sweet are the uses of adversity // fate is not an eagle (bbc sherlock, animorphs)
Title: Sweet Are the Uses of Adversity
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John, Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 (blood, murder, mental instability)
Prompt: Dark!John turns Sherlock into a head-in-a-jar in an ill-attempted display of love. ( here on the kinkmeme)
It starts as a blog post.
Sometimes I think he's nothing but a head on legs. Really, ridiculously long legs.
(Backspace key clicks till it's gone, but the thought won't be deleted.)
Next week, and Sherlock gets a knife to his ribs. The red is striking against his pale skin, and John frowns and fusses and clicks his tongue in disapproval to disguise how much of shame it is to sponge it away.
It's only transport, John. Stop hovering.
(Red and white and flashing silver haunt his dreams after that. He wakes up panting.)
He won't eat. Skin and bones, he is. Skin and bones and brain.
Chinese?
Busy.
(The body is shriveling away beneath him. The thoughts are all that matter.)
Boredom makes Sherlock restless. It makes him yell and sulk and shoot things for the bulletholes. It makes John's blood run cold. It makes his fingers itch with the want to snatch the gun and paint those bulletholes red.
There must be something happening in this bloody great city. I can't be the only one who gets bored.
(He isn't.)
There are no knives in the kitchen. John took them away, not from Sherlock but from himself. He breaks into 221A and finds Mrs. Hudson's. As his fingers fold across the handle the whole street falls silent. It presses on his eardrums and shakes the walls, and he moves upstairs with the whisper of a ghost.
John, what are you-- John. John. Stop it, John.
(His name slices the silence beautifully, just like Mrs. Hudson's knife slides through skin.)
Big, shiny jar. He even labels it, so generations to come will know that this is the skull with all the answers.
There's a bloody head in the fridge, Sherlock.
(He laughs at his own joke and begins to cleanse himself in scarlet.)
There are sirens outside, men on the stairs, silver bracelets clinking on his red, red wrists.
This is what you always wanted, isn't it, Sherlock?
(Sherlock answers, because Sherlock will always answer, and John smiles.)
*
Title: Fate is Not an Eagle
Fandom: Animorphs
Characters: Cassie, David
Spoilers: David trilogy
Rating: PG
Prompt: Any, any, you're the only one who can undo // what I've become
Green.
The world tilted and spun around her, her feet planted firmly in the grass. When it steadied, it was a park, one she used to come to as a child.
It was torn down six years ago.
A girl ran past. Dark-skinned, giggling. She stopped, her mother calling in the distance. Her faceless friends ran on.
The little girl looked up with black eyes, and darkness fell, swallowing her whole.
"See what you've done, Cassie?"
David's voice was light, teasing. Tiny rat feet scrabbled against concrete.
"I did what had to be done." It was true. It was.
His laugh echoed longer than it should have. "Okay."
"You were the one who-- I didn't-- I saved your life!" She was losing control. Light head, heavy tongue. The rat feet grew louder. Waves crashing on a rocky shore.
"I mean it. I'm not telling you what to think. I'm not like that."
"You tried-- you tried to kill--"
"Shh, Cassie." He laid a gentle hand on her head. She would have knocked away his arm in a heartbeat, if she could remember how to move. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm not Jake."
Anger boiled hot in her stomach, and the lethargy began to drain from her fingertips. "Jake is a better man than you'll ever be." It didn't come out nearly as strong-minded as she'd hoped. Rachel could have done it better.
Rachel had done it better. That was why David was a rat on a rock.
"You're not here, anyway." His hand dropped from her head. She thought the rat feet sounded fainter. "You're exactly where we put you."
"Did you really put me there, though, Cassie? Or did you only make a suggestion?"
In her own bed, Cassie woke, with darkness heavy and still around her.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John, Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 (blood, murder, mental instability)
Prompt: Dark!John turns Sherlock into a head-in-a-jar in an ill-attempted display of love. ( here on the kinkmeme)
It starts as a blog post.
Sometimes I think he's nothing but a head on legs. Really, ridiculously long legs.
(Backspace key clicks till it's gone, but the thought won't be deleted.)
Next week, and Sherlock gets a knife to his ribs. The red is striking against his pale skin, and John frowns and fusses and clicks his tongue in disapproval to disguise how much of shame it is to sponge it away.
It's only transport, John. Stop hovering.
(Red and white and flashing silver haunt his dreams after that. He wakes up panting.)
He won't eat. Skin and bones, he is. Skin and bones and brain.
Chinese?
Busy.
(The body is shriveling away beneath him. The thoughts are all that matter.)
Boredom makes Sherlock restless. It makes him yell and sulk and shoot things for the bulletholes. It makes John's blood run cold. It makes his fingers itch with the want to snatch the gun and paint those bulletholes red.
There must be something happening in this bloody great city. I can't be the only one who gets bored.
(He isn't.)
There are no knives in the kitchen. John took them away, not from Sherlock but from himself. He breaks into 221A and finds Mrs. Hudson's. As his fingers fold across the handle the whole street falls silent. It presses on his eardrums and shakes the walls, and he moves upstairs with the whisper of a ghost.
John, what are you-- John. John. Stop it, John.
(His name slices the silence beautifully, just like Mrs. Hudson's knife slides through skin.)
Big, shiny jar. He even labels it, so generations to come will know that this is the skull with all the answers.
There's a bloody head in the fridge, Sherlock.
(He laughs at his own joke and begins to cleanse himself in scarlet.)
There are sirens outside, men on the stairs, silver bracelets clinking on his red, red wrists.
This is what you always wanted, isn't it, Sherlock?
(Sherlock answers, because Sherlock will always answer, and John smiles.)
*
Title: Fate is Not an Eagle
Fandom: Animorphs
Characters: Cassie, David
Spoilers: David trilogy
Rating: PG
Prompt: Any, any, you're the only one who can undo // what I've become
Green.
The world tilted and spun around her, her feet planted firmly in the grass. When it steadied, it was a park, one she used to come to as a child.
It was torn down six years ago.
A girl ran past. Dark-skinned, giggling. She stopped, her mother calling in the distance. Her faceless friends ran on.
The little girl looked up with black eyes, and darkness fell, swallowing her whole.
"See what you've done, Cassie?"
David's voice was light, teasing. Tiny rat feet scrabbled against concrete.
"I did what had to be done." It was true. It was.
His laugh echoed longer than it should have. "Okay."
"You were the one who-- I didn't-- I saved your life!" She was losing control. Light head, heavy tongue. The rat feet grew louder. Waves crashing on a rocky shore.
"I mean it. I'm not telling you what to think. I'm not like that."
"You tried-- you tried to kill--"
"Shh, Cassie." He laid a gentle hand on her head. She would have knocked away his arm in a heartbeat, if she could remember how to move. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm not Jake."
Anger boiled hot in her stomach, and the lethargy began to drain from her fingertips. "Jake is a better man than you'll ever be." It didn't come out nearly as strong-minded as she'd hoped. Rachel could have done it better.
Rachel had done it better. That was why David was a rat on a rock.
"You're not here, anyway." His hand dropped from her head. She thought the rat feet sounded fainter. "You're exactly where we put you."
"Did you really put me there, though, Cassie? Or did you only make a suggestion?"
In her own bed, Cassie woke, with darkness heavy and still around her.