Yeah, I am insane.  This week, sewing in the studio has been very stressful, so I took breaks intermediately and made fanart.  THEN MY WACOM TABLET DIED!!!!!!!   Talk about a freak out.

Alas, it will be a while before I can replace it.  So I am working with my mouse at the moment. 

My brain has been swallowed by the Sherlock Holmes fandom in the short run.   So this is all from that.  But I am hoping to get a Sherlock Holmes fancomic in the works, so I have been playing around with a lot of different styles.  

  

  

The Holmesian fandom is unique to me in that its kinkmeme's are so prolificly involved in inspiring fic, directly into every area of the fandom--not just the kinky waters.  LOL!   Kinkmeme's had, in my previous experience in other fandoms, been some place I avoided unless I wanted to read very extreme, very weird fics (Not that the Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme's don't have those too)  But their kinkmemes are full of a lot of OTHER prompts too, simple stuff like watson/snuggles holmes in a particular room...etc.   Stuff I can use as inspiration. 

It's absolutely marvelous!!!!

And so for my first fic in that fandom, I went to the kinkmeme to find my inspiration. 

The kinkmeme prompt I chose is here.  It reads thusly:  I want Holmes and Watson to get caught in some kind of crisis-- like, they're dining in a restaurant and all of a sudden it gets held up by thieves, or a bomb threat, or Holmes and Watson on a suddenly out-of-control train. Also, lots of protectiveness and fear for each other's safety.

Okay, I admit I went overboard and plotted out this really, REALLY long fic.  Here is the prologue.  


Title:  The Almost Case of Revenge at the Royale
Author: pennies_4_eyes 
Pairing/Characters: Watson/Holmes
Rating: PG for now.  Maybe R later, maybe not
Word Count: about 1250 or so
Spoilers: Book verse, though with RDJ and Jude as the Holmes/Watson of it all!
Summary:  Kink meme fill for this.     It reads thusly:  I want Holmes and Watson to get caught in some kind of crisis-- like, they're dining in a restaurant and all of a sudden it gets held up by thieves, or a bomb threat, or Holmes and Watson on a suddenly out-of-control train. Also, lots of protectiveness and fear for each other's 
No warnings
Spoilers for book canon
And ya'll know I don't own them.  Right?    
  
  
 The Almost Case of Revenge at the Royale
 
 
 Prologue
 
 
 
 
  It is only now, with the clarity of distance and the ease of time that I can finally, without a deeply trepidacious quaver in my hands, set down upon paper the incident that was never truly a case in itself and yet none-the-less was nearly the end of the inestimable Sherlock Holmes.
 
 
So overwrought has my mind been, so terrible was the incident that I could nearly curse those of Holmes' behaviors that led to our embroilment in that most terrible of near tragedies.  But to do so would be to curse his very nature and I am too aware now of the weight of his life and mine intertwined to tempt fate with even the whisper of such words.
 
 
 Still, even now I must stop to breathe deeply, quiet my mind, raise my hand and set it anew to the page several times before I find myself able to revisit that awful night without a clinch of dread knotting in my chest.  Though in all honesty, it isn't only the particulars of that night's misdeeds that haunt me, but what I came to realize about myself-- about my longest, dearest friendship and a man whom I not only greatly respect but hold in deepest regard.  It is the shock of reckoning the fragility of the lies that bind lives together via a truth that comes not gently nor timely, but violently and almost too late.
 
 
I shall start at the beginning and endeavor not to leave off that course, lest I be unable to set myself to the task another time.  Holmes would be proud of that at least.  Though this will never know an audience, not even he.  For though hardly grimmer than many of our past endeavors it lays me open and bears me in a painfully personal way, and perhaps Holmes as well.  And at any rate, it scarcely has the earmarks of his best works, failing very much to reveal him as I know him to be...The finest mind in all of Britain and indeed perhaps in all the world.  That night showed his mind to be dangerous to us both, and mine to be so full of hidden things as to nearly belong to another man than me.   No, I commit this to record for my own selfish benefit.  I pour the ghastly events upon the page to purge them from my mind and so perhaps know some peace when it is done.
 
 
 That night was as many others--unremarkable in the fact of victory and equally unremarkable in finding Holmes suffering that most delicate of situations posterior to certain cases--nearly collapsed from exhaustion and inanition, yet nothing shy of vibrantly intoxicated with that peculiar brittle joy he experiences in the aftermath of success.
 
 
We had only just finished a case--one that I had intended to expound upon for later publication but which I can now hardly bear to contemplate, let alone write.  Not because of what entailed within that case but rather that which resulted after its close.  While not to be noted amongst the most vexing to cross the threshold of 221b over the years, that case had all the same been of the direst form to my longtime companion and friend.  That of an organized syndicate of criminals bent on employing dismal, sinister means to influence the trade of certain substances newly regulated by Her Royal Majesty's finest in an ongoing attempt to squash those most vile of traps to men's souls--opium dens.  Holmes had been keen upon the ring of villains right from the start, tracking and puzzling and dissecting their masses in the bowels of London like a surgeon seeking a rampant, malignant tumor.  He dogged their every presence until the night came when he was victorious over what we had thought was the last of them.
 
 
 Though barely started, I will stop here and admit that I must already break with my vow to stay current in the retelling of that fateful night following the close of our latest case.  I must step back and observe that sometimes it strikes me to liken Holmes to a too brilliant child with an ant collection--though I refrain from publishing such, lest my readers develop an unpopular opinion of Holmes' proprietary attitude toward his beloved city of London.  But none-the-less, that is how it sometimes seems.  And no case can so steal his attention nor drive him so hard as the idea that another nest of villains should be developing under his watchful stewardship of this great city.  In the stark light of hindsight I had seen this driven focus before in the very season when Holmes had chased Moriarty and his cursed underground organization of crime.
 
 
I should not have ignored the knot in my stomach when my mind had occasion to briefly dance over the similarities in his manner to what it had been during those long ago adventures.  Indeed, if nothing else, it might have encouraged me to be more vigilant in the aftermath had I allowed myself to ponder how Reichenbach had been the price to pay for that previous path to victory.  But I still feel the ache some days of how those adventures concluded and what they cost us both in the end.  So perhaps I may one day be forgiven for not heeding the signs that had lain right before me.  My mind is even now still inclined to shy from those long ago seasons.  However, had I allowed myself to look back at our past, I might have known not to assume that just because the Black Scorpion had been lopped in twain that it could not still sting.  I might have asked 'what price for his mad drive this time?'.  I might have asked myself the frankest truth of what Holmes really meant to me and of what tools I might have had to prevent what would later befall us both.  But I asked no such questions.
 
 
My lack of internal foresight would join a conspired blend of ill fortune and Fait Accompli, culminating in the undeniable fact  that, in the aftermath of our success we weren't even supposed to be there that night.   And yet we were.  That, to my eternal woe, was to be my doing as well.
 
 
We had planned to rest.  Or rather, I had planned it.  I had nearly forcefully insisted upon it, in fact.  Had I indeed been staunch enough, I would not be here now perhaps, nor Holmes where he is.  But of course, I am still committing the sin of aberrant chronology.  I will only go so far as to say one thing more before getting back on the right path.  Had I been more insistent that Holmes rest at home, at very least the tale would have been quite different--another confrontation for another night when we might have both been more fit.  Of course, I would perhaps still be so blind to so many things.   For there were blessings that night.  We saved a man's life, one very vital to England.  And I see Holmes now as I have never seen him before--or rather, as I have never before allowed myself to.  If only the cost of those things had not been so high....
 
 
I begin this tale, and may God have mercy on both of us.
 
 
 
 On to Chapter 1!  
 

 
 
 


This is Chapter 1 (following the Prologue)

Had fun with Holmes' and Watson's character voices here.  It's stodgy, please forgive.  The Story will be tagged from now on with ACRR (For: the Almost Case of Revenge at the Royale)

Oh!  And much love to my BETA, 0corona0 !!!!!



 

Title:  The almost Case of Revenge at the Royale
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: PGso far  
Summary:  This is filling a prompt from the SherlockKink com.  THe prompt is here.  It read: I want Holmes and Watson to get caught in some kind of crisis-- like, they're dining in a restaurant and all of a sudden it gets held up by thieves, or a bomb threat, or Holmes and Watson on a suddenly out-of-control train. Also, lots of protectiveness and fear for each other's safety.
No warnings:  
DIsclaimer: I don't own squat 
 
 
 Previous parts:  
 Prologue
 
 
 
The Almost Case of Revenge at the Royal
 
 
Chapter 1: The Misorder of an Entirely Correct Mind 
 
 
   It was late evening following the previous night's labors where we had spent the entire time from dusk 'til the wee hours reconnoitering, spying and eventually leading LeStrade and his men to the nestled den containing cached proofs of illegality, missing opium shipments, and cutthroat blackguards aplenty.  The case was closed neatly and those few of the Black Scorpion crime syndicate that had escaped apprehending that night were scattered and rudderless with Scotland Yard hard on their heels.   
   
