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.”

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 )

30 Day Challenge - Day 15

Day 15: Your favorite Tumblrs.

Geez, make this hard for me, will you? Christ.

So, I don't have a Tumblr, to be honest. I have a handful of other social sites: Twitter, Facebook, deviantArt, etc, but not a Tumblr. Why? I don't know. So, I don't really have any favorite Tumblrs.

BUT, I do have a couple that a friend sends me on occasion because she follows them.
http://thegirlinthebluephonebox.tumblr.com/ is one of them.
http://btronline.tumblr.com/ - Okay, this one is actually one of mine, sort of. I follow this comic on Taptastic, so it's not really a "favorite" Tumblr. But, still. Check it out. Tell her "Wyld" sent ya. :)
http://thesetupwizard.tumblr.com/ This is pretty good. You should totally check him out.
http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/ - If you like Johnlock (Sherlock and John pairing), then this blog is for you. Oh, Kelly's artwork is simply divine... And her comics?! I simply love LOVE LOVE this one.
http://yourlovelyalpha.tumblr.com/post/111230133906/stiles-is-a-huge-fan-of-supernatural-you-seeand - We have a lot of these. She finds a thing and shows it to me and of course, I do the same. Mostly SuperWhoLock themed, but still fun.

There are others I'm sure, but of course, I'm not going to be able to find/think of them right now. I'll add to the list if I think of any more.

What are your favorite Tumblrs? Care to share?