OMG, I wrote something!!

Aiming for short fics, little pieces as I try and find my way back from that 7500 word fic that nearly killed me.

Anyway ... here's a little word doodle, a post-ep for A Study in Pink. I have more "John and Sherlock giggle a lot" fics in my head. This is the first piece of them.

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"Do you know what this fortune cookie tells me?" John asks after one too many beers with his Chinese takeaway.

"Yes," Sherlock intones from his spot on the couch.

John just giggles. And continues, "This fortune cookie tells me that you, Sherlock Holmes, are a fraud."

Sherlock makes a noise that John thinks he might eventually learn to translate, but it's late, he's recently shot a man, and he's a little bit drunk.

"You said you could predict the fortune cookies," John says, as if that's his point. He thinks maybe that was his point. At some point. And then he realizes he is laughing. At nothing, seemingly. Which just makes him laugh harder.

"Christ," he thinks, shaking with laughter, shaking for reasons he's not thinking about, tucked up in a cushy chair in front of a fire, feet propped on a side chair upon which rests a Union Jack pillow. Queen and Country. Bravery and Stupidity. Christ.

"There's a little "hmmm?" noise from across the room, which pulls him out of his thoughts. Sherlock turns, his hair tangling in the bobbles of the damask pillow he's got mashed into the sofa corner behind his head. There is a tiny little smile on his face, just one corner of his mouth quirked up, and a glint in his eye.

"Well, come on you mad bastard," John prods, "Go ahead, prove me wrong."

"Simple," Sherlock said, languidly.

"I'm waiting," John said.

"My dear Doctor Watson. Surely you know this already. The fortunes are never accurate ... and frequently ungrammatical. Therefore I can always predict... that they will always be wrong."

John makes his own sound then, a scoffing noise that, oddly makes Sherlock smile.

Sherlock is on his feet now, pausing to dig something out of his coat pocket, and as he heads towards his bedroom, he drops a set of keys in John's lap.

"The proof John, is in the pudding," he says as he makes his way through the kitchen and goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

And John finds himself giggling once again as he looks around the room. The fire dances shadows across the boxes, and the keys in his hand grow warm under his touch.

This is a place where things happen, where they will happen to me, he thinks.

Christ, what has he gotten himself into?

But he holds the keys out in the palm of his hand. And his hand is steady.

And he can't stop smiling.

So I'm turfing out Evernote and thinking about getting back to using it to keep things more organized. (I seem to be all about the organization lately. Is it because Spring is coming?) Anyway, I found this little bitty thing, and thought I might as well post it and move on as I don't think I'm ever going to do anything more with it, although there is always more OT3 to contemplate!

What Peter discovers eventually is that Neil's perfect image is just as much of a con as everything else in his life. On the surface he comes across as a neat freak. His clothes tailored, just so. He always looks unrumpled, even at the end of a long day. But his pockets are always full of crinkled receipts and candy wrappers, paper clips and spare change. 

Peter would not have expected this. Neil's jail cell was neat as pin, and his room at June's looked like it had been spit shined every morning.

But now Peter knows that Neil turns dresser drawers topsy turvy, and drops damp towels on the bathroom floor. Now all their CD's are all in the wrong cases, but Neil says he knows where they are, so "stop fussing."

And when left to put the dishes away, well, he'll stick them in the nearest cabinet, or in the first open shelf. El finds canned goods inside the mixing bowls, or silverware stuck in a coffee mug. 

For Neil has no image to maintain here. There is no pretense to uphold. Here, he is simply home. 

This entry was originally posted at http://valancy-joy.dreamwidth.org/144686.html

I sent this along in alba's holiday card as she was the one who gave me the prompt one uninspired day in November. She encouraged me to post it, so here is a little Merlin-y goodness for the Solstice...

prompt: It all started with the tiny plastic pink dish that was left in the middle of the floor

Merlin was six. He was lying on the rug in front of the electric fire coloring. He had looked up, remembering the cookies that were in the dish next to the sofa. Before he could even fully complete his "I wish that dish was over here near me" thought, the dish slid across the floor coming to a stop only when it gently bumped against his fingers.