 
  By the time the reports were filed and details satisfied, I was lagging sorely, long in need of the rest due any man who'd been hard at it for nigh on 22 hours and Holmes was even more in need still.  Manifold days of his most importunate behaviors had left him--in my most humble of medical opinions--a dangerously exhausted shell.  Only, as Holmes too often did, he had other ideas than rest.  Indeed, that was the problem....his Ideas.  He was altogether wracked with nerves--too many pipes of shag in place of proper meals, too many wildly winding mental cogs.  The excitement of knowing he'd yet again stopped an infant titan from birthing in the streets of Whitechapel district...it all had hold of him and my dearest friend Homes had no reserves left to master his agile mind.  And quite like a hyperactive, errant child, it ran in a thousand directions robbing him of recuperation in the aftermath of our toils. 
 
  
I had spent the entire day doing everything but drugging him senseless to encourage him to succumb to the needs of his body and indeed, in doing so allow me my own much needed rest.  All to no avail.  In these most private of writings I will admit that I nearly wanted to strangle him at one point.
 
   
  Far stronger than the momentary urge to do him harm though, was the altogether alarming impulse to take him in hand in a more intimate way.   I struggled that long day against the intense desire to remove Holmes off to the couch or one of either of our beds--whichever gave him best peace--and hold him until his mind quieted at last and we could both find our ease.  He often chides me as romantic and I dare say he has no idea of the truth of it, for it was not precisely a new affliction of thought.  Indeed, recently I had more and more found myself burying what may be described as...tender thoughts of Holmes.    
   
    
To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson was away.  Holmes had not trusted to keep her there until the matter was surely settled--which should have told me more than I permitted it to about the danger we had been in.  So there was no tea nor dinner or supper, for I was poor in the ways of a kitchen and Holmes was downright diabolically hazardous, even when he wasn't at the end of his rope.  When frustrations finally mounted and my stomach was nearly as loud as Holmes' dizzying third recount of the highlights of the adventure (as though I had not been present for the affair or the first two accounts), I decided dinner out might be the best remedy.  I knew from long experience that a civil audience and calming public atmosphere might (sometimes) distract Holmes enough that he might eat an adequate meal, and once he'd eaten, it was my hope that his mind might quiet itself and let sleep make its demands heard.
  
  
      It was an unplanned affaire though, as no reservations had been arranged at a respectable eatery.  Even so, I balked at the thought of the tight, dark accommodations of the common taverns that would have been easily available to sup that evening on short notice.  Then a fateful idea struck.  I also knew that the owner of the Royale was partial to Holmes enough to make a rare exception in the form of sudden seating from time to time.  
  
   
  I sent a note ahead, and so it was that at the hour of 8:40 pm--a staggering 14 hours after we'd finished at Scotland Yard--we entered the Royale, groomed to barest satisfaction and veritably vibrating with exhaustion.   That evening I leaned a little heavily upon my cane and my off hand was at Holmes' elbow to steady him in his excitations as we entered.  All the while he gestured robustly and grinned a bit too brightly and made much of both his own brilliance and what he deemed my not inconsiderable assistance.  I smiled obligingly at the right moments, all too familiar by now with his minds circuitous account of the previous night and more concerned with his marked pallor, the tremor in his hands, his ever so slightly unsteady gait.
  
 
Mr. Cecil Desmarais, owner and proprietor of that most notable of cultured establishments was ready to seat us, eliciting a knowing smile from his cousin, the Maitre D' of the evening.   It was well known that this place was a favorite of Holmes', a fact that was far more than a point of pride to Desmarais' way of thinking.  Shortly we were being seated in a prominent location, several eyes of interest already upon us, when I quietly asked for a discreet table near the entrance to the kitchen.  A moment later it was done and we were seated, the aromas from the kitchen wafting by enticingly  and the softer lights adding a peaceful ambiance.  Holmes quieted long enough to look over a wine list, his fingers tapping nervously on the menu in his grasp and I let loose a relieved sigh, ruminating that sometimes there were profound benefits to being Dr. Johnathan Watson Esq., biographer to the greatest mind in London.  Though I held no illusions as to whether I would have been granted such courtesy without a reservation had I not had said 'mind' himself in tow that evening.
  
 
It should have been nothing more from then on than a well deserved supper to rejuvenate us.  A pleasant precursor to several days relaxation.  And yet that is where things began to go awry.  Our fortune seemed impeccable enough at first, though.  We were attended upon that night by a Mr. Michael Paginoa, the waiter we most favored on our visits.  An naturalized immigrant and a fine young fellow with sharp wits and a high brow that softened what otherwise might have been rather common features.   Even Holmes in his most misanthropic throes found reason to pass along an occasional compliment, such was the pleasantly easy, competent air of the young man.   So it was that we both relaxed and found the beginnings of our much needed equilibrium in both the quietude of our setting and our luck in attendants.  But as I sat and spoke with Holmes of trivial things, hoping to distract his mind to a more restful place, I noted his roaming eye, scraping quicksilver across the room.
  
 
I knew the look.
  
 
My dear friend was recording, assessing, drawing conclusions...deducing from every tiniest morsel yielded by observance.  Like lightening arcing from one roof to the next, Holmes' intent gaze struck upon every person, every surface in the room feeding his run amuck intellect.  It was often that way when his thoughts were flying creatures with their own will.   It didn't bode well for my attempts to settle him and indeed I began to wonder if I had been correct in my fears that this might be one of those rare and terrible occasions when the only event capable of thwarting his overactive mind was the ending of his endurance.
  
 
  Then Holmes' dark eyes stopped so sharply, so suddenly that I could not help but wonder what had arrested his perusal.  "What is it, Holmes?"  I turned to the room behind me to follow the trajectory of his iron gaze.  "What is it that you see?"
  
 
 "It is nothing, Watson,"  Holmes ran a trembling hand over his brow, as if to shield his eyes now that their work was done.  "I am beginning to see rogues where none exist." He grinned a tired smile meant to reassure me.  I had seen its like before, an oddly grim expression in that it spoke nothing of actual pleasure.   It filled me with notable concern, for I had the distinction of knowing Holmes as I suspected no one else save perhaps his brother did, and even so, at times I missed things.  He hid them too well--sometimes by purposeful art, sometimes by virtue of long instinct.  But I had long experience with being unable to see easily beneath the chilly reserve that so dominated his presence.  Therefore it was startling to note--as I watched him for a long moment--that I was observing him without any mask--truly seeing him.   It cemented within me that it had been an error in judgment to bring him abroad.  I took in his lean, elegant features, distinct with the shadow of fatigue and cast in a faint sheen of perspiration.  He was struggling--with too much stimuli, too much adventuring...just simply too much.  And I feared suddenly that if I did not take him home soon, I would be carrying him home.  In my own weariness, I had chosen poorly for us.
  
   
He flopped a hand upon the table, exasperated no doubt with the frailty of his own human limitations and before I could stop myself I reached out and carefully placed my hand over his.  Sometimes that which gained his attention best was that which was too personal and his eyes sparked wide in a momentary quest for motive.  "Holmes," I said earnestly, "We should go back to Baker Street.  You're unwell."
  
 
"Pish tosh, Nanny Watson," He quirked.  "I am well enough and you need a solid meal before you bite someone."
  
 
It will always be a mystery to me exactly how Sherlock Holmes can be at once a singular source of utmost exasperation and my deepest affection simultaneously.  Yet manage he does. "I dare say you need it more, old cock.  But all the same it won't kill us to sleep and then seek a hearty breakfast tomorrow.  After that, perhaps a holiday to..." I stopped for his gaze was again on that which lay behind me, and this time his damp brow furrowed and his eagle-eyed glance narrowed dangerously.  "Holmes, what is it?  And this time I'll have none of your sidestepping."
  
 
Holmes shook himself then, and answered me for a moment with nothing but a wryly tired smirk of apology.  "Did you realize, Watson, that sometimes I suffer from a deformed variety of insight?"
  
 
For a moment I had no idea at all how to respond.
  
 
I metered my voice to cover my worry, speaking softly to him.  "My dearest Holmes, I have found nearly all of your insights over the years to be unfathomably correct once explained by the light of reason.  Trust me enough to speak plainly to me."
  
 
"Nearly, Watson?"  Holmes chuckled thinly, taking out a kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his brow for a moment--clearly gathering his thoughts.  It was unsettling in the extreme to watch him struggle and I was about to make our excuses to the proprietor when Holmes suddenly pierced me with a keen glance full of some indescribable emotion.  "I speak of perceiving and knowing and understanding in the wrong order, my dear Watson."  Then Holmes dropped his glance askance, as though he could not bear to see my response to his strange statement.
  
 
"How so?" I asked, desperate to gauge if his inexplicable words were some exhausted dementia setting in or if his overactive mind was again making impossible leaps even by his remarkable standards.
  
 
Holmes slumped back in his chair, a shockingly open look of despondency taking his features.  "At times when I find myself...a bit weary... I am apt to fail in the order of natural deduction.  That is to say, I still observe first, before all else, for that is the nature of being man and not God.  But from there, I fear, the order and manner can become altogether alien to a rational mind."
  
