her favorites. Or your favorites, since the later does seem to deepen the blue of your own eyes. A point in your favor, perhaps, since women do seem to favor tall, dark, and handsome, which trait you only carry one.”
     “I, uh,” he blinked, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was your garden. Didn’t realize it was a garden at all, in fact.”
     “No, of course not. People rarely seem to think. Flowers growing next to a manicured lawn, surely nothing odd about that. The bees would take unkindly to you if they carried such mental capacity.” The taller man rolled his eyes. “However, I will admit I am curious to see if your token of sentiment works or not. Gather what you will and I will determine if you are to be allowed to continue or if I should call the police after you.”
     “The police!” He shook his head, “There’s no need for that! I didn’t know, honest! I won’t do it again!”
     The man waved a hand. “For me to decide. You have your instructions. Pick what this woman of yours desires and let’s get on with it, yes? I do not have all day.”
     He huffed and gathered a handful of flowers, tempted to stay away from the daisies and baby blue eyes, but they were a favorite, though not for the reason the taller man suspected. He grit his teeth and stood, waving a hand towards the path he usually took.
     “Sherlock Holmes,” the man said once he’d caught up.
     He looked over at the taller man, frowning for a moment, before offering up his own name.
     “John Watson,” he stared at the path. “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes-.”
     “Sherlock,” the tall man muttered.
     “Sherlock, then,” John huffed, “I didn’t realize it was a garden. I’ll just drop by the florist next time.”
     “Perhaps,” Sherlock interrupted. “But that is if I decide not to press charges for your theft. Constant, I must say. My brother can probably fetch plenty of evidence against you, which would be a pity for you and this relationship you’re in.”
     “Now see here, Mr. Holmes!” John bristled, pausing for a moment.
     “Sherlock, please,” the taller man looked down at John. “Stand down, soldier, I won’t bite. If nothing else, you have alleviated my boredom for the day. Perhaps I shall leave the Yard out of this should it be interesting enough.”
     “Boredom?” John frowned. What was this madman playing at? He blinked and gaped at Sherlock, the thought of telling the taller man that they were in fact on their way to the graveyard instead of seeing some woman slipped his mind. “Stand down, soldier? What the hell was that?”
     “You were a soldier, the way you hold yourself when confronted with a thought you don’t like or a threat. I suppose that limp you’ve now got is entirely in your head, but I do believe you’ve been told that by your therapist enough that you finally believed it. I suppose it comes out at moments of great duress, such as this – a complete stranger accompanying you to your significant other to deliver flowers and to be put under scrutiny. Hardly commonplace.”
     “And you got that how?”
     “Your tan lines. Nearly gone now, but still visible. Cuffs and collar, not enough of you tanned to be a vacation and, as I do hate repeating myself, the way you hold yourself. I have seen enough military men in my line of work to know how they stand at attention. You hold yourself much like them, even if you’ve been discharged for quite some time.” Sherlock glanced at him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Like I said, interesting.”
     “Brilliant,” John muttered, forgetting to be annoyed for a moment or two.
     Sherlock frowned. “That’s not what people usually say.”
     “No?” John chuckled. “What do they usually say?”
     Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."
     John nodded, laughter dying as he stood outside the gates to the graveyard. Sherlock blinked a few times, his frown returning. He stared at John, who merely shrugged and made his way to the familiar stone, the taller man trailing close behind.
     “Hey Mum, hey Da,” John murmured, staring at the stone. “Made a new friend today on the way here. Found out the flowers I’ve been picking actually belong in his garden. Didn’t know. May have to bring you fancier ones next time if he doesn’t have me tossed in jail.”
     His eyes flicked towards Sherlock who stood next to him, staring at the stone with a surprised and confused look on his face. His lips twitched up in a smile before disappearing as he looked back at the worn headstone.
     “His name’s Sherlock Holmes,” John cleared his throat, continuing, “Guessed about my service, and my limp, though that’s hardly surprising, right?” A soft laugh escaped. “Thought I was getting flowers for a date, the silly man. But, he was right. You’ve always loved daisies and baby blues, haven’t you, Mum?”
     John knelt for a moment, placing the bundle of flowers he’d picked from Sherlock’s garden in front of the stone before standing and turning to the tall man. He grinned tightly, waving a hand down at the names.
     “Meet my parents, Sherlock,” he chuckled, “The lucky lady who knew which flowers would best match my eyes.”
     “John,” Sherlock blinked, finally turning to look at the man before him. “I – I apologize, I had no clue that this is what you, where you were going. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
     John laughed, waving him off. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Now you can come visit them with me. Mum would have liked you, I think, with your brilliant wit and fast tongue. Would have given her a run for her money in the gossip circles.”
     For several moments, they stood in silence around the stone before John snapped to attention, saluting the stone. With easy precision, he spun and marched a few steps away before slumping into an easier pace.
     Sherlock jogged to catch up, wondering if John had followed in his father’s footsteps, going into the military. It was a good possibility, but it was not a question he’d ask at this moment, not when the memory was still sore.
     They walked in silence until they reached the edge of Sherlock’s vast garden of wildflowers. John smirked, smiling up at him with his hands in his pockets.
     “So, do I need to wait around for the police, or was my girl pretty enough for you?”
     Sherlock looked down at John, confusion, and horror flicking across his face for a moment before he schooled his expression into a neutral one.
     “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” Sherlock waved a hand to brush off the notion. “However, I would like to invite you in for tea. I’d love to learn more about your parents. Weekly visits? Why is that? I’ve plenty of questions if you’re willing.”
     John grinned, relaxing and nodding. “Tea sounds fantastic.”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Extraterrestrial Humanoids and Sweetened Air-Fluff

