Since Delicious went downhill, I lost all my past recs/bookmarks I've decided to put them all here instead. I'm open to any fic recs you have, as long as they of the same fandoms. Don't hesitate to send them my way.
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Sweet Odin on a pogo stick - MARTY THIS IS PERFECT.
Loki strode through the museum, smirking to himself, London was going to be the perfect place to start this entire production.
He rounded a corner and hoisted his staff, swinging it through fully two-hundred-and-seventy degrees to connect with the security guard’s face even as the man turned to question him, sending him flying. The body slid along the marble floor and came to a halt in the middle of the crowd - silence fell as he glared around at the men and women in evening wear.
Then someone screamed and the panic began.
Sherlock and John, at the back of the room, didn’t even have to look at each other.
“Should we-“
“Absolutely.” Sherlock cut his blogger off before catching John by one cuff and dragging him through the crowd, out a side door and almost slamming bodily into Dean Winchester, lurking in the shadows as usual.“Do I even want to know what you’re doing here?”
“He bought me. Something about an event that I can help out with?” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Sherlock leaned to one side, biting back a groan as he spotted the man in the glasses and the brown pin-striped suit, sonic screwdriver hanging at his side as he observed the chaos with one eyebrow raised.
“Is that-” John began, but Sherlock cut him off, again.
“Yes, it is, now be quiet!”Lok strode through the crowd, allowing his outfit to morph from the suit-and-tie to his leather and metal Asgardian ensemble, complete with his massive horned helmet. He then proceeded to cast a half-dozen copies of himself around the square, herding the panicked crowd back into a confined space before slamming the staff onto the ground.
“Kneel before me.”
Lestrade, at the edge of the crowd, recognised the threat immediately and began shouting for people to obey.
“Do as he says!”
“KNEEL!” Loki shouted, not even acknowledging the D.I.’s attempts to get the rest of the humans present to do as he said.Sherlock, just out of sight, poked his head around the edge of the building and his eyes widened in shock as he saw that the man who had just moments ago been in a rather dapper bespoke suit was now dressed in black leather and gold, holding a staff that emitted a strange blue light and raising his hands above the now-kneeling crowd, beginning a speech about how this was the natural state of humanity.
“Loki?” The Doctor’s eyebrows drew together as he recognised the green-eyed god, and Dean chuckled.
“Look at the guy’s helmet.”
“Do you really think now is the best time to joke, Dean?” Sherlock demanded, even as John tugged at his cuff, attempting to get his attention - there was a holographic copy of the god approaching the four of them, in the alley behind the museum. They were about to be caught.
“Sorry.” Dean muttered, just as the Loki-copy found them.
(Source: letmartyhandlethis)
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It’s a glimpse, nothing more. A flash of dark hair and high cheekbones and pale eyes. And John knows it’s insane, knows it’s impossible, but it looked exactly like him.
Their eyes meet for a second, and the pair on the other side of the tinted taxi window show no signs of recognition. But not for a moment does John let himself believe it could be anyone else. He simple didn’t see him in the crowd, or did not have time to react between recognising him and the car drifting smoothly around the corner.
He must believe these things, because he must believe in who it was in that cab.
There was no-one else like him. No-one else it could have been.
It was Sherlock.
It is all John can do not to drop his bags as he races around the corner, breathing that name repeatedly under his breath. For the first time since Switzerland, he runs with no limp, he runs like he only ever did with Sherlock.
But even free from psychosomatic pain, he is not as fast as a car. He knows he will never catch it. “Sherlock… Sherlock…” he pants, even as he grinds to a halt in the middle of the road. He feels the name bubbling up inside him, becoming a shout as the car disappears.
“SHERLOCK!”
For several seconds, John just stands there, watching the point where the taxi disappeared. He is aware of people around looking at him, a car slowly pulling towards him, expecting him to move. He doesn’t care. It has just hit him, really, truly, that Sherlock Holmes is dead. He will never ride a London cab again, never look over the city with those cool, colourless eyes. No matter how hard John wishes, he will never come back.
The car behind him beeps its horn, and John limps away.
~
Sherlock turns and watches the figure, once he is sure it can no longer see his face. It runs after him, mouth forming his name over and over. As he watches, a burning desire grows, and he wants nothing more than to stop the taxi, jump out and gather the man in his arms. He never meant to hurt anyone. He never meant for this.
“You know that guy?” the cabbie asks, noticing what Sherlock is staring at. “You want me to stop for him?”
Sherlock turns around, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror. “No, it’s fine. Keep driving.”
(Source: katsurakotaro)
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Song: In the House, In a Heartbeat - John Murphy/28 Days Later OST
Sherlock wasn’t in the flat.
Sherlock wasn’t where John had left him.
