Posts tagged "grey writes things"

7
grey writes things sherlock ficlet sherlock ficlet

Jan 29
He’d wanted a very specific brand. Being in Germany, of course, the boy behind the register had more than a bit of digging to do in the storeroom. Ever since the incident, it had become a habit of Sherlock’s to envy the lives of everyone around him, and as the boy grumbled and closed the door behind him, Sherlock could only wish a picky customer was his biggest worry. He put down a few extra Euros for the trouble, cursing his own sentiment. He then headed to the park, where he’d made an appointment, and opened the pack. The flood of fear and pain in his mind was too much to bear. Each hit he took put up another wooden board against the acid flood and shrouded him in his dismissal. But no matter how much smoke passed from the paper to his lungs, drops seeped through the boards and welled up under his feet. He regretted so much it could kill him, if the cigarettes didn’t first. — Wisps of smoke writhed in the cold Ingolstadt air. A healthy-looking young German was seated at a bench with a cigarette, staring past the banks of the Danube river. His blond hair caught specks of moonlight and his gorgeous hazel eyes showed no sign of misery. But, as Molly Hooper knew so well, looks can be deceiving. She took her place at the other end of the bench, almost worried she’d approached the wrong man. She risked a comment. “No patch this time?” Sherlock took a slow drag from the cigarette, then met Molly’s gaze. Despite being the wrong color, his eyes retained some of that old character dead in London. “Here,” he sighed, fishing the remainder of the cigarette pack from his pocket, handing it to Molly before he could change his mind, then editing out the world around him once again.

He’d wanted a very specific brand. Being in Germany, of course, the boy behind the register had more than a bit of digging to do in the storeroom. Ever since the incident, it had become a habit of Sherlock’s to envy the lives of everyone around him, and as the boy grumbled and closed the door behind him, Sherlock could only wish a picky customer was his biggest worry. He put down a few extra Euros for the trouble, cursing his own sentiment. He then headed to the park, where he’d made an appointment, and opened the pack.

The flood of fear and pain in his mind was too much to bear. Each hit he took put up another wooden board against the acid flood and shrouded him in his dismissal. But no matter how much smoke passed from the paper to his lungs, drops seeped through the boards and welled up under his feet. He regretted so much it could kill him, if the cigarettes didn’t first.

—

Wisps of smoke writhed in the cold Ingolstadt air. A healthy-looking young German was seated at a bench with a cigarette, staring past the banks of the Danube river. His blond hair caught specks of moonlight and his gorgeous hazel eyes showed no sign of misery.

But, as Molly Hooper knew so well, looks can be deceiving.

She took her place at the other end of the bench, almost worried she’d approached the wrong man. She risked a comment. “No patch this time?”

Sherlock took a slow drag from the cigarette, then met Molly’s gaze. Despite being the wrong color, his eyes retained some of that old character dead in London. “Here,” he sighed, fishing the remainder of the cigarette pack from his pocket, handing it to Molly before he could change his mind, then editing out the world around him once again.


5
grey writes things superlock

Jan 24
A pained groan escaped Dean’s lips, mingling with snide remarks and endless refusals of help. “Considering you’re receiving the finest medical attention in all of England, without being quizzed by doctors and policemen, I’d suggest you allow my friend to do his job, hm?” “Yeah, maybe not while that thing is getting away!” It was of no use. Just like every other time he’d challenged Sherlock’s judgement, that arrogant prick had blocked out his sound before he could finish giving his opinion. Each was too cocky for his own good, and once the two were placed in a room together, it was war. John was there, as always, to smooth things out. Between stitches on Dean’s leg, he tried to reassure the hunter. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself England’s finest. But you’re not going to accomplish anything by bleeding on it,” the doctor laughed. The first smirk of the week formed on Dean’s features. “‘Tis only a flesh wound.” They shared a small laugh at this. Then John took a look about, noting the angel’s puzzled expression and the detective’s failure to register the reference. When he returned his gaze to Dean, he was met with a nervous look. “Jesus, you too?” [whoops i didn’t really explain anything did i]

A pained groan escaped Dean’s lips, mingling with snide remarks and endless refusals of help.