 
"Holmes, you are not 'a bit weary'.  You have driven yourself to the very brink.  So I say this with all kindness and as your physician of many years--your thoughts are merely compromised from exhaustion.  A few days rest and your reasonings will again have harmony with your methods, which have never ceased to be rational under the right conditions."
  
 
He smiled briefly at that before shaking his head. "You don't understand, dear Watson.  But then I am not surprised.  I hardly understand myself, and that is truly a statement to be marked."  I was about to protest when he waved aside my objection again.  "Those men over there," Holmes leaned across the table and whispered fiercely.  "I know them to be villains, to be most probably here upon some heinous task.  But I cannot in this moment say HOW I know this.  And without the 'how" I cannot hope to realize the "what" or "who" of the matter.  I have observed them, and I have assessed them, I have noted no behavior or outward sign that I might say with honesty would tangibly inspire my knowledge that they mean foul business."  He sighed tiredly.  "And yet I know it in my bones that they do."  Holmes leaned back once again, though his voice remained low.  "I cannot reckon what signs I have read that have led me to this conclusion.  I know not what it is that I have observed about them that has spoken to a deep part of my reasoning without communicating first with my conscious mind.  In this instance the order of reasoning has been outpaced by conclusion.  Yet only fools make decisions based upon thin air and whim."
  
 
I was truly not easy in my mind now, a deep apprehension stealing my calm.  "Holmes, I am taking you home.  Now and with no contest!"  I reached for my cane, about to stand.
  
 
"No, I..."  Before my dear friend could voice full objection our waiter rushed up to the table, clearly in a state of agitation.
  
 
"Mister Holmes!" Paginoa hissed excitably.  "Mister Holmes, you must help us!"
  
 
"Here now, Paginoa," I said.  "Mr Holmes isn't feeling well.  He and I are about to go home.  Give our apologies to Mr Desmarais, won't you." 
  
 
But Holmes had completely left off his own strange worries and apparently waved for our waiter's attention behind me.  He was at once as he ever was with any prospective client--the very example of masterful attentiveness.  "Never mind my governess over there--What is going on that has you in such a state?  Speak up."
  
 
The young man fidgeted for a moment, collecting himself before proceeding.  "I was about to take the order of those men over there, the ones at the central table watching the front window.  But firstly, I leaned to turn up the flame upon the table lamp that had begun to smoke.  That is when I saw the coat of one man and noticed that he carried a pistol hidden therein!" The expression on Holmes' face told me immediately that the men our waiter referred to were the very ones we had only just been discussing.  I should not have been surprised to find that Holmes' instincts where as incomparably sharp as his sense of reasoning when the latter was worn too thin.  But even so, I hoped he was wrong.  This night neither of us was fit for more adventure.
  
 
"What shall we do, Mr. Holmes?   Mr. Watson?  We are surely about to be robbed!" cried the young server.
  
 
Holmes spared a predatory glance at the men in question and then gestured at Paginoa in irritation. "Firstly we shall be calm.  Cease your womanly agitations for a moment, they gain far too much attention and do you no service.  While not common to be sure, on another night it might have been of no moment that a man carried a hidden gun.  They might have been anything from plain clothes inspectors to agents of security for a person of import.  You do get them here in the restaurant, do you not?"
  
 
The young waiter had the decency to blush and nod, trying to cover his smirk.  "Yourself included, sir," he mumbled.
  
 
"Very good," Holmes continued.  "As I said, nothing might have been amiss.  That being so, this night is one of odd fortune, for I too have noted those men as peculiar.  As I was just telling the good doctor here."  Holmes leaned forward, tenting his fingers thoughtfully.  "However, we must not act without understanding that which we attempt to act against.  Mr. Paginoa, I charge you to carry on in your duties to those men as normally as you can.  Do not show a moment of misgiving to tip our hand and mark closely anything more of the unusual about them that may be reported back to me."
  
 
It was then that the young man's yielded before an all out excited grin.  "You mean like the tattoo of a Scorpion ready to strike?"
  
 
Holmes' face opened up with a strange awe even as my stomach filled with lead ballast.  "I saw it upon the wrist of one of them, as he reached for his glass," the young man offered smartly.  
  
 
Holmes laughed a sharp short burst.  "Mr. Paginoa, how incandescent of you!  That is the exact sort of thing I wished you to note.  And it's far more informative than you can know.  Now I implore you yet again, be very convincing in your treatment of these men.  They must not know you suspect them of anything for they are very dangerous sorts.  Carry on precisely as usual.  And be so good as to take an order for my and the good doctor's usual fares.   And bring a bottle of port while I work up a plan."  And like any good soldier given a duty upon which to focus his anxieties, young Paginoa rushed off to do as he was bid.
  
 
I, on the other hand, was having none of it.  "A plan for what, Holmes?" I insisted hotly.  "These men are the worst of the worst, and wanted by the law, thanks to you!  They must be here to..."
  
 
Holmes waved dismissively.  "No, no, mother hen.  If I was their target you and I would already be in a fix.  These men have nothing to lose, my friend.  Revenge is their only gain against us and if that were their intention we would surely know of it by now.  No, there is something else afoot here," he tapped a finger to his chin thoughtfully.  "And I mean to know precisely what."                      
  
  
  
  
               

LOL!  yeah...  I've had my RDA of Mycroft, Holmes and Watson angst in the form of the Fragility series by enkiduts .  Cause she rocks out like that.

As per usual, Enkiduts moved me solidly from *sniff* and straight into *squee!*, all in one chapter.  So I couldn't help but illustrated the most recent chapter!  It was so bittersweet, so angsty, so....tender!  Gah!   

Anyway, here it is...

Fannishness is a state of mind... I am at it again folks.  ANother chibi comic from the Sherlock Holmes 09 fandom.  

This one is not exactly work safe, so consider yourself warned.  It's not graphic, but it IS very suggestive.  Poor, Poor Holmes.  I love H/C stuff with him, but he's starting to object. LOL!   

I borrowed a digital tablet for this one.  I can't wait until my wacom comes home!!!!!!!

   
 
 
      

After some unfortunate drama at the orgininal Sherlock kinkmeme just because someone asked for rape fic in a particularly cavalier way, I decided I would keep an eye out for a new kinkmeme.  Especially once it got so wanky, that certain folks were insisting on censorship just to protect RL "rape victims" from being emotionally harmed by the kink prompts. (really, I'm NOT kidding)  As a rape survivor, I felt a little insulted that anyone thought I needed pandering to.  Imma big girl and if I'm at a kinkmeme, I'm obviously not the wilting flower type.

So I just had to get away. 

Not because the very wonderful mod crew at the original did anything wrong, but because the whole misadventure over there was so full of wank that I started to not enjoy the place anymore.  I WILL eventually get over it.  I really will.  And when I do, I will visit there again.  

But in the mean time, there is a new community set up, presumably by folks less interested in stuff like censoring sensitive language in the prompts.   Anyway, I'm Pinmping that BRAND spanking new, very shiny kinkmeme comm for the BBC!SHerlock fandom.

Here it is folks!  The Sherlockkinkmeme!   

 

The BBC Sherlock fandom has really got my muse jumping around in a circle.  She's flipping the frig out.

And in between working on a new page for the SHERLOCK comic I'm doing, I stopped and made myself a wallpaper.  You all can use it too. 

     

Title: Chanson de Geste
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, (tiny bit of John at the end)
Pairing: John/Sherlock preslash musings, sorta... maybe
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have a heart to heart while waiting for rescue.

A/N:  This is a fill from the Sherlock Kinkmeme, prompt is linked here.
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2753238#t2753238
Therein, <i>Anon</i> requested Mycroft and Sherlock, abducted by a criminal who's plan isn't very well thought out.  They didn't want a serious "we're gonna die" situation, just more or less the a brother fic involving them waiting for the police.  There were some stipulations in the original prompt which I worked hard to incorporate.




Chanson de Geste

He'd been watching slack, pale features for signs of incipient wakefulness and the sudden groan from the lanky figure sprawled out on the floor next to him told Mycroft Holmes it was thankfully, finally time for his brother to come 'round. "Wake up Sherlock," he insisted, smartly tapping his brother's long cheek. "There's a fellow. Come now, no more laying about. I'm owed an apology." Yes indeed, this entire afternoon--from the abrupt drugging and subsequent manhandling to Sherlock's rather unreasonable insistence on remaining unconscious--was uncalled for.

Someone owed him a reckoning.

"Mmmfffk'off J'n." Coherency wasn't Sherlock's strong suit at the moment. The world was a wavering, icy cold place full of dank smells, dimmed lights and stiff limbs. all around, Sherlock felt like he'd come off a three day bender.

"None of that. I'm rather afraid I have to insist you wake up." Mycroft laid well manicured fingers to the pulse-point inside Sherlock's slender wrist, much more pleased with what he found there now. If not a steady beat, certainly it was an encouragingly strong one.