It had been a long time since the doctor had felt such terror. His heart was seizing up, and beating so quickly that John feared it might tear a hole clean through his chest.
The ex-army captain had only been gone for five minutes, at the longest. He and Sherlock had been squatting in their flat when this whole mess began. How something like this even starts, John isn’t sure. One moment there were riots, and the next, the British government were announcing a city-wide evacuation. It had something to do with a virus. John wasn’t sure about all the details, but what he did know… was that London was burning.
He’d always thought the possibility of a ‘zombie apocalypse’ was laughable.
His opinion had (oddly enough) changed by this point.
So, being the capable, war-trained soldier he was – John insisted that Sherlock stay barricaded in the flat, while he braved the streets to ransack the local pharmacy a few doors down. They needed provisions if they were going to be held up in the flat. John had felt a great swell of relief about the fact he’d done the food shopping the day before… but the city was far more violent now than it ever had been. If they were going to survive, they would need a host of medical supplies.
So, he’d armed himself, dressed in layers, and took to the streets.
For the most part, the walking dead were easy to evade. They weren’t all there, and their motor skills were considerably lacking. He was thankful that they didn’t have the capability to ‘run’ like those other zombies he’d seen in that movie once.
John picked off a few off as he barrelled his way into the deserted pharmacy. He had blocked the door, and proceeded to fill his rut-sack with as many pain-killers, antibiotics, bandages and medicines that he could. He even hopped behind the counter to clean out a few of the drawers filled with stronger, ‘behind the counter’ prescriptions that contained the likes of Vicodin, Fentanyl, and Codeine.
That had all been easy enough, and couldn’t have taken him more than five minutes.
But all the same… Sherlock was gone.
“Sherlock!” He yelled, frantically searching the entire flat for any sign of his partner.
When he turned up nothing, John bolted back to his room. He gathered up all his weapons, useful army gear, and everything else he would need to find Sherlock while (hopefully) simultaneously protecting himself from this damned Z-virus.
Sherlock would get an earful about staying put when he found him.
‘Unless he’s…’ John immediately pushed that thought away. There was no chance that Sherlock had been careless enough to get infected. He wasn’t that stupid.
Then again, he had been oddly fascinated by this ‘Z-virus’ that appeared to reanimate the dead. John had spent the past two days convincing him NOT to capture, nor allow, any zombies into the flat for experimentation. Sherlock’s excuse of: ‘Think of all we could learn, John!’ hadn’t played well.
Stepping back out into the chaotic, overcast London streets, John was a bit dismayed to find that it had started to pour rain. That would lessen his visibility considerably, and that wasn’t good… especially since there were deceased, cannibalistic humans roaming around in search of a living meal.
Hearing a few low moans to his left, John turned, and unloaded a few rounds into a pair of approaching corpses; a bullet in each brain. Thankfully, they were easy enough to enable, and not too bright either.
“Sherlock?!” He bellowed again as he moved.
A few more infected turned in his direction. Shouting probably wasn’t the BEST method for finding his friend, but hell, John was desperate. He hadn’t seen another ‘living’ soul for days. Mycroft had sent Sherlock a text nearly a week ago about sending a help. But that still hadn’t happened. And John hadn’t even heard from Lestrade, which was a worrying thought in itself.
Grabbing the bat wedged in between his knapsack and holster, John took a few well-aimed swings at the approaching undead – and bashed their skulls in with a couple of solid hits. So much violence might easily scar anyone else… but John had seen his fair-share of horrible brutality during his time in Afghanistan.
He didn’t know these people. It was him or them. All that mattered now was finding the only other person he cared about… the only other person, who up till five minutes ago, had been alive.
Sheathing the bat again, John tore down into the alleyway that bordered 221b Baker Street. He called out again as he rounded the corner… but was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a familiar, tall, blue-robed detective.
But it wasn’t Sherlock…
No… this creature was slightly hunched; not tall and proud like his Sherlock had been. The familiar royal blue robe was stained with dirt and a considerable amount of blood. There was more running down his pale throat, from what appeared to be an open flesh wound along the side of his right cheek. There were dark, discoloured circles beneath his lids, which by stark contrast, made his icy-coloured orbs all the brighter.
It wasn’t Sherlock. Not his Sherlock…
“No…” John breathed out, unable to look away from the reanimated corpse of his friend.
Sherlock was looming over the dead body of a girl; her blood was spattered all along the pavement of the back alley – some even painting the side of Ms. Hudson’s bins. Slowly, the detective turned and set his cold, seemingly lifeless eyes on John. He wheezed, and appeared to be breathing much shallower as he took a step forward. Sherlock’s fingers were rigid and tense, and he walked with a slight gait; no longer gliding along with certainty and grace.
As Sherlock came closer– John finally drew his gun. It was becoming more and more difficult to see the approaching threat. A combination of heavy rain, and distraught tears were compromising John’s vision.