“Considering you’re receiving the finest medical attention in all of England, without being quizzed by doctors and policemen, I’d suggest you allow my friend to do his job, hm?”

“Yeah, maybe not while that thing is getting away!” It was of no use. Just like every other time he’d challenged Sherlock’s judgement, that arrogant prick had blocked out his sound before he could finish giving his opinion. Each was too cocky for his own good, and once the two were placed in a room together, it was war.

John was there, as always, to smooth things out. Between stitches on Dean’s leg, he tried to reassure the hunter. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself England’s finest. But you’re not going to accomplish anything by bleeding on it,” the doctor laughed.

The first smirk of the week formed on Dean’s features. “‘Tis only a flesh wound.”

They shared a small laugh at this. Then John took a look about, noting the angel’s puzzled expression and the detective’s failure to register the reference. When he returned his gaze to Dean, he was met with a nervous look.

“Jesus, you too?”

[whoops i didn’t really explain anything did i]


3
destiel grey writes things god this is terrible sorry! i hope the length makes up for the fact that it's not adam/michael and it's kind of awkward as fuck

Jan 22
[Aww, jeez, man, I wish I could do Adam/Michael, but I’m only on 5x02. I love Adam to death but I don’t even know Michael yet. ;3; I’ve been spoiled like crazy about Cas’ “death,” so here’s some reunion fic.] The first night is cold. Dean pulls up at a crappy motel, staring forward, refusing to acknowledge the sudden extra weight in the backseat. Cold blue eyes are drilling holes in the back of his head. Fourteen months have passed since that presence walked out, fourteen months through which he’s been empty and miserable. Well, as if he wasn’t resigned to that already. He hears the bang! of the passenger seat door, then a more careful closing behind him. It takes a little longer for Dean to gather himself and follow the swishy trenchcoat inside. A few sleepless hours later, though, he’s crept out and reunited with his loving vehicle, still awake as ever in the backseat. That familiar flutter. The one he thought he’d never hear again. “What is it, Cas?” “I need to apologize.” “Then get inside already, it’s cold as hell.” Castiel does as he’s told and closes the door behind him. After all the silence of the last few hours, the slightest whisper of moving fabric seemed deafening. Intrusive, almost, but the truth was Dean appreciated the other’s presence a bit more than he’d like to. “So, I bet you’ve got some sorta long-ass rehearsed speech, huh?” Dean started. The other simply stared, with that same silent submission he knew. “I’ll let you get to it, but forgive me if I’m not convinced.” A few moments passed like this: both staring, words hesitating on their departure from Castiel’s mouth, Dean urging the other on. Then, in a swift, panicked move, the angel’s lips struck the hunter’s. They both pulled slowly away after the brief exchange. Eyes wide, Castiel offered a small “I’m sorry.” “You’d better be,” smiled Dean, lunging for another kiss. The first night is cold, but they bear it together.

[Aww, jeez, man, I wish I could do Adam/Michael, but I’m only on 5x02. I love Adam to death but I don’t even know Michael yet. ;3; I’ve been spoiled like crazy about Cas’ “death,” so here’s some reunion fic.]

The first night is cold.

Dean pulls up at a crappy motel, staring forward, refusing to acknowledge the sudden extra weight in the backseat. Cold blue eyes are drilling holes in the back of his head. Fourteen months have passed since that presence walked out, fourteen months through which he’s been empty and miserable. Well, as if he wasn’t resigned to that already.

He hears the bang! of the passenger seat door, then a more careful closing behind him. It takes a little longer for Dean to gather himself and follow the swishy trenchcoat inside. A few sleepless hours later, though, he’s crept out and reunited with his loving vehicle, still awake as ever in the backseat.

That familiar flutter. The one he thought he’d never hear again.

“What is it, Cas?”

“I need to apologize.”

