The Fluffernutters Meme

[indianbeautyani]

fluffernutters meme

what to do:
☆ post a comment
★ others use the magic RNG 1-10 to pick their fluffiness
☆ then fluff it out

fluffy choices:
① Tiny kisses For some reason or another, the person in front of you? Needs all of the kisses. All of them.
② Love confession You feel the butterflies in your stomach, but there's no way you're going to back out

Comments

[onbakerst]

Use your words, Dr. Watson.

[Nope she's not smiling. Well, she is smiling a tiny bit, sitting up at the presence of her friend. Mary's file. John's limp. Gladstone tottering behind him. He looks so much older than when she last saw him, more creases in his brow, around his eyes. Her eyes flick from Mary's file back to Watson, then to the manuscript in her hands.]

"My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of her own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with her whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among her old books, and alternating from week to week between nicotine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of her own keen nature." [She finally adjusts the papers, setting them right before placing them in the box.] I might wonder what London will think of me after you've gotten this published. Not entirely accurate. I'm somewhat endearing in this pages, aren't I?

Well, hello, old friend. [And she remains seated, almost cheerful, in her way, as she looks up at him. Ever so casually, almost to the point where one - not Watson, of course - might smack her across the face for such an understatement: ] As it turns out, I'm not quite dead.

[ooc: That reply made me die dkljfsdkfjwe. WATSON. omg sorry for all the edit alerts, I keep finding typos!]

[fuckirene]

[Frustrated eyes were immediately cast skyward, sighing heavily. He was trying to use his words. Watson would have liked to see how well she could articulate herself if he were the one who "died" and suddenly reappeared two years later. Then again, he wouldn't have had the heart to do that.

And he saw that smile and yes, he looked older. Terrible things did that to a man. Half of it, however, was instantaneously received from seeing Holmes. But he still couldn't talk. He couldn't even get a half-formed idea in his head before going off on another tangent. She was never able to do that to him before, not to this degree. Watson didn't have his cane, so he was careful to kneel down on his bad knee and start collecting the papers he'd dropped.

There was a momentary pause when she started reading off his story. A Scandal in Bohemia? He peeked up at her for a moment, feeling a bit relieved but equally confused. Either she truly was only on his third story or she had already read them all and was reading them again. Watson shook his head, closing the file and standing up with little hardship.] They may think more of you, the way the paper treats your image. [Even in death they hadn't treated her properly. Watson was trying to show she wasn't an entirely terrible thing like everyone thought she was. If they believed him.

But of course Watson wouldn't slap her, oh no. No, never slap. Punch, maybe but never slap; that was far too weak an action for what he was feeling. But he would settle for taking the box with his manuscript from his desk and putting it on the shelf where it belonged. He was still upset, that was why he hadn't greeted her back just yet.] I don't know what to say, Holmes. [If only because he had a million things to say to her.] After all this time, after-after everyone thought you were dead! [He laughed and turned around, hands shaking as one covered his face and the other rested across his chest.] And, and then Mycroft shipped to me that damned oxygen tank, the only thing they found after fishing the river and, meanwhile, you were off... [Watson scoffed, his smile turning into a frown; that hand over his face dropping to make himself stop talking.]

I looked fo you. I spent hours rummaging that river even after they told me it had already been done countless times. I spent days in the forest looking for you because I couldn't accept that-that the great Shadley Holmes, the greatest detective the world has ever known, was dead. I became ill looking for more than a damn piece of metal! [Walking up to his desk, Watson slammed his hands on the edge. His eyes were watering, his entire body subtly shaking.] Why couldn't I have known? What was so terrible about me knowing you were alive?

[ooc: Asdfghjk;; all the feels! And no worries about the edits, it's alright XD I've gotta fix Watson's, so you'll get one from me too. Or you know, not :Ic;;]

[onbakerst]

My dear friend... [She starts, mustering up all the sympathy she can, watching him from where she's seated. Her back is straight as a board, chin lifted high. Her elegantly long nose wrinkles from the smallest tickle. It almost feels as if she can feel a tear behind her eyes, but closes the ducts before it escapes.

She had business to tend to. But that wasn't the half of it. She lets him yell at her, not even wincing, face as calm as can be, save for the slight wrinkle in her smooth brow.] My older brother was the only one who know. He tended to my things and kept a distant eye on you for me.

[Of course he went looking for her. She couldn't have stopped it, not Watson, not with his determination and endless loyalty. She hardly flinches when he slams his hands on the table, but keeps her gaze fixed on him. Oh, the manuscripts. She'd already read them once through.] Because one of Moriarty's men knew I survived the fall, Watson. I climbed down the rocks and he tried - in vain, mind you - to finish the job.

With just one man knowing that I'd gotten away, I had to take care of him and any other enemies who might have had similar knowledge. And, if they couldn't have found me, they would have targeted you to bring me out of hiding.

[From her cheek she rubs off the rest of the glue from her false beard and looks at him almost pleadingly.] Do you understand?

[fuckirene]

[John watches her a closely as he cane between a furrowed brow and blurry blinks which, depending how long he waiting to do so, didn't help much. At this point he wasn't sure if the tears that wouldn't fall were from all his pent up anger, all his grief, or from the joy that was swelling in his chest and looking to engulf his entire heart all at once just from her presence. Because for once this wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination bought on by insomnia or by scotch or absinthe. She was here, in his office, sitting at his desk.

But his lips pursed together at the bit about Mycroft, about the men that were after her. There was always someone after her, he didn't matter, they were always after her. If anything, he could have helped, like he always had, instead of being in this agony.] And-and, what, with your skill and sheer madness that took you less then a month? Assuming you didn't sustain any injuries from that hellish fall nor the mercenaries, the traveling or even the weather.

[Watson was always in danger when she was around, the only difference now was that he didn't know he was. He wasn't prepared for Moriarty's men because he knew they were after her, but she had died! Watson thought everything was abruptly over. The stare breaks so John can further wrinkle his brow, dropping his head to look at all the papers and supplies on his desk. She was only protecting him, he knew, but he didn't want to understand. He went to her memorial and spoke. Was she somewhere in the crowd? Watching him nearly break down infront of all those people? Did she give him her condolences as everyone left? After all these years of standing by her side, reluctantly or not, he wasn't allowed to help when when she needed it? Or rather, when he thought she needed it?

... When he needed her?

With a quick sniffle and a hand coming up to brush at his eyes, Watson went through one of his smaller supply kits on the desk before looking back up at her chin, examining the reddened skin before lightly touching it. ] I told you to stop using that adhesive. [Watson muttered, though loud enough for her to hear.] Your skin is too fair. [He looked back to his hands to dab a cloth in a tin a few times before gingerly applying a cream to her chin.]

[onbakerst]

[But, that is the thing, John Watson. You are very important. Certainly more than just a sidekick to a mad young woman whose brain works faster than a speeding train. These sentiments go unexpressed, but she thought it best to work alone. Sentiment brought people down, people like Irene Adler, who slip and fall because of their hearts.

As for her own memorial, vanity brought her to the crowd and she, dressed as an elderly woman, listened among the crowd. She hadn't the nerve to approach him then, merely leaving as soon as the ceremony as over. Only Mycroft saw her leave.

No plan is perfect, not even a plan Holmes could contrive. Sacrifices had to be made. But she knows that he needs her now, now that Mary is on the brink of death. He cannot be alone, not while she continues to live and breathe.]

Well, Watson, one must do what one can under limited circumstances. [She smirks and lets him apply the cream, elongating her slender neck.] Other than this burn, I'm fine. Honestly. It is the right moment.