“I was only away for five minutes, Sherlock,” he choked out, shaking his head. “Five bloody minutes!” he screamed. John’s embodid rage was evident in the cry of his voice; he hadn’t felt this disoriented since that time he’d been drugged at Baskerville.
Sherlock continued to approach, gasping and hissing louder and louder with each step he took. John’s hand was shaking as he kept his weapon drawn on his best friend. He didn’t know what to do. His mind and his heart were telling him two different things:
Either he shoots Sherlock, and escapes with his life.
Or…
John winced, and took a quick glance behind him toward the mouth of the alleyway. More infected were still struggling their way down the street. Some were even fighting and grappling with each other.
The distant sound of sirens were of no comfort to him, and the sight of several pillars of smoke rising up into the cloudy sky from the various boroughs of London told a hopeless story…
Looking back toward Sherlock, John cursed and choked out a sob he’d been trying so desperately to hold in. What could he do? What was the point?
With certain death only steps away, John dropped his gun to the ground. He trembled and clenched his fists.
“I always knew you’d be my end…” he breathed shakily. “….S-Sherlock Holmes.”
Rather than live and survive alone in a city gone to hell, John decided to die at the hands of the only person he’d ever come to truly value. The only person he’d ever come to truly love.
Sherlock snarled and took a few, rapid steps forward - slamming John against the nearest brick wall. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and waited for the inevitable. He waited to feel Sherlock sink his teeth into his neck and rip out his jugular; waited to feel his boney, lean fingers plunge into his stomach and rip out his heart, his lungs, his intestine…
But it never came.
In fact, all he felt was a quick, playful nip to his jaw.
“So I’m convincing, am I?” That familiar baritone purred against his ear.
John opened his eyes and frantically looked up at his partner. He could see familiarity in the detective’s eyes; an energetic spark that wasn’t there moments ago. “W-What… WHAT the fuck?!” John cursed, tears still streaming down his face amidst the rain. His heart was beating a mile a minute.
“I told you those novelty Halloween wounds and scars would come in handy one day. You really must try to stop doubting me.” Sherlock mused with the barest hint of a smirk touching his lips. “We can create your infected-persona back in the flat. I have more wounds to apply, but these guises require real blood. I saw this body and decided her blood was better served for our purposes. Smear some on your clothing, and let’s head upstairs. I don’t know how acute the senses of the infected are; I obviously haven’t had the time nor resources to run sufficient tests. But I’d rather not chance using fake blood or syrup. If it smells real, we have a better chance of convincing them we’re dead in order to make our escape.” He prattled on quickly. “Mycroft has been in touch. We must make our way to the palace of Westminster. We can rendezvous with the helicopter and M-”
Sherlock was cut short when John slammed his lips against the detective’s, gripping onto him as tightly as possible as he poured his worrysome heart into that embrace. Sherlock slowly returned it; he could feel John trembling, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face gripping almost to the point of pain.
When they parted, John was still crying. He looked exhausted, and Sherlock felt a well-deserved pang of guilt. Perhaps demonstrating his plan to John, in hindsight, was a poor choice. He hadn’t meant to scare him so badly. “You were going to let me kill you…” Sherlock confirmed.
“Y-Yes… yes, god dammit…” John tried to clear the catch in his throat and pull himself together.
Sherlock lowered his eyes, and rested his forehead against John’s. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought that teasing you with my performance would have such serious repercussions. I was sure you would realize I wasn’t truly infected. Perhaps the chaotic environment isn’t the proper place to tr-”
“No, it’s not. It’s really not, Sherlock.” John growled, still trying to slow his heart-rate down.
The lanky detective gave him a comforting kiss on the forehead. “I assure you… I only jest about our current predicament because I know we will be fine. We will be fine, John,” he prodded, “I will get us out of here.” Taking a moment to evaluate John’s eyes again, and make sure his blogger really was ok, Sherlock nodded. “Wipe some of this girl’s blood on your clothing. We’ll get back up to the flat from the back door… get your flesh-wounds applied… and after a quick acting lesson or two, we’ll be on our way.” He smiled excitedly.
John nodded, and straightened up; soldier -mode resumed.
He believed him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
AN: I could have given this a tragic ending. I nearly did. But I decided to go with one of those: ‘everything will be ok’ endings. Enjoy! x
# jawn of the dead
Artist: http://inklou.tumblr.com/
(Source: hikoristickz)
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Because. I actually hated what I wrote for this before. But I don’t feel like deleting it.
So I’m going to write something else.
—
John Watson returned as soon as his shift at the hospital was over, making his way back to 221B to check on Sherlock. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, before strengthening his resolve and opening the door to find Mrs. Hudson sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands.
“Mrs. Hudson…?”
