Fic inspired by a mood board at lighthouse_the
Here's the mood board by mark_pierre
And here are the fics:
Fandom: Elementary
Words: 260
Notes: Slight spoilers for final season
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Joan bent down to slip the bunch of daisies into the small well in front of the headstone. As she rose, she tried to arrange her thoughts and her expression into a contemplative frame as befitting the surroundings, though there was a visitor at a distant grave who seemed to be berating the headstone of their, presumably, loved one.
She pulled off one of her gloves and laid her bare hand on top of the cold marble, suppressing her customary grimace at the likely cost of the shiny black monolith.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to bring Sherlock's face to mind. As she exhaled, she felt more than heard a stirring in the clutch of trees to her right. A sudden flurry of wings erupted from the woods--looking up, she followed the flight of black birds swirling overhead, then tracked her eyes back to their original source. With a puzzled frown, she bent her head as if in thought, or prayer, and slid her eyes to the right and sharpened her focus, trying to discern movement in the shadows. Could it be, someone watching her small pilgrimage?
After a few more scans, seeing nothing, she reached in her pocket, pulled out a small laminated strip covered in symbols, and, bending, quickly tucked it in among the daisy stems. As she turned away, the thought arose, as it always did on these visits, "Maybe this will be the week he returns. Maybe this week." Pulling on her glove, she strolled down the path, not looking back.
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Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Words: 343
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Mary released John's hand and patted his back as she moved away from his side to a bench at the edge of the lane. John flashed her a half smile and continued on around the bend and onto a path, leading to a headstone on a small rise just before a cluster of trees.
With a small huff, he came to a military stop a few feet from the headstone and tried to arrange his thoughts as neatly as his limbs. As always he found his mind veering to a general sense of irritation, which seemed to be his customary lead-off emotion once the depression had finally mostly lifted. Shaking his head and re-straightening his shoulders, he walked deliberately up to the headstone and stared at the name in huge letters, not for the first time grunting at the ostentation, He tried to conjure up warm thoughts of his old friend, gone nearly a year, but his eyes kept veering to that carved-in date and that last, most horrible day.
"Bloody hell, Watson, get a grip," he muttered to himself. "Get past it." Oddly this made tears spring to his eyes. Hoping to steady himself, he pulled off his glove and placed his hand firmly on top of the headstone, letting the cold of the marble radiate across his palm. It felt like a shot to the heart, and he dropped his head and gasped.
Suddenly a roar of wings erupted in front of him and he looked up to see a flock of black birds rise up from the copse of trees and swirl overhead. Startled back to normalcy, he straightened, fumbled in his pocket for a sprig of rosemary, and placed it in front of the stone; turning, he pulled on his glove and strode back down the lane to meet Mary.
From behind a tree in the copse, a profile emerged slowly and watched the disappearing figure. "For God's sake, John. Read the signs," the profile muttered to a high tree branch as it withdrew into the woods, and away.
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And here are the fics:
Fandom: Elementary
Words: 260
Notes: Slight spoilers for final season
.
Joan bent down to slip the bunch of daisies into the small well in front of the headstone. As she rose, she tried to arrange her thoughts and her expression into a contemplative frame as befitting the surroundings, though there was a visitor at a distant grave who seemed to be berating the headstone of their, presumably, loved one.
She pulled off one of her gloves and laid her bare hand on top of the cold marble, suppressing her customary grimace at the likely cost of the shiny black monolith.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to bring Sherlock's face to mind. As she exhaled, she felt more than heard a stirring in the clutch of trees to her right. A sudden flurry of wings erupted from the woods--looking up, she followed the flight of black birds swirling overhead, then tracked her eyes back to their original source. With a puzzled frown, she bent her head as if in thought, or prayer, and slid her eyes to the right and sharpened her focus, trying to discern movement in the shadows. Could it be, someone watching her small pilgrimage?
After a few more scans, seeing nothing, she reached in her pocket, pulled out a small laminated strip covered in symbols, and, bending, quickly tucked it in among the daisy stems. As she turned away, the thought arose, as it always did on these visits, "Maybe this will be the week he returns. Maybe this week." Pulling on her glove, she strolled down the path, not looking back.
.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Words: 343
.
Mary released John's hand and patted his back as she moved away from his side to a bench at the edge of the lane. John flashed her a half smile and continued on around the bend and onto a path, leading to a headstone on a small rise just before a cluster of trees.
With a small huff, he came to a military stop a few feet from the headstone and tried to arrange his thoughts as neatly as his limbs. As always he found his mind veering to a general sense of irritation, which seemed to be his customary lead-off emotion once the depression had finally mostly lifted. Shaking his head and re-straightening his shoulders, he walked deliberately up to the headstone and stared at the name in huge letters, not for the first time grunting at the ostentation, He tried to conjure up warm thoughts of his old friend, gone nearly a year, but his eyes kept veering to that carved-in date and that last, most horrible day.
"Bloody hell, Watson, get a grip," he muttered to himself. "Get past it." Oddly this made tears spring to his eyes. Hoping to steady himself, he pulled off his glove and placed his hand firmly on top of the headstone, letting the cold of the marble radiate across his palm. It felt like a shot to the heart, and he dropped his head and gasped.
Suddenly a roar of wings erupted in front of him and he looked up to see a flock of black birds rise up from the copse of trees and swirl overhead. Startled back to normalcy, he straightened, fumbled in his pocket for a sprig of rosemary, and placed it in front of the stone; turning, he pulled on his glove and strode back down the lane to meet Mary.
From behind a tree in the copse, a profile emerged slowly and watched the disappearing figure. "For God's sake, John. Read the signs," the profile muttered to a high tree branch as it withdrew into the woods, and away.
.
.