So, I hope the blog is a bit easier to read now. I was trying to find a way to make the writing more visible without totally messing up my lovely layout. I like to think the grey is "Weeping Angel" grey, but that's just me.

Going to update weekly, on Mondays. I update multiple places on Mondays, so why not here as well. I'll keep uploading little short stories and fanfics and whatnot until I run out and then I'll go back to the 30-Day Challenge or something.

This week's story is called "Moon Men and Cotton Candy". A friend of mine gave me two words ('moon men' and 'cotton candy') and I immediately thought of how Sherlock pisses (makes fun of/ridicules) on John's choice of movies and not quite understanding the concept of cotton candy. Thus this story was born.

Moon Men and Cotton Candy - an original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “What is this?”
     John looked up and frowned. “It’s a movie.”
     “Obviously,” the detective rolled his eyes. “About moon men?”
     “Oh, shut up.” John snorted. “You hate all the movies I pick out. You’ll only deduce this one too, I’m sure.”
     Sherlock huffed but said nothing as he shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring at the doctor. John rolled his eyes and headed towards the counter, pausing by the snacks. He raised an eyebrow as he looked back over his shoulder.
     “What?”
     John closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Snacks, Sherlock. Want anything?”
     Sherlock huffed again, hand snaking out to grab a bag of cotton candy. “Do people actually eat this?”
     “Yes. Usually at fairs, though. Can be a bit sticky.” John shrugged.
     Sherlock stared at the brightly colored confection before heaving a heavy sigh. He soundly thoroughly put out by this whole affair. John clenched his jaw and counted again. He would not murder his flatmate in the movie store.
     “I don’t know why you bother following me,” he muttered as he swiped the candy from Sherlock and placed it and the movie on the counter. “You hate domesticity and all its finer points. Plus, you always piss on my choice in movies.”
     “Do not,” Sherlock muttered sulkily.
     “Bond, detective shows,” John ticked off a list as the cashier rang up the items. “Doctor Who. You even ruin books for me. I’ve had to read up in my room to keep the mystery there.”
     Sherlock raised an eyebrow, tempted to ruin the book that John was currently reading (the sister had done it, of course), but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he focused on why he had decided that following John around town was better than sitting back at the flat.
     “Bored. Besides, I do enjoy looking into the nuances that are John Watson.”
     “You’re not bored, and you don’t care about my nuances until you want to pester me.” John paid for the items and tossed Sherlock the cotton candy. “Don’t eat that until we’re back at the flat, yeah?”
     “I’m not a child in need of minding,” Sherlock snapped, spinning out of the store, coat billowing behind him.
     He didn’t wait for John as he raised his arm, hailing a cab instantly. John shook his head and ducked into the cab once Sherlock opened the door. The drive home was silent, though the old army doctor could tell Sherlock was fuming over the movie choice. He chuckled. Served the lanky git right for being a bloody prat and following him out.
~
     “I don’t understand what is going on!”
     John held back a laugh. “They’re exploring the moon, Sherlock, what’s hard about that?”
     “There is no life on the moon!”
     “Says the man who knows nothing about the solar system.”
     Sherlock glared at John, flicking a piece of the sticky pink candy at him before turning back to the screen. “Everyone knows there is no life outside the Earth. Science has yet to find proof.”
     “Of course, you know that.”