A small sob escaped her mouth through withered fingers. He immediately rushed toward her, kneeling in front of her and moving her hands away from her face. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?” he asked quickly. “Is it Sherlock? Has he had one of his fits?”
She nodded, waving her hand toward the living room. He immediately straightened and hurried into the room, only to find his housemate crumpled in a chair, breathing heavily, hair completely messed up, face red. He approached the man cautiously, stretching a hand toward him.
It was only when he saw the rolled sleeve and the punctures in Sherlock’s arm that he realized what had happened. He quickly took the needle away from Sherlock and kneeling before him, checking his pulse. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but not high enough to cause alarm. He had just had a fright. He seemed to be getting those more and more often lately.
“Sherlock,” he whispered.
However, the other man didn’t seem to hear him. He simply continued to stare down at the carpet, completely motionless.
“Voices…” Sherlock said after a moment. “I can hear him, John…all the time…he’s going to burn me, John…”
John sighed, raising a hand to brush against Sherlock’s cheek. He had been talking about this voice for ages. Moriarty, he called it. John was sure that Sherlock was convinced the man was real. He would wake up in terror every night, plagued by this elusive notion, Moriarty.
“Nobody’s going to burn you, Sherlock. It’s in your head,” he said softly, holding his flatmate. “Just in your head.”
“Make him leave…” Sherlock said, a trace of a whimper in his voice.
“Yes, yes, he’s gone, Sherlock. He was never here,” John said soothingly, stroking the back of Sherlock’s head.
Soon after, John put Sherlock to bed after administering his medication.
“I don’t know what would happen to him, if it wasn’t for you,” Mrs. Hudson said, her hand shaking slightly as she took a cup of tea from John. “He probably would have died that day, at St. Barts.”
John closed his eyes. He had been trying to forget that incident, when he found Sherlock raving on the top of St. Barts, screaming to the cosmos about being ordinary. If John hadn’t grabbed Sherlock when he did, he probably would have jumped and fallen to his death.
“One more thing, Doctor,” she said, putting her cup down. “What’s Moriarty?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
(Source: coeykuhn)
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SourceAt Baskerville, John is infected by a virus that turns him into a genius. But when the infection progresses into neurodegeneration, it’s a race against time to save himself. Flowers for Algernon fusion.
As you can tell I’m a sucker for Angst and this had its moments where I was just in aww and looking for the nearest tissue. I applaud the author for her tid-bits on the virus throughout the story. It was a nice turn of events with John being a genius too even if it came at a price.
Eames vanishes from dreamshare and Arthur goes a little crazy looking for him until he stumbles across him — with a baby.
Normally I stray away from Kid!fics in any fandom but this one drew me in. I recently joined the Inception fandom and haven’t read enough fics to fancy the idea of them taking care of kids, especially Eames. While I have read some with Arthur taking care of Cobb’s, the notion isn’t far off with Arthur knowing both Mal and Dom, the idea of him and Eames with a child was something new. Beautiful story and worthy read. Delightfully long with angst moments. Love it!
between my reflex & my resolve
People you kiss in an airport baggage claim and then don’t talk to for thirteen months shouldn’t be able to exist, let alone make your chest do the things Arthur’s chest is doing. There are rules.
this life looks good on you
There are only four rules in Arthur’s house.
i could be the thing you reach for in the middle of the night
Eames had always thought Arthur would be a morning person.
to tell you the truth i prefer the worst in you
Eames starts the day by sitting on a pack of cigarettes.
pressed against the pending physics of my passed down last name
The thing is…the thing is Arthur’d thought Eames played it fast and loose with affection like he plays it fast and loose with everything else, and instead it’s been this stupid climb, hand over foot, and of the two of them Eames has been the braver, really.
take the long way home (soft as the radio)
The thought washes over her, steady and calming like a warm breeze, that this could be her own kind of love story.
life long local foreigner, i
Arthur grins, lazy and relaxed, and Eames thinks that maybe this is how people get through these things, tethered to one another when they can’t hold on anywhere else.
having let go forever the fallacy of ever being alone
This time there are shitty dogeared paperbacks Arthur wouldn’t be caught dead reading piled on the coffee table, and half-finished crosswords tucked into the bookshelves, and the far wall is hung with that tapestry they’d bought in a shit part of London on a whim. This time they’ve spent all day fixing their sink and there’s a mug of yesterday’s tea sitting on top of the television and it’s not just Arthur’s living room at all.
Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John’s head.
Love the author’s take on Sherlock’s drug-use and his sexual history. Love the relationship talks, their domestic life, and even Mycroft’s interfering ways to protect Sherlock. Even more so that this long single chapter story was in John’s point of view.
Fake book-cover for Atlinmerrick’s individually wrapped, bite-size series of fictitious facts, Minutiae.
I absolutely love this.
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