Sherlock twitched, unsure in the least why on Earth John sounded like his arse of a brother. He took a deep, bracing breath. "Gods.... John. Stop. Don't impersonate my brother, he's grating enough in person."

Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh. "I'm not... Wait a moment. Does Dr. Watson often impersonate me?" Mycroft inquired with genuine curiosity, eyeing his brother's haggard features and counting the moments until the boy would be coherent enough to answer real questions.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock looked up then, mind coming online all at once. "What? No! Of course not!" He swiftly swung his head 'round the dimly lit room, immediately regretting the action. 'Need a few more moments to collect myself apparently...' Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut against the sickening vertigo, ignoring the comforting pat on his shoulder.

"Steady on, Sherlock. It will get better." Mycroft assured his brother, relieved at the pace Sherlock's wits seemed to be returning. He always was the resilient one.

"Where are we?" Sherlock spat, his annoyance mounting as the room's details started to clarify, leaving him with a dark suspicion.

Mycroft would have reached out to help Sherlock up, except that he already knew he'd be rebuffed. So instead he sat by, patiently ignoring his brother's struggle to even get his elbows under him. "It's a good question, Sherlock. One I unfortunately have no answer for other than that we're still in England, though not in London. Apparently your low rent thug of the week fancies himself somewhat of a enterprising fellow."

"Again, only with less ponce," Sherlock sneered, unable as yet to drag himself to what could pass for a sitting position, and even worse, unable to gather his thoughts into cogent form. Drugged then...

Right. So they'd been...

"Yes, we've been abducted, Sherlock. Hence me deserving an apology. I don't appreciate my rather full schedule being derailed for a sojourn with your ruffians du jour." Mycroft's tone was arch as ever, burying the worry that had gnawed at him as he watched over Sherlock laid out on the concrete floor, not moving for such a long time.

Sherlock struggled up, again unsuccessfully. Whatever they'd used on him, it had been strong. And by the feel of it, witless clods that they obviously were, they'd used far too much. Sherlock's limbs were like water and his mind was still troublingly slow. He was probably no more clever than the average person at that precise moment.

"Here now," Despite knowing exactly how unwelcome his help would be, Mycroft couldn't watch his recalcitrant sibling struggle any longer. He reached, drawing Sherlock's shoulders upright against the wall. It was a testament to how low his brother was laid that Sherlock barely bothered to swat at Mycroft's hands. He ignored the gesture, steadying his brother's narrow form until Sherlock was able to stay upright on his own. "There's a fellow. Take it slowly. Perhaps they overestimated your body mass under that rather deceptive coat of yours. You've been unconscious quite a bit longer than me." An understatement if ever he'd spoken one.

'This has got to be the most humiliating moment of my life!,' Sherlock thought heatedly. His vision still wasn't clear enough to gather anything useful from their surroundings, and it was a damn good thing his stomach was already empty or else he might have been adding to his current state of mortification. He thought back to his last conscious memories and vaguely recalled an acrid, tinctured odor as darkness descended. "Where DO people keep getting chloroform from? It's not like you can hop over to the corner druggist and get some."

Mycroft almost, almost smiled at that. "I suspect that may well be next thing I find out. Noisome stuff," He resisted the urge to steady Sherlock further as the younger man listed oddly. "Just sit still a moment, Sherlock. Give it some time."

"I won't sit still!" Sherlock announced crossly, trying to force his unmanageable body back under his control. "Sitting still is the reason your body mass is so much easier to calculate than mine."

Ah...back to comfortable battlegrounds. So predictable, Sherlock'. "There's no reason to be tetchy, we won't be here much longer and then your doctor can have a proper look at you." And if not, Mycroft reasoned he'd have his own concierge physician check Sherlock over.

Sherlock summoned up his special 'Mycroft' scowl--which was also his 'I've accidentally drank my experiment' look. "I'm perfectly fine now. And John's not my doc..." Sherlock suddenly seized on the rest of what Mycroft had said. "What do you mean 'we won't be here much longer'?"

Mycroft smiled his nearly patented, 'remember I'm smarter than you' smile and lifted his favorite silk power tie, revealing that the tie-tack was actually a very small tracer.

"Ah," Sherlock snorted. "So your minions are on the way." He was, in fact, relieved though. Not because he wasn't in top form at the moment. Even at less than his best Sherlock had outwitted average criminal minds as easily as breathing. And this lot wasn't even average, they were positively challenged! Leaving him and his brother in one room together...alive? He almost pitied whomever had them captive. Almost.

Mycroft gave his brother yet another considering look. "They dislike being referred to as minions, you know." He thought Sherlock might want to keep that in mind, considering the adherent he had in John Watson.

"I see." Sherlock eyed his brother and curled his lip a bit. "Well, why don't you bore me to tears with the official, sanctioned, PC term for government trained thuggery at your beck and call?"

"My my..." Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Being unconscious really doesn't do anything at all for your disposition, does it brother dear?"

Sherlock ignored his brother and casually settled his arms around himself, stamping down hard on the urge to shiver.

"You're cold," Mycroft observed, obviously not fooled for a moment.

"I am not." It wasn't pouting if his lip was tucked in, Sherlock was sure of that.

Mycroft frowned, telltale concern burning in his stomach. He scooted shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, hazarding the immediate black glare he received. "Sherlock, be reasonable. Being drugged unconscious, especially with a slight overdose, can lower the body's temperature approximately..."

"I know how much it lowers it," Sherlock veritably growled. He'd be damned if his inability to regain utter mastery over his physical needs was going to give Mycroft an open door to get the upper hand. "And I'm not cold!" Even though he was, in fact, freezing.

Mycroft didn't seem to care, and bowled right over Sherlock's stubborn objections, just like always. He snaked a long arm around slender shoulders, saddened that it took a half-arsed kidnapping and an overdose of chloroform to force Sherlock to suffer his embrace. But Mycroft was nothing if not practical. He had his brother now, hugging Sherlock to his shoulder as he hadn't in years. "Even so, I'm pulling rank," he said firmly, but gently.

Sherlock snorted again, trying not to lean into the warmth of his brother's substantial form. "You don't have any rank to pull with me. I'm not one of your damnable shadow puppets." But there wasn't any heat behind the words, just a tired resignation. Mycroft would always win in the end. And sometimes--every once in a while--that wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"I have all the rights, privileges and responsibilities of the official rank of older sibling, dear brother. And I assure you it accords me all manner of liberty. Including this." And in the name of the worried hour he'd spent waiting for Sherlock to wake, Mycroft pulled his brother in and planted a brief flutter of a kiss upon his brow.

That WAS too much to abide and Sherlock struggled, mostly in vain, to pull back away from Mycroft--warmth be damned. "Oh for the love of anything sane!"

But Mycroft held on doggedly, though not tightly, knowing Sherlock wasn't yet fit to fight his way free. "I'd quiet down if I were you. Or else I'll do it again. Or worse, I may start regaling John Watson when next I see him with tales of how despicably cute you were when a small child. That propensity you had for running about in the altogether--all pink bum-cheeks and little black curls..."

"Enough! Alright!" Sherlock knew when he was defeated, even if he despised admitting it. "Fine! Keep me warm if you must! Just do it without the insidious narration!"

Mycroft pulled his brother gently to him again, and since the battleground had been surrendered with due honors, he was even granted the quarter of having Sherlock relax against him. Achingly, it reminded Mycroft again of how much control, how much distance his brother forced upon himself. Sometime he feared Sherlock would altogether forget the language of human touch. It was, of course, a defense mechanism he understood perfectly clearly about Sherlock--who, contrary to popular belief was possessed of too great a heart, rather than too little. But that didn't make it any less unfortunate.

Maybe there was hope for his brother yet, though. Months ago Sherlock wouldn't have let Mycroft hold onto him if he were spouting blood like a geyser. He knew at whose feet to lay gratitude for this, if he were so foolish as to try--which he wasn't. All the same... "You know, I suspect John Watson will indeed be on the way as well. Anthea will have picked him up along the way."

Sherlock stiffened a little in Mycroft's arms, wondering what his brother was up to now?' "Why should I care?" Sherlock asked with all the practiced nonchalance of years of lying. Inside though, that damnable traitorous pumping organ was, as ever, barometer to his thoughts, speeding in a lopsided gallop of dread at Mycroft treading into such private domain.

Mycroft for his part, wasn't fooled at all. He knew the minefield he was casually stomping into. "Well... I have noticed your regard for him," he held up his spare hand to forestall the rain of impolite objections. "Tut! Nothing to be gained denying it. And I can't say I think you've chosen wrongly. He's quite the charismatic fellow, in his own quiet way."

Sherlock drew back to glare his brother right in the eye. "Kindly leave off your patently uninspired assumptions about our relationship. Unless you fancy yourself sharing that misconception with all of the mindless masses of the larger Metropolitan London area."

"Well, there is such a thing as esprit de corps," Mycroft chuckled.