     “Everyone knows that, John. If there was life outside our planet it would be plastered everywhere and the crime in London would be boring.”
      “God forbid we find extra-terrestrial life elsewhere and the criminal underbelly of London suddenly becomes too dull for you.” John groaned. “Shut up, trying to watch this.”
     Sherlock huffed, torn between glaring at the melting mass of sugar in his hands and the obviously idiotic ‘astronauts’ searching for ‘moon men’. John chuckled and took a chunk and put it in his mouth, smirking at Sherlock’s frown.
     “This is a ridiculous attempt at a confection,” Sherlock muttered, following John’s example. Sweet and melted on his tongue. Mycroft could ruin his entire diet with this silly treat. Suddenly, Sherlock had an urge to send several tons of the stuff to his brother.
     “Don’t,” John shook his head. “You know Mycroft will not be amused. And I really don’t want to know what he’d do in return.”
     “The moon men look exactly like the so-called scientists,” Sherlock chose to ignore John’s warning. He had a point, but that didn’t mean he had to say that the doctor was right. “They’re not even-!”
     “Sherlock!” John snapped, shoving a handful of cotton candy in the detective’s mouth. “Shut up!”
     Sherlock gave him a glare that could send harden criminals scurrying, but John was pointedly ignoring him. He was going to enjoy the rest of the movie even if it meant shoving the rest of that damn candy down the bloody prat’s throat just to keep him quiet.
~
     “Still didn’t see the point,” Sherlock grumbled, washing his hands in the sink. John refused to let him touch anything until the stickiness was cleared from his fingers. He couldn’t blame John, not exactly. He’d be cross with himself later if he didn’t delete the entire night from memory.
     “To have fun, idiot,” John snorted, turning on the kettle. He busied himself with making tea as Sherlock muttered. “I won’t subject you to any more movies about moon men.”
     “Or let me pick up any of that dreadful candy.”
     “Agreed,” John nodded. “Don’t know what I was thinking, letting you get that stuff. Made a right mess of yourself. Go get changed.”
     Sherlock glared. “I am not a child, John Watson.”
     “And you’re going to ruin your clothing if you don’t get it into the wash, Sherlock Holmes,” John raised an eyebrow. “Go. Change.”
     Sherlock thought about fighting it for a minute, but eventually gave in and changed into his sleep pants and a t-shirt. He threw a dressing gown on, mostly to please himself, and stomped back into the living room, throwing himself on the couch.
     “Claims not to be a child, but sure acts like one,” John muttered, setting Sherlock’s tea on the coffee table.
     “Not a child.” Sherlock sulked.
     “No, of course not.” John raised his voice to conversation level. “You’re the world’s only consulting detective, you’d never act like a child.”
     “Says the man who watches ridiculous movies about moon men and eats cotton candy.”
     “Yup.” John let the ‘p’ pop loudly in the near silence of the room.
     “Idiot.”
     “Berk.”
     Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was a ridiculous movie. He would, no doubt, delete this horrid experience from his memory. Though, it was nice not to be bored for a bit.
     “I’ll let you pick the next one,” John said, smiling. “We can go back tomorrow. I’ve got to return this one anyway.”
      Sherlock frowned for a moment before chuckling. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to watch ridiculous and obvious movies. It was wonderful to not be bored.
     “Fine,” Sherlock huffed, feigning annoyance. “But you can’t complain.”
     “I’ll do my best.” John agreed.
     Sherlock flipped over, stretching out and clapping his hands together in his mock-prayer, contemplating what horrid film he could force John into watching, smirking as he stared at the ceiling.
     This would definitely not be as boring as he feared. Delightful.