“Then get inside already, it’s cold as hell.”

Castiel does as he’s told and closes the door behind him. After all the silence of the last few hours, the slightest whisper of moving fabric seemed deafening. Intrusive, almost, but the truth was Dean appreciated the other’s presence a bit more than he’d like to.

“So, I bet you’ve got some sorta long-ass rehearsed speech, huh?” Dean started. The other simply stared, with that same silent submission he knew. “I’ll let you get to it, but forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

A few moments passed like this: both staring, words hesitating on their departure from Castiel’s mouth, Dean urging the other on. Then, in a swift, panicked move, the angel’s lips struck the hunter’s.

They both pulled slowly away after the brief exchange. Eyes wide, Castiel offered a small “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be,” smiled Dean, lunging for another kiss.

The first night is cold, but they bear it together.


7
prompt fic sherlock fics sherlock fic crossover harry potter sherlock shortcrust grey writes things

Oct 10
John flipped mindlessly through his class notes. The words on his page, handwriting and ink all too familiar, words he’d understood only days ago, seemed to read in another language entirely. Was this the effect of a spell, or of his own disinterest? No, no trickery was involved, it appeared, as he began humming a tune to accompany the shuffle of crisp papers beneath his fingers. It wasn’t long before the sound was joined by a light rapping of fingers against wood. He turned in his chair, startled, to face the figure leaning on the doorframe. “Hello, John!” said the visitor, in an unusually excited tone. “Hello… Sherlock. Why are you-“ “I knew you’d need my help with the project, of course,” informed Sherlock, still making no effort to hide his delight as he crossed the room to the other’s desk. “Ah, you know I love an experiment.” “Isn’t it a bit late to be roaming the Gryffindor dorm?” “Well, there’s one spot where my brother is actually of some use.” “Exploiting another fault in the system, hm?” smiled the blond. “Oh, merely enjoying,” the Ravenclaw grinned back mischievously. “Your experiment is…?” John stammered a bit before grasping the abrupt change of subject, something he’d become accustomed to soon enough. “I, uh, I gathered a few toads and-“ “Peppermint, powdered moonstone, rose thorn, ashwinder eggs… Interesting! A bit unoriginal, but that’s alright, you’ll pass regardless. Let’s get started then, shall we?” —- After presenting the results of his experiment, John took his bow, then his seat among applauding peers. “Brilliant stuff!” laughed the boy next to him. “Not sure when I’m gonna need a love potion for toads, but that was brilliant!” John chuckled back a response. As the next student rose to display her final project, he couldn’t resist slipping a note across the desk behind him. I’m glad no-one saw that. What? You, leaving my dorm at midnight with a half-used bottle of love potion. People might talk. People do little else. —- [WHOOPS THIS GOT LONG SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT.]

John flipped mindlessly through his class notes. The words on his page, handwriting and ink all too familiar, words he’d understood only days ago, seemed to read in another language entirely. Was this the effect of a spell, or of his own disinterest? No, no trickery was involved, it appeared, as he began humming a tune to accompany the shuffle of crisp papers beneath his fingers.

It wasn’t long before the sound was joined by a light rapping of fingers against wood. He turned in his chair, startled, to face the figure leaning on the doorframe.

“Hello, John!” said the visitor, in an unusually excited tone.

“Hello… Sherlock. Why are you-“

“I knew you’d need my help with the project, of course,” informed Sherlock, still making no effort to hide his delight as he crossed the room to the other’s desk. “Ah, you know I love an experiment.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to be roaming the Gryffindor dorm?”

“Well, there’s one spot where my brother is actually of some use.”

“Exploiting another fault in the system, hm?” smiled the blond.

“Oh, merely enjoying,” the Ravenclaw grinned back mischievously. “Your experiment is…?”

John stammered a bit before grasping the abrupt change of subject, something he’d become accustomed to soon enough. “I, uh, I gathered a few toads and-“

“Peppermint, powdered moonstone, rose thorn, ashwinder eggs… Interesting! A bit unoriginal, but that’s alright, you’ll pass regardless. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

—-

After presenting the results of his experiment, John took his bow, then his seat among applauding peers.