"What there is 'such a thing as', is incidents of mass hallucination. You and the entire country, it would seem. John Watson is into blonds, breasts, and biddability. I thankfully fit in none of those categories." And if Sherlock couldn't quite hide the minute hint of disappointment from his voice, well, he hoped to God Mycroft wouldn't mention it. He'd hate to have to find something to stab his brother with, seeing as he was so useful as a human furnace.

"I think you do him a disservice," Mycroft scolded gently. "He'd be receptive to more than you currently have between you, I'm sure of it. The filial attachment is undeniable, but there's the potential there for more."

"I'm sure you've suffered a head injury at some point today, or else you'd be able to recall that I am married to my work." Sherlock sniffed petulantly.

Mycroft smiled. "Hardly. You've just not met anyone worth the risk until now." He took a deep breath, holding it for a moment. "And... Mummy wouldn't mind if you and he were...more than brothers-in-arms," His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Mycroft was ever aware that sometimes Sherlock was the wild animal that had to be coaxed in out of the cold, for his own good and quite often in spite of himself. "I wouldn't mind either."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then looked away. Mycroft knew Sherlock had forgiven him for the entire thing when boney shoulders snuggled halfheartedly against his side. Several minutes passed in what wasn't exactly tense, nor precisely companionable silence. "You know," Mycroft offered at length. "Conversations are easier when both people actually speak."

Sherlock deflated with an exasperated gust of a sigh. "What do you want me to say, Mycroft?"

And that, when nothing else ever did, finally made him cross with Sherlock. "I want you to say that you're attracted to him. And don't deny that you are, I can see it, plain as day. I want you to admit that you need another human being, that you..." He swallowed down his anger as quickly as it came. "...That you won't let what happened between us, happen with he and you." Mycroft hadn't intended to drag that out in the open. Sherlock was plain out sulking now, and it had a sharply vulnerable edge to it that Mycroft regretted.

"I can't promise that," came the quiet, deep tone at length.

'Hung for a Sheep as a lamb,' Mycroft thought tiredly. "You have to forgive people, Sherlock."

"You mean I have to forgive you," Sherlock spit out bitterly.

One day this age old feud would die, and if Mycroft was really, truly fortunate, it wouldn't be because one of them was dead as well. In the mean time... "No, I've resigned myself to what our relationship will always be. But I haven't resigned my hopes for you."

"Gah! And they say I'm arrogant!" Sherlock suddenly pulled altogether out of his brother's grasp--ignoring the fleeting dash of regret that stole momentary over Mycroft's features, scooting a handful of feet down the cold wall. "The world does not, despite your best efforts, work by your design. And what I feel or don't feel about John Watson is none of your concern!"

Mycroft placed his emotions back behind that wall of professionalism and objectivity that served him so well. "Of course it is," he offered evenly. "I'm your brother, after all."

"Pshhhh! Brother..." Sherlock wanted a warm bed in a quiet room where he didn't have to spend time holding up armored walls between himself and the one man on the planet he couldn't hide from. "You seem to think the word means endless allowances to commit countless acts of attempted meddling!"

"Doesn't it?" Mycroft smiled, amused.

"No, it most emphatically does NOT." Sherlock was going to loose his mind if he had to stay in this room much longer. He just was!

"You only say that because you're the youngest." Mycroft offered with the smug sureness of an eldest sibling. But quickly the smugness drained away in place of earnest, fond exasperation. "Sherlock, I see how you look at him and I know how you think. Time will come when he's so close to you, you'll panic and push him away. And it will kill you both."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and gave his brother a derisive glower. "I thought you were above such histrionics, Mycroft. Don't be so dramatic."

"Don't be so literal," Mycroft countered. "There are many kinds of death. And you're lying to yourself if you think a life without purpose and duty isn't John Watson's. If you won't let him in for your sake, please, please let him in for his."

It took Sherlock several moments to organize his raging thoughts around his equally raging emotions. Damn Mycroft to hell for ruining his equilibrium! He always did. "I won't play Charlemagne to his Roland. And that's the end of it," Sherlock spat tiredly.

Mycroft considered it a shockingly revealing analogy and almost had to chuckle, knowing Sherlock instantly hated having revealed himself so completely. "Now who's being dramatic?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock smirked, in spite of himself. But then he sighed, a thin line of irritation creasing his forehead. "You know what I mean."

"I do, perhaps. Though even years of deciphering the way you think couldn't allay my shock over discovering your apparent penchant for the classics." Mycroft sorted over snippets of memory... history and gossip, romanticist hearsay, all regarding Charles the Great and his most favored peer. Mycroft couldn't help but be moved, stunned even by the full weight of the metaphor as he understood what Sherlock actually meant. His brother had a tragic hero's heart hidden some place very deep inside him, of that Mycroft was now sure. "Roland...He loved God, France and Charles, but not necessarily in that order. I DO see now." Mycroft reasoned. How had he not realized... "You don't want to be the cause that John Watson sacrifices himself for." Mycroft's voice couldn't help but be laden with sympathy, even knowing how angry it would make his brother.

Sherlock ignored him, thinking on what he knew of his flatmate and friend. He certainly was well aware that John Watson needed what they did together. But he patently refused to let it be about him. Sherlock simply wouldn't allow it, couldn't stand for it and still be able to bear John Watson sharing their adventures. "I'm not anyone's cause, Mycroft" Sherlock insisted sourly.

'Poor, poor Sherlock,' Mycroft thought. 'So sure of your own brilliance and yet so reluctant to place a value upon it. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But your self imposed solitude hasn't kept you from having... what's the term Anthea used the other day... Ah yes! A 'raging man-crush' on the good doctor?" Mycroft smiled triumphantly at the choking noise that came from his brother.

When Sherlock had collected himself... "You really are a very great prat, you realize."

Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock, you need him and he needs you. Don't be so pedestrian as to limit or label that need. The rest of the world will happily oblige you in that, far too readily."

"I never cared what the world thinks about me." Sherlock announced with quiet pride.

And Mycroft knew it as the thin shield it was. "No, but I highly suspect you care what the world thinks about John Watson. And he does as well. And yet even so, he would become whatever you allow him to be to you. Foremost whatever you needed him to be."

"I don't want that kind of power over John," Sherlock insisted.

"Liar," Mycroft asserted quietly.

At that moment they heard a series of sounds--the heartwarming titter of distant gunfire, yelling, fighting. It was all very brief. They both knew their captors were pitiably amateurish and in no way prepared for what was coming down on them.

"That would be your goon-squad," Sherlock smirked.

As the sounds of confrontation thinned, a brisk call rang in the air beyond their makeshift prison. "Sherlock! Where are you?"

"Ah yes, And THAT would be your paladin." Mycroft tasted victory again, and as usual, gracefully relished it. "You know what they say, brother. In Arduis Fidelis."

"Oh Shut up, you smug bastard," Sherlock ground out, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear him.