I had loads of fun with this one and I hope you all enjoyed it. :) Feel free to let me know down in comments below what you thought or what you'd like to see me write about. :D

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Another One-Shot of Sherlock

So, concerning Camp NaNoWriMo, I made it with a bit over 55,000 words this year. Mostly centered around fanfiction I'd written, though a few thousand words were supplied by my novel-in-progress (which will be a forever thing, I swear... :I)

Anyway... I thought I'd offer up another one of the dozen short stories/one-shots that I wrote last month. I've got several more Sherlock themed ones and a sad few Supernatural ones. I'm super up for suggestions or prompts, as I plan to do the same thing this November for "National Novel Writing Month". Way more fun than focusing on one novel for an entire month. :)

This is Never Stood a Chance and it's between John and Mary. There's a bit more information towards the bottom on my feelings towards Mary, though in the beginning I really didn't mind her. A bit crazy, yet, but still... Things have changed a bit since then.

Never Stood a Chance - an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “I never stood a chance, did I?”
     She looked sad, almost. He bristled slightly, knowing the look on her face was yet another act. His lip raised in a silent snarl and she had the decency to appear ashamed for a moment.
     “John,” she started, pity flowing from her lips as if he deserved it.
     “No, don’t.” He shook his head, moving a pace back. “Don’t, Mary. It’s too late for that.”
     The act fell apart then like she shed a second skin. She straightened to her full height, though it wasn’t much taller than he was if you took into account her heels, and glared at him, a sneer pulling at her lips.
     “Fine,” she snapped. “Leave me then. For him. Three years of your life gone, John, because he couldn’t be bothered to tell you once he was alive.”
     “He was busy, Mary,” John snarled back. “Of all the stupid, idiotic things for him to do with his life, I can accept that. I may hate him for it, yes, but I forgive him. I can’t forgive you. Your lies are worse than anything he’s ever given me and I was wrapped up in a god-damn bomb once!”
     Her eyebrow twitched at that, but she seemed to ignore it. “So, you’ll just leave me and what we’ve built–.”
     “What did we build, hm? Besides a lie?” John’s lips twitched upward in a smile, but it held no humor as it disappeared quickly as it had come. “That child you’re carrying, is it mine?”
     “That’s not fair!”
     “Is it mine?”
     The words echoed between them, her angry and frightened look giving him the answer he needed. Simple observations were all it took to read her thoughts, he’d learned more than enough in the past few years. Sherlock would have been proud.
     “Right.” The only word he could say; a simple word that he fell on when all others failed him. His lips twitched again as his hand clenched and unclenched in rapid succession. He spun on his heel to leave, but turned around again, as if to say something, but words failed him.
     “John, please…”
     He shook his head. “I can’t. Not now, not ever. It’s best you leave and forget about,” he waved a hand between them. “Whatever this was supposed to be.”
     “John, please.”
     “Shut up,” he snapped. “Just shut up.”
     For once, she obliged, her lips set into a thin line as she stared at him. Questions and various emotions flickered in those blue eyes, almost like looking into a mirror. He shook his head as he spun again, ignoring the look on her face, the pain in her eyes, everything that nearly broke him. Damn, she was good at this… He made it a few more paces before he paused, pulled back once again by her voice,
     “I never stood a chance, did I, John? Not against him?”
     He looked back at her, a pitiful smile gracing his appearance. He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled weakly. He turned and walked away, only raising his voice to answer her question as he left her behind,
     “That’s the sad part, Mary,” a slight pause, “You did once…”

So, I have this posted on another site and someone brought this link to my attention - Penitence, Paradox and Psychopathy: Why Mary is A Bit Not Good. It's rather long and VERY anti-Mary, but is well worth the read. I now think I'm leaning far more to the side of "Mary's a fuckin' psycho" and actually fits this story rather well. Makes me laugh a bit, really. Let me know what you think 'bout it in the comments below.