“Brilliant stuff!” laughed the boy next to him. “Not sure when I’m gonna need a love potion for toads, but that was brilliant!”

John chuckled back a response. As the next student rose to display her final project, he couldn’t resist slipping a note across the desk behind him.

I’m glad no-one saw that.

What?

You, leaving my dorm at midnight with a half-used bottle of love potion. People might talk.

People do little else.

—-

[WHOOPS THIS GOT LONG SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT.]


5
grey writes things fic sherlock bbc sherlock prompt writing

Oct 09
“Lovely night, isn’t it?” As if that’ll work. Sherlock gave an insincere grunt of agreement, lips consecrated and eyes emotionless. He’d been like this for Godknowshowlong. It was a perpetual struggle John sustained against the other’s quirks and moods, but as the two marched through the park (yes, a long shot, but Baker Street wasn’t particularly improving his emotional state either), the doctor couldn’t help but notice something different. This was new. More serious. Not boredom nor mere disappointment — over the last few days, Sherlock had encountered a terrible depression. What could have brought this upon him? The man’s emotional bastion could withhold nearly anything, or so John thought. (Remembering a glimpse he’d been offered of a more human Sherlock, as eloquent as it was provoking — “Genius is nothing else than an infinite capacity for taking pains” he’d sighed, staring up at the ceiling, godlike, yet tangible.) John gave a huff of exasperation. Beating around the bush didn’t work with the world’s only consulting detective, so he’d have to be more forward. His gait came to a sudden halt, letting the other take a few steps before calling after him. “Sherlock.” He waited as the other turned. “You’re not okay.” “What makes you say that?” replied Sherlock, voice only barely masked in that of his former self’s. Licking his lips, a habit of his only augmented when concentrating, he moved towards the other, city streetlights at his back. John smiled up at Sherlock. “I’m your doctor. And I’ll help you if it’s the last thing I do.” This proclamation took its effect on the taller man’s features, his face now reflecting bits of hidden guilt. “But I don’t deserve you.” In lieu of a spoken response, John’s hand traveled to find the other’s. “Let’s go home,” he spoke, with the most sympathy and genuine care Sherlock had ever been endowed.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” As if that’ll work.

Sherlock gave an insincere grunt of agreement, lips consecrated and eyes emotionless. He’d been like this for Godknowshowlong. It was a perpetual struggle John sustained against the other’s quirks and moods, but as the two marched through the park (yes, a long shot, but Baker Street wasn’t particularly improving his emotional state either), the doctor couldn’t help but notice something different. This was new. More serious. Not boredom nor mere disappointment — over the last few days, Sherlock had encountered a terrible depression.

What could have brought this upon him? The man’s emotional bastion could withhold nearly anything, or so John thought. (Remembering a glimpse he’d been offered of a more human Sherlock, as eloquent as it was provoking — “Genius is nothing else than an infinite capacity for taking pains” he’d sighed, staring up at the ceiling, godlike, yet tangible.)

John gave a huff of exasperation. Beating around the bush didn’t work with the world’s only consulting detective, so he’d have to be more forward. His gait came to a sudden halt, letting the other take a few steps before calling after him. “Sherlock.” He waited as the other turned. “You’re not okay.”

“What makes you say that?” replied Sherlock, voice only barely masked in that of his former self’s.

Licking his lips, a habit of his only augmented when concentrating, he moved towards the other, city streetlights at his back. John smiled up at Sherlock. “I’m your doctor. And I’ll help you if it’s the last thing I do.”

This proclamation took its effect on the taller man’s features, his face now reflecting bits of hidden guilt. “But I don’t deserve you.”

In lieu of a spoken response, John’s hand traveled to find the other’s. “Let’s go home,” he spoke, with the most sympathy and genuine care Sherlock had ever been endowed.