And then the door was kicked open and there stood one very angry, very worried ex-RAMC surgeon--gladstone bag in one hand, gun in the other. "There you are!" John announced loudly. "I thought we'd never find you in this bloody maze!"

~~~~FINIS~~~

Comic art folks!!!

Title: Winter's Solace
Author: ME!  Pennies_4_eyes
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Genre: H/C
Summary: Sherlock ignored his bodies demands too often on a winter case and now pays the price.  Good thing John is there to take care of him.

A/N: I'm working on this comic for the BBC Sherlock fandom as a fill for THIS prompt.  It's going into print soon as I get it done.  The print version will be available for sale in late November.  While it IS a WIP, pages 4 and 5 will be available on Tuesday, so anyone interested can check back soon for updates, if you like.  This will move pretty fast for updates come a week from now when more of my RL studio responsibilities are complete.


Here's the first three pages of the comic, folks!

ENJOY!

I did a couple of images this summer that I posted about, but which didn't get onto my actual journal. 

The first is a image of Sherlock done in ball point pen and then color washed on the computer.  It's not a great image.  But it was so textural I kinda love it.

Funny thing, this was done way before the Sherlock!BBC show was even announced as on its way.  A full mouthed Sherlock with side parted floppy hair and a scarf was always MY canon.  And OMFG!  He's wearing a cardigan jumper!!! LOL!  



The second image is from an indy comic I laid out plot for.  I wanted to pair up with a writer to work on it, but my writer kinda disappeared just a tad and it's been on hold.  But here's the concept work.  Again, this was done before the Cumberbatch Sherlock was even publicized, if you can believe that.  LOL!  And OMFG again!  Watson's coat!  Ahahahahaaahahahaa!  SO that's where Sherlock got that darn thing!

Title: Not the Real World
Author:Me!  Pennies_4_eyes
Pairing: Gen OR not.  Up to you.
Rating: PG
Category: H/C with a load of angst
Warnings: a couple of curse words
Length: Short/Vignette
Spoilers: None really
Summary:  John's been living and working with Sherlock for months.  He's gotten used to thinking of their weird life as a bit unreal.  And now he's got his hands full with a sudden, jarring realization that wild as his life has become, it's no storybook.  A real life with real world consequences.  
A/N: This is a fill for This prompt reposted with a different fill than mine in part II of the sherlock kink meme.

The prompt was a luscious, vague word prompt.  "It's all fine." John POV



(This was my first fanfic in this fandom. I did it way back in the earlier kink prompt II and just never got around to posting it here. And no, it seems like it--but it's not a death fic. I might get around to a follow-up some day.)

Not the Real World

John was born a realist in a real world. Thirty nine years ago a plain, steadfast son was born to plain, steadfast parents. And he had never been anything but plain and steadfast since.

At least up until the day he met Sherlock Holmes. That was the day the bloody rules changed. That was the day he was reborn into a surreal existence where several key things he knew about the world, other people and especially himself, had changed. He'd been running amuck in that new world for months now---exploring, running, fighting, making what felt like more than a small difference.

It had been intoxicating.

Intoxicating, and yet seemingly not real. He even posted the craziness on his blog like some story, minus the parts that would get them arrested, of course. Being arrested meant consequences and consequences were for the real world. And John hadn't quite been ready to admit that was what he was living--so he shielded his not-real life the way he would have shielded a real one, only for different reasons.

Harry, the byproduct of the same plain and steadfast upbringing (her sexual identity notwithstanding) was cut of the same cloth. She'd read about what they were up to and once accused John of lying in his blog to get attention. She'd said it was all too cliché to be real. Boring gimp of an ex-soldier makes good as the sidekick of an exotic looking, super-genius eccentric nearly a decade younger. It was like a formulaic gay romance novel--or so she'd said.

John wouldn't know. He didn't read trashy romances, gay or otherwise. All John knew was that this was his life, unbelievable as it was.

Only now, Sherlock Holmes' 'too weird to be true' world of moonlit chases and Tele drama heroic near misses and storybook villains was suddenly a solid thing. Up until this moment it had seemed like some fast-paced fable he'd fallen into. But the blood surfaced all too real and warm, cooling all too sickeningly fast--on the ground, on his hands, all over him. The smell of it was enough to make him forget the dark, wet alleyway for another bloody day full of sand and dry air and the staccato report of rifle fire. The fear inside him was real too, so clenching and painful he couldn't help but scrabble and grasp desperately for some rulebook for this fantasy world turned real, just so he could cry 'foul'.

Because Sherlock Holmes was dying.

Gray eyes cast about lazily, startlingly unfocused. John knew that, more than anything, meant this was going badly. Sherlock was never unfocused in the middle of a case.

Full lips, an ominous dusky blue, whispered something John didn't quite catch over the din of Lestrade calling out commands to his team. "Shh... It's all fine, Sherlock. Just hold on." John pleaded quietly. He was shaking apart inside, but his hands were rock steady--moving on writ, working faster than he could almost think. Battle instinct. He was two people now--the stalwart sidekick in their fantasy world where he blogged their insane adventures in which bold actions never had permanent consequences, and the realist, the soldier-surgeon who'd seen too many brave men turned corpses to ever believe in the ridiculous life John had been living since meeting the consulting detective.

"John..." A long, white fingered grip tightened on his arm, almost painfully for a moment, before suddenly going slack. Immediately John reached out for the pale column of neck, two bloody fingers searching for another fantasy--the one he needed so very badly.

Nothing...

No, no, no, no! "Sherlock, c'mon now. I'm pants at this whole grief thing. I'd appreciate not having another reason to see that silly bint of a psychologist." He was begging a bit, he knew. But it didn't...

Yes! It was there! Faint and staggering, it felt like a victory all the same. "Lestrade! Where's that bloody fucking ambulance!"

More pressure, more precious time leaking crimson between his fingers. But he wouldn't allow this to end badly. It was fine, it had to be. John didn't want reality. He wanted Sherlock's insane facsimile of the real world to go on forever, even if he knew deep down it couldn't.

If he just held on...

John ignored the part of his brain calculating body mass index for blood loss and leaned in close to Sherlock's ear, whispering heatedly. "It's all fine. You hear me, dammit. It's going to be all fine."

~~~~FINIS~~~~~~~~~~

The weekend of Studio work has been grueling and I am still about three days from done on the two paid projects.   Life happened and as usual, I have to find a way to fold space and time.  (You'd think I'd be an expert by now)

As a result, I missed the anticipated update schedule for marill_chan 's prompt fill comic, Winter's Solace.  BUT, the next two pages are in the works.  Tomorrow evening I'll have page 4 done.  Page 5 will have to wait til Saturday though. I have to finish the RL work. 

Additionally, my water heater literally blew up Sunday, leaving me in a mess because my studio space flooded.  It cost me time I didn't have and some damage to a wacom tablet that was already having probs...which now has to be sent off for repairs. *sigh* So I am using my daughter's backup, which is on its last leg itself and needed sent of ages ago itself (there's an annoying short in the cord)

So it's been a week so far, and it's only Tuesday.

But I HAVEN'T forgotten anyone.  LOL!  In fact, in the last couple of days I have signed up for some art fills  and promised irisbleufic  some fan art.  So Never fear.  I'll get it all worked into my schedule.  Thank you all for following my madness so diligently.  

Talk to you all soon! 

Hugs!

katieforsythe expressed to me recently that she imagines a book canon Sherlock and John when she's writing them, vs a tv or movie character depiction.  By the way, if you aren't familiar with her works, you are missing a small act of divinity.  No joke, the woman is a Goddess!   So run, don't walk, over to her journal and READ, READ, READ!!!  You will thank me later.

I found this highly interesting and since I promised her some art, I did my best to sketch something out tonight, in between sessions of TRYING to get page 4 of Winter's Solace done.  (It's gonna get done tonight if I have to steal a tardis to make it so!!!)

Anyway, this is my first attempt at playing with Holmes and Watson as they might have appeared in the books--that is, if they were shagging.  (Wait, weren't they?  Turkish bath, anyone?) 

  Here they are!  Of course, Watson's a bit busy to show off his 'stache.  But we understand...And it's just a quick colored pencil sketch.  But I'll get something more finished out next week.

    

Page 4 will be done today, and posted at some point.  It's early Saturday Morning and I think I'm gonna stay up until I get this bugger done.

At any rate... Here's a teaser for those of you who've been chomping at the bit.  I am SO sorry RL has been so interfering this week.

It's the first 2 panels of the comic, inks only.   No narrative.   If nothing else, you all get to see what a page looks like before color. 

Hugs!

Damn!  I think I redrew half of this at least twice!  And let's not even talk about the repaints, hue fitzing, and general "Oh Noes!  This page looks like SHITE!" freakouts I had.  

I am formally sick of this page.  Really.

  For pages 1-3, go here.

Page 5 is in progress already and will take a lot less time.  Then one more page and we're halfway!!!  A 12 pager isn't bad to create, when my schedule permits.  But the coloring on this has been intense.  I am going to create a plot pallet so that reference colors to the previous pages is easier.

This page shows that, in spite of the emergency, John's sense of humor is alive and kicking ass.  And Sherlock finally wakes....sort of.  And we get a small sampling of the nightmare kitchen.  Which I wasn't sure how to handle, so I took some shortcuts that I may go back later and enhance.  

Anyway, I'll shut up now.  Here it is! Page 4!


 

Hello all!  No, I'm not spamming you all!  (I know if feels like it)

I have a fic to post here.  It's a WIP, but it's getting the next part really, REALLY soon.  (I have to stagger projects and the comic just got another page, so it's this piece's turn now.)

ANyhow... 

Title: Gourds and Clubs and Booze, OH MY!  Part 1/?
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: John/Sherlock Pre-slash
Category: Humor, H/C, Pre-slash
Warnings:  Not-quite-Crack, violence, stereotyping of thugs, and general mayhem
Disclaimer: I don't own them.  See, they're fully clothed.

Summary: In which pumpkins become a motive for murder, Birds are really out to get them, Sherlock, in his infinite singlemindedness, misses a few vital things, AND John continues his ongoing practice of categorizing and naming all of Sherlock's myriad "looks".  

A/N : This is a WIP fill for marill_chan , my not-so-evil twin.  Since she filled my word table prompt, I am filling hers.  It's all on her shoulders folks.  (If I'm out there doing evil, it's usually her fault)



This fic is a really horrid stomp into pseudo-not-really-crack and as such is probably full to the brim with movie references (just check the title out), bad puns, OOC behaviors and my own messed up brand of wit. (if you want to be generous and actually call it wit.) This is part 1. Part 2 is coming up in a couple of days. I am working kinks out of it now. It was supposed to be a reciprocal H/C fill for Marril_Chan's filling of MY prompt table fic. But it's taken a weird turn. PLease forgive the pending insanity.

Also please forgive any typos. I didn't send it off to BETA.





Gourds and Clubs and Booze, OH MY! Part 1/?


"Sherlock, is there a reason we've made a detour to a liquor store?" John braced himself for the odd. He was expecting Sherlock to turn to him with that urbane look of mild exasperation that just screamed 'Look subhuman, stop pestering me with the painfully obvious', and tell him rather matter-of-factly that there was a particular alcohol brand that when distilled out in just such a fashion made a particular deadly poison. If there was one word for Sherlock Holmes, it was 'particular'. Or was that peculiar...