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Day 17 of Camp NaNoWriMo

Doing Camp NaNoWriMo again this year, but with a different plan in mind. Doing a bunch of one-shot fanfiction and a few additions to my novel. Also working on a rather long "fanfiction" called "Finding Sherlock" which is... Well, it's interesting, to say the least. I have a link to the original dream on my deviantArt page if you're interested.

Beyond that, I've decided that I'm going to go ahead and post a couple of the one-shots that I'm doing here, because why not? Plus, I haven't updated here in an age and I probably should get back to that 30 Day Challenge thing eventually. After July, perhaps.

So, I'll begin with this one called Words He Couldn't Say. The prompt that started this one was Write a paragraph where a character apologizes without using the words apologize, regret, or sorry. It's a bit more than a paragraph and is Johnlock fanfiction. (If you don't know what that is, please Google it before reading, just in case. Thanks.) Without further ado, I present to you my lovely story.

Words He Couldn't Say - An original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     The words would not come. He wanted to make it right, to admit he was wrong, but he couldn’t do it.
     Instead, he filled the house with flowers, one of every kind he could find. People liked that sort of thing, didn’t they? Petals filled the spaces on the floor, candles placed where they wouldn’t catch fire. Romantic and probably over the top. The idea of it annoyed him, but this verses saying the words that caught in his throat? He’d take this any day.
     He picked up the violin and played soft songs, eyes closed as he lost himself in the music as it filled the living room, covering the soft footsteps that slowly made their way up the stairs. The door creaked open and for a moment, just a moment, he faltered and the notes stuttered before smoothing out again.
     “Sherlock.”
     His name was said in the near quiet and he stopped, bow perched on the strings unmoving. He did not turn to face the one who called him, afraid he’d still be unable to say the words that so desperately needed to be said.
     “Sherlock, look at me.”
     He made a strangled sort of noise. The voice was so soft, so understanding instead of being harsh, angry, like it should have been. He turned to stare at the man who stood in the doorway, the arm that held the bow dropping to his side. The violin still sat beneath his chin, though it was mostly forgotten now as he looked, simply looked at John.
     John stood there, a confused expression on his face, but all traces of anger were gone. A smile ghosted along his lips but refused to appear. He looked tired like their argument had taken a lot from him, and he thought perhaps it had. It had taken a lot from him as well, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to fix this.
     “What is this, Sherlock?” The smile tugged on the edges of his lips, sparking laughter in his eyes.
     Sherlock straightened slightly, almost in defense, before sighing. “You know I don’t,” he raised a lip at the unspoken word, trapped. “So, instead…”
     He waved his hand around the room as if that was enough of an explanation. Obvious, he wanted to say but didn’t. John wasn’t an idiot, not by any means, but sometimes he did miss things so painfully clear. Sherlock hoped that this wouldn’t be one of those times.
     “I’m not angry, Sherlock, I never was.” A giggle tinted his words and Sherlock scrunched his nose. Why would he laugh? “But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you.”
     “You’re laughing.”
     John rolled his eyes. “Yes, you git. I’m laughing. I was gone, what, an hour, and our flat is filled with flowers.”
     “And candles.”
     “Yes, Sherlock, and candles.” John shook his head, dropping his gaze to the floor so that the taller man couldn’t see the smile. It didn’t last as he moved, closing the space between them. “Come here, you idiot.”
     Sherlock smiled tentatively as he dipped his head, allowing John to wrap his hands around his waist, the violin drifting to his side. The doctor placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, wrapping him in a tight hug.
     “We really need to work on your vocabulary and how much is too much when it comes to things like this,” John murmured into his chest.
     Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, chuckling. “Not good?” he hummed into the shorter man’s shoulder.
     “No,” John rejoined, “Very good.”
     He made an appreciative noise. Even if he couldn’t say the actual words, John understood, and that was a brilliant thing indeed.

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )