Vino Y Sangre

Vino y sangre

La música suena. Los invitados bailan. Los hombres ríen y las mujeres cantan. Se escucha un disparo, la sangre corre, las mujeres gritan, los hombres luchan. El enemigo ha llegado, con pistolas, bombas y sed de sangre. El palacio ahora está cubierto de sangre y vino, el bello color azul de las cortinas ahora esta manchado por un hermoso carmesí. El enemigo se ríe, sabe que todo se ha acabado, sabe que acabo la guerra y que él es el ganador. Ya no hay nadie que luche, nadie que le recrimine por la sangre en el suelo, ya no hay nada.

La chica llora, sabe que la encontraran, sabe que el enemigo está cerca y que pronto deberá luchar. Pero también sabe que no podrá hacer nada. Reza por su hermano y por su padre. No le importa el hecho de que no va a ganar cuando luche, mientras sea tiempo suficiente para que su familia escape. Agarra el cuchillo con fuerza y se pone de pie. El enemigo ha llegado. Y el momento de luchar también.

things sherlock holmes has canonically done:

scrapbooked the hell out of his newspapers

put on a hat that was too big for him 

giggled

cried because lestrade was nice to him

got all sappy and romantic by smelling a rose

let a puppy lead him on adventures

“impish mood”

lit his pipe with an ember from the fireplace because he thought it looked cool

feel free to add to this

sherlock gets bored between cases (lonely, mrs hudson thinks, but he scoffs when she tells him so), and he starts tinkering with things around the flat. even though he makes a mess, she generally doesn’t mind because when he’s done pulling things apart, he usually puts them back together again, mostly in the right order. and on occasion things even end up put together a little better than before. the latch on the sitting room door no longer sticks. the tap in the bath no longer drips. the door on the oven no longer squeaks.

but then lestrade calls while the pieces of the kitchen lamp are still strewn across the table and the worktop, while dark wires still snake down from the ceiling, precarious and ready to bite. sherlock’s only halfway done with the tinkering and not at all done with the putting back together, but there’s a case, and it’s a beautiful one–a body in a place it wasn’t meant to be, a piece of evidence that leads them in a circle rather than in a straight line to a suspect, a motive, an arrest–and sherlock has no interest in the inner workings of kitchen lamps when he has the inner workings of a murder to pull apart instead. 

it takes days to even begin to solve, and every time mrs hudson comes up to dust or to trade out a fresh sandwich for the untouched one she’d left the day before, she presses the switch out of habit and is greeted by a shower of angry golden sparks. sherlock holmes, she demands around the drum of her heart against her fragile ribs, but he’s too caught up in the labyrinth of the case, in the sticky mire of his own head to even hear her. so she does what any sensible landlady would do when faced with the aftermath of a bored consulting detective: she gets a man in. 

she plucks his name out of the telephone directory because she knew a watson once, and he was a solid and dependable sort. when she phones, the voice on the other end of the line is a little distant, a little sad perhaps, but cordial enough, and he agrees to come round today if she doesn’t mind that it might not be until late. she tries to warn sherlock, but she’s sure he hasn’t heard. at least with a case on, there’s only a slim chance he’ll be sheet-clad when the electrician arrives–they don’t need a repeat of the plumber incident. still, she thinks, the fright would serve sherlock right for leaving her kitchen in such a state. nevertheless, when the man knocks on the door at half four, she leads him upstairs herself, sure to step in all the places that squeak, to knock, to open the door slowly so sherlock isn’t caught unaware. she half-expects him to still be nearly catatonic in his chair, knees tucked up under his chin, a habit that makes him look so endearingly young. but instead she finds him at the window, the afternoon light warming his skin and streaking the dark smudge of his hair with fiery mahogany. oh, sherlock dear, she says as the electrician limps up the last of the stairs, this man’s here to see about the–

sparks. 

the word slips out of john watson’s mouth on a whisper of breath as he stutters to a stop in the doorway. mrs hudson’s brow wrinkles, yes exactly, that’s what… she turns back to sherlock to find him similarly frozen and wide-eyed, a gentle blush blossoming in his cheeks. …i was going to… and back to john just as he starts to come back to himself, pulling his shoulders back and his spine up straighter, looking almost as if he doesn’t even need the cane in his hand.

right, she says, the hint of a smile curling around the word. i’ll just… she slips around john watson, throwing a glance back over her shoulder as sherlock flutters into motion, hurrying off toward the kitchen and offering to clear away some of the mess gathered there. her feet are light on the steps as she continues back down to her flat, the grin across her mouth growing bolder. she shuts her door tight and turns up the telly.

sherlock holmes and john watson. 

sparks indeed.

"If the world is really dying, would you kiss one more time?"

"Only if you promise me that it won't be the last"

Love is a simple thing, we are the ones who make it difficult by loving what can't be loved

But I don't regret loving you

Me searching for my friends: Where the fuck?

When I locate friend 1: there the fuck

When I locate friend 2: there the fuck

When I locate friend 3: there the fuck

Me when I have located all my friends: all the fuck have been located