But instead of cooperating with John's hard earned preconceptions, Sherlock didn't bother to look at him at all. "To buy alcohol, of course," the lanky detective answered smartly, pulling a bottle of Stolovaya off the shelf, becoming absorbed in the label.

John wasn't sure whether or not to be shocked or disappointed. 'Alright,' he thought to himself. 'Shock it is.'  The question was whether to be more shocked by Sherlock's apparently deplorable taste in liquor or the sudden, violent flashbacks that were trying to drag him back to his college years where--like most medical students--his first and most enduring University experiments had been upon his poor, beleaguered liver. "To buy Alcohol," he flatly parroted, just in case he'd heard wrong.

"Yes John, alcohol." There was a nasal sigh that followed. It wore a sign that said 'God save me from fools.'

Luckily, John was used to Sherlock's longsuffering tone by now. "Oh?"

The sound of assertion Sherlock made was just a little too dignified to actually be called a grunt. "I need as high a proof as I can get a hold of.   If I were in Italy, this would be simple," Sherlock wagged the clear bottle of cheap vodka at him.  "But I'm here, and while a higher percent volume would be best, this 50% will simply have to do."

"Hmm..." John offered in place of anything else to say. However, the tenor of things to come determined, there was his professional obligation to see to. "You're not getting faced tonight, are you? 'Cause if you are, as your physician, I advise that (a) you actually eat something today first and (b) you skip that dodgy cack you're holding right now and grab something that won't burn a hole in your stomach."

Sherlock paused for a moment, still not quite looking up from the bottle label. He smirked tightly though and John had to quell that flighty feeling he got whenever he'd managed to inspire that look on his friend's face. It wasn't the lips. The pinched reining in of a smile wasn't one of Sherlock's more compelling moments. It was the eyes. Everything showed in Sherlock's terribly attractive eyes and John was a sappy git for those moments when mischievous entertainment shone in them.

He was also just a plain git in general for finding Sherlock's eyes 'terribly attractive' to begin with. But there you have it.

"It's for a case, John," Sherlock clarified, picking up several other brands, all of them utter dreck--placing them all back on the shelf after reading the labels. All except the Stolovaya .

John wasn't stupid. And yet invariably whenever he least expected it, his mouth just ran away with him in front of whomever it was that he was currently smitten with, and instead of self possessed RAMC Capt John Hamish Watson, he would suddenly become 'Johnny the amazing hormone jelly'. "Oh. Well...Yes, I see." THough he really didn't. "Researching, then...are we? Was there some crime involving alcohol?"

Sherlock actually looked up at him then, that incredulous 'Surely you're impaired in some way' look, painted on his long features. "As a matter of fact, scores of crimes involve alcohol. People are stupid quite in general, but become far more specifically so with blood alcohol levels above a certain point." Sherlock paused long enough to give him another look, this one strangely quizzical, before moving down the aisle again. "In this case, though, no. I'm extracting DNA from evidence in the kitchen. And I'm currently out of high proof alcohol to aggregate the stripped genetic material for collection."

John just blinked for a moment. Alright then... That's what he'd been waiting for. That was the 'odd' John had been expecting since first inquiring why they were in a liquor store. Of course Sherlock Holmes didn't come into a liquor store to buy booze to drink. That would be too.... anybody.

However, Currently there were two mismatched hands, a set of false teeth that had seen better days and a collection of toe nail clippings in their refrigerator. The question of the day suddenly became which item was Sherlock doing an off the cuff DNA test upon? "Evidence?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Yes, evidence. The pumpkins," Sherlock answered, frowning over a bottle of pure grain like it was the holy grail of experimental accoutrements. It had been, in college,' John thought with a fondly reminiscent queasiness.

Wait... "I thought those were for carving," John observed, genuinely curious now.

"Why would... oh yes..." Sherlock snorted derisively. "The pending Holiday. Afraid not, John. They're evidence in a murder investigation."

John wasn't surprised it was something like this. It happened nearly every damn day and the novelty of Sherlock's bizarre life just simply had yet to wear off. It was like living down the proverbial rabbit hole. "Should I even ask what pumpkins have to do with a murder case?"

Sherlock was about to answer when a rather attractive blond shop girl approached. "Hi, can I help you gentlemen find something?"

It was S.O.P. now to watch for Sherlock's swiftly assessing gaze, lighting upon countless details in an instant. There was a minute wrinkle of a frown. 'He probably knows her bloody life story now,' John thought ruefully. Which was unfortunate because she was cute and giving him the eye a bit and he hadn't had a good knob in weeks. But Sherlock was going to ruin it, it's just what he did.

"Her epithelial capillary dilation just increased about thirty percent, John. Looks like your lucky night," Sherlock announced archly, grinning almost vindictively at John as he said it.

No, no, no, no.... This was NOT going to go well.

The poor shop girl, whose nametag read 'Bess', just looked at them like they'd already been hard at the stock. "Beg your pardon?" she asked, and John desperately wanted to tell her to run, not walk, to the beer cooler and hide out there until his nightmare of a flatmate was gone. But as usual, Sherlock was ten paces ahead of him.

Sherlock actually sighed. "You're blushing," he clarified, just as boldly as he'd made his first observation. Then gray eyes turned to John, registering a momentary look of surprise before a subtle, predatory shift took place. "And now so are you, John..." And soldier or not, John really was tempted to run for it. This had all the earmarks of a pending demolition and he wanted clear of the blast radius.

"Sherlock..." John warned, knowing it was already too late. His flatmate had yet another look he recognized, the one that said 'I eat marmite on my idiots.', and there was probably no stopping this. John felt that familiar swell of sick resignation. He loved Sherlock, but oh how he hated him.

"Well, since this is so obviously chemically mutual, and unless I've missed my mark--and I never miss my mark--John is terribly behind in his scheduled coition, I'll just continue searching for something suitably caustic on your shelves while my friend here avails himself of the opportunity to, what did you call it, John...oh yes, 'get off'." And with that, Sherlock departed to the back of the store, leaving the dust settle over the perfectly leveled terrain that used to be John's dignity.

Bugger him.

"Uhm...." John offered, part of his brain still waiting for the 'all clear' before coming out to count casualties.

"Weird friend you have there." And Bess actually giggled. It wasn't coquettish at all, rather it was the honest, delightfully female noise of someone who really did think the whole thing was funny.

John was tempted to find religion in that moment.

"Yes. Well. Look, I apologize for him. It's a head trauma thing."

God bless Bess, there was another giggle. "Really," she offered, clearly not fooled. And yet somehow, very charmed.

John apparently was having a lucky night.

"Well, no, not really. You see..." and John gestured toward where Sherlock had disappeared off to, grinning stupidly. "Actually he was orphaned at an early age..."

Bess swallowed the giggle this time, he observed. But the wide smile, that went clear up to her lovely eyes, was even better. "Oh the poor dear," she demurred.