He didn't know what to think about what had just happened. It was cool, sure, but he was pretty sure things like that weren’t supposed to happen. He reached out and carefully poked the dish, but it stayed put this time.

Not knowing what to think, he'd mostly just ignored what was going on, ate his cookies and went back to his coloring book.

He did look up at his mother that night as she was tucking him in and ask, "Are you sure I'm not Harry Potter?"

"No scar," she said, tapping him on the forehead and laughing. "Now go to sleep. I knew it was a bad idea to let you watch that movie..."

She laughed again when she tucked the stuffed owl that was his constant companion these days under the covers with him.

"Sleep tight Merlin. It's okay to dream about Hogwarts if you want to."

As she left the room, pulling the door shut, Merlin rolled over on his tummy, tucked Owliver under his chin, and stared into the darkness lit only by the castle shaped nightlight glowing in its plug in the far wall.

He never told anybody the stories he made up about the people who lived in that tiny castle in the far dark lands. But he thought about them every night as he drifted off to sleep. Sometimes he even dreamed about a fair-haired prince who rode a white horse and fought strange monsters with Merlin's help.

This entry was originally posted at http://valancy-joy.dreamwidth.org/140493.html

... dremiel  is to blame for this little thing. Also those pictures JB was drunkenly posting to twitter...

"What is THAT?" Ianto asked looking down at the small ball of fur sitting in a box on his coffee table. He'd heard laughing in his lounge, and stumbled out from the bedroom, still wearing his striped pajama bottoms, and a soft, faded tshirt with the Guinness logo on it.

"It's your birthday present!" Jack said, scooping up the small brown and white puppy and holding it out to Ianto.

"We're not keeping it," Ianto said, hands on his hips.

"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed, this morning, didn't he? Didn't he?" Jack said nuzzling the puppy.

Ianto stared at Jack and the puppy nose to nose and wondered if he was dreaming. The puppy was licking Jack's face, and Jack was laughing as the little pink tongue tickled his cheeks.

For one brief moment, a vision of stability, and a home, and walkies in the twilight flashed through his head. A little spotted dog on a leash ... taking him to the park... letting him romp on the beach... curling up with a book on a rainy afternoon with a warm puppy snuggled next to him on the couch. These things flashed before his eyes as he stood in his living room, his bare feet getting chilly on the wood floors.

With a laugh he realized himself to be ten kinds of foolish. He crossed to Jack, took the puppy in his arms, and turned.

"No."

Jack stepped close to Ianto, snaked an arm around his waist, nuzzled his cheek, and said "The puppy loves you. How can you say no to that face?"

Ianto pushed Jack away, dumped the dog back in the box, and crossed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

He looked back to see Jack kneeling next to the box, letting the puppy chew on his fingers.

He crossed back and dropped on the the sofa near Jack.

"Jack. I can't keep him. You know I can't."

"We're not listening to Daddy. No we're not," Jack said to the puppy.

"Jack!" Ianto said reaching to take Jack by the chin and turn his face so he could meet his eyes.

He stared at Jack for a moment, before sighing, and continuing.

"Jack. A puppy? That has to be the worst gift ever for someone in our line of work. I'm never home. I can't be here to take it for walks. There's no time, Jack. Who is going to feed it and play with it and teach it to fetch while we're off dealing with all he shit the Rift throws at us?"

"We could..."

"No. We cannot take it to work with us! You do remember where we work, right? Leaving aside all the things that don't need chewing on by puppies, just think what would happen if Myfanwy got ahold of it..."

There was a long pause there while the two men, tried not to meet each others eyes over a subject neither of them ever wanted to discuss.

"I appreciate the thought, truly," Ianto said, leaning forward touching his forehead to Jack's. But it's not on. It just can't be."

At that the kettle whistle started screeching in the kitchen. Ianto got up and went to lift the kettle from the stovetop.

With a smile, he turned back to Jack. "Although. We never did find time to get Gwen something for HER birthday..."