John was on a roll now. A vindictive, 'I'll show you, Sherlock Holmes' roll, that was entirely beneath him and oh so satisfying for it. "Yeah, it's right sad. Would have been fine, but he was adopted by Tim Burton's wicked spinster aunt. She locked him in a giant gothic library and fed him canned cat food once a day through a letter drop in the door. He's very poorly socialized as a result."

~~~~TBC~~~~~

This one's a short fill for THIS prompt over at the Kinkmeme.   It just ran away with me back when I filled it and I figured I'd better archive it here.

Title: The Spaces Between
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: G
Category: Contemplative?  Internal dialogue maybe?  WHo knows!
Length: Short.  502 words of my trying to be concise and economic
Summary: John has found a new life and it's odd, but it's his and it's right.
A/N  I actually liked this. Which is odd, because I usually DON'T like my writing.  But this... this I'm kinda proud of.
The prompt was "The space between Sherlock's fingers are right where John's fit perfectly."






The Spaces Between




John's existence has become a repeating cycle of molding himself into the nooks and crannies of someone else's life--Sherlock's life.



It sounds bloody awful when he thinks about saying it aloud. Yet somehow John doesn't mind. Oh, he minds the body parts in the fridge... The microwave that smells like an abattoir... Lestrade's periodic insistence upon looking for drugs he'll never find until the very day Sherlock wants him to. He even minds Mycroft and his revolving rank of prying eyes upon them.



But fitting himself into the life Sherlock never quite makes room for him in...he doesn't mind that at all.



Because John knows it's not that Sherlock doesn't want him there. It's perhaps a bit because Sherlock is an uncompromising prat. Truthfully though, John suspects it's mostly because no one ever tried hard enough, never understood the test before them well enough to even realize that's what it was. Sherlock won't make room for anyone because he doesn't want someone with him that he has to change for. John doesn't need him to change. John just needs Sherlock to keep allowing him to pry himself into the interstitial spaces of Sherlock's existence. If John were a romantic he'd say it was very much like weaving himself into a length of fabric, embellishing the pattern without altering it.



It turns out that Sherlock didn't really need him to pay for half the flat. John should have guessed that from the beginning. But Sherlock did, in fact, need him.  Sherlock needed him to bulldog his way into the detective's lonely life when no one else would. And John continues to surprise himself with how good he is at it...how right it feels. A cab for one, a meal for one, a whole life meant for one, with two lives crammed in. It should be stifling. But it's not. It's like breathing.



He missed the military, where he was a small part of a greater whole. One piece among many, all tightly fit into place in the grand puzzle of service to queen and country.  Once he was healed and discharged, John's life was so large, so open, so featureless. Now he's part of a greater whole again, he has a purpose and a place--one that means even more because he's carved it out himself. John fits into the world again, in this new life with its sleepless nights and manic flights of sudden danger and desperate collapses in the aftermath of triumph. He fits in right and tight, sardined next to the man to whom this life used to singularly belong.



And of late, John's come to realize he fits the man himself. Like every part of his new way of existing, he'd had to commandeer this too--his role as lover. And like every part of this, of Sherlock--that he'd staked a claim to--Sherlock had let him have it without contest once John had definitively made his move.



The bed too narrow for two bodies, the nook under Sherlock's chin, the space between Sherlock's fingers, right where John's fit perfectly... It's where he lives now. In all the spaces between.

John wouldn't change it for anything.

This is a weird little snippet that came to me the moment I read THIS prompt.  I hope it works for the OP. 

The tense is present, something I haven't done in years.  So please forgive if it's not perfectly consistent.Yeah, this fic is sorta just there.  No real tie-ins other than it's post TGG.  Even so, I managed making it so vague that there isn't even the tiniest hint of a spoiler. 

And now, thanks to supermouse  I have a working title for the piece!!!!

Title: Anchored
Rating: G (I mean it folks, NOTHING happens)
Pairing: None!  But SHerlock and Mycroft are present
Category: H/C (totally pointless H/C, in fact)
Word Count: 1102
Warnings: POintless H/C and a bloody nose
Summary: Sherlock gradually wakes in a hospital, a bit out of sorts and the sound of his brother soothes him?  Maybe?  Not sure about that.
(Summary is almost as long as the fic)

A/N : This fic is a vignette for the kinkmeme prompt "After the explosion, Sherlock wakes up in hospital with tubes down his nose, and is surprised when the first thing he sees is Mycroft, slumped in a chair next to his bed, snoring.  It's got little to no framework and reference and so it's sort of adrift, as fics go.  I think that's possibly because I wrote it imagining that Sherlock would have been feeling a bit adrift and without context.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





Smells and shapes come and go near him in the darkness, threatening phantoms only offered forth because his senses are too blanketed to be more concretely useful in reporting the world he is slowly becoming aware of. Sherlock is barely more than reactionary, stiflingly afraid as the fog lifts and the awareness of pain (almost everywhere) asserts itself.  He's confused and hurt and all he wants is for the pervading, sharply antiseptic odor to become the warm smell of maleness and wool--John's smells.

Underneath everything is a cacophony of grating noises, the limping, unsteady beeping of some machine, the hiss and bubble of air and water somewhere very nearby, and a strangely comforting grunting, dragging noise...distinctly nasal. He knows that noise, from long ago--latches onto it like a lifeline in the storm of unwelcome disorderly input he suffers clawing his way up through the strangling night that has swallowed him.

Another noise suddenly rises above the others, new and guttural and raw, the conjoined twin of a vibration in his throat bringing a knife of pain fit to take his breath away. Sherlock absently makes a note to himself, 'don't groan like that again...' It bloody well hurts!

Gummy lids flutter and the light hurts too, if only as a small, blazing counterpoint, lancing brightly through the expanding terrain of his consciousness. And then that annoying, wonderful, sane noise again... Up and down in frequency and tone. It's a rhythm of some kind...queerly comforting, like a lullaby long forgotten. Only more raucous. He still has no word for the sound, but it's like a funny balm on his nerves. Every minute or so the dragging noise erupts into a ludicrous snort, shoulders jerk, empty quiet reigns... And then the whole cycle repeats itself.

It takes several moments for Sherlock's curiosity to foment into real action and he's almost coherent enough to be disgusted with himself. Almost. His head slowly (terribly, horribly slowly) cranes toward the sound when he's surprisedly halted by the tug of tubing against his face, pulling from deep within his sinuses. The painful burn isn't unbearable, not next to the other aches making themselves heard, but the intimacy of the violation... Having things, tubes--to which he did most certainly not consent--coming out of orifices... It was beyond intolerable! With an irritation that might have been born of horror someplace deep within himself, Sherlock reaches up to yank at the intrusions. Or rather, he tries to. But he seems to lack the strength, and the attempt itself erupts such a blossom of agony in his breast that the beeping cadence in the background is suddenly a loud, drunken gallop of ugly noise.

The soothing burble of sound stumbles and then stops suddenly. 'Snoring... That's what it is!' his mind cries amid the panic rising to the forefront. Sherlock wrenches his head that direction, resulting in an altogether satisfying sting in his sinuses that makes his eyes water, and something warm and moist dribbles down his upper lip.

One of his hands finally starts to obey, making a clumsy, pitiful flail toward his face. And in what feels to Sherlock like an instant, the blurry form next to him has risen like a leviathan from the mists of his periphery and reached out, cleanly catching his wrist. "Lie still Sherlock," comes the soft, low words. An order all the same and in a voice he'd know anywhere, even in this hell.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock rasps, the word tearing at his throat. He tugs weakly to free his wrist, but it's already being tucked gently, firmly at his side.

"Hmmm... Yes, brother. Lie still," Mycroft repeats, just as gently. Again, the command is implicit within the tone. "A nurse is on the way to quiet these wretched machines."

Sherlock's vision is starting to clear and had he been at all himself he'd have dodged the folded linen handkerchief suddenly in his field of vision, dabbing gently at his nose. "You would finally wake only to do something like this. I'll give you that. It's very you."

Sherlock has no idea what 'something like this' actually is. It's all too much to recon at the moment and all he can think is that if Mycroft didn't want him doing whatever it is he's done, he shouldn't have been snoring loud enough to wake him. That he misses the noise already is beside the point. "Noisy bugger," Sherlock croaks out finally, pleased he is able to speak and appalled at how much it takes out of him. Mycroft smiles tightly, and Sherlock doesn't have the strength to sort through his hard drive for what that particular rictus of an expression means.

"Yes, well... It's good to finally see you awake, Sherlock," Mycroft dances neatly around the accusation and Sherlock laments not being currently capable of the mental gymnastics to torture his elder sibling.

Finally the annoying dabbing halts. "Though I could have done without you bloodying your nose first thing," his brother offers in that same strangely soft tone again. Sherlock doesn't care on a good day what Mycroft could do without. He certainly can't be arsed to care right now.

Thick fingers comb gently through his matted hair, setting a hypnotic tempo of comfort washing through him, and Sherlock postulates that something dire must have occurred to warrant this.

A nurse enters and resets the machines, adds something to an IV line Sherlock is only just noticing. She grabs up his chart, asks him a few things he doesn't bother answering, She obviously isn't expecting him to anyway. The pain begins to drift away a bit and with it some of the scarce clarity he was only just holding onto. His eyes shift back to Mycroft, still at the head of the bed, still stroking his hair. Two sets of gray eyes meet and then Sherlock's glance flicks to what he knows are ice chips in a cup nearby.

Ever adept, Mycroft understands and Sherlock might almost be willing to thank him for the blessed relief he suddenly feels as the cold slivers melt, soothing his throat.

"You snore," Sherlock croaks out instead.

Mycroft smiles again, more genuinely. He leans over and Sherlock feels the momentary brush of cool, soft lips on his brow. "Do I," he inquires teasingly.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice is in ruin, but he doesn't care. "Stop it," he barely manages so scratch out as audible.

Sherlock knows by the solemn nod that is the last thing he sees before slipping away, that Mycroft understands he means just the opposite.

~~~FINIS~~~~

I realized I had 2 older Sherlock!BBC chibi comics that were posted elsewhere but not archived here.
 

So I'm bringing them home.  LOL! 

Featuring Chibi Sherlock, Chibi John, and Chibi "Asylum" Productions Sherlock.  Ben Syder (who played Sherlock Holmes in the 2010 Sherlock Holmes movie from Asylum Productions) was insanely effete and tiny.  It was wonderfully funny and it was only made more so by Ianto as Watson!   Ahahahah!

Really folks, if you have not seen this insane pastiche spoof of Sherlock Holmes, rent it TODAY! 


    

  

Heya! 

I am releasing for sale a set of 2 and 4 Sherlock and John Bookmarks featuring original art.  It's a bit of a lark, but I figured what the heck.

I have the first Sherlock looking pretty close to done.  But I wonder... Is "Sherlock" enough, or does it need to be his full name?  And what about the inactive (If very textural) background.  Too light?  Too airy and vague?  Just right?  I need some feedback on this first bookmark to help guide where the others are going.

So here it is!!!