Just Some Dorky Ways of Saying I Love You

YOU ARE...

...the Watson to my Sherlock.
...the Peter Pan to my Wendy.
...The Doctor to my Rose.
...the compass to my pirate.
...the fedora to my Indiana Jones.
...the Irene to my Sherlock.
...the Peeta to my Katniss.
...the Finnick to my Johanna.
...the Peter to my Mary-Jane.
...the Frodo to my Sam.
...the Kirk to my Spock.
...The Doctor to my TARDIS.
...the Aragorn to my Arwen.
...the Khal to my Khaleesi.
...the Drogo to my Danaerys.
...the Eddard to my Caetlyn.
...the Jon to my direwolf.
...the world domination to my Dalek.
...the William to my Elizabeth.
...the mirror to my Johnny Bravo.
...the Ron to my Hermoine.
...the One Ring to my Gollum.
...the beard to my Gandalf.

Cruel Little Trick

The following takes place in what would be almost three years after Sherlock jumped off the building in Reichenbach Fall on BBC Sherlock.

=======================

“John.”

The doctor paused, faltering for a moment. He tensed, leaning carefully over his cane as he listened for the voice again, certain he had heard nothing. Nothing but the rain pit-pattering on his raised umbrella.

“John. Please.”

He curled his lips, biting down hard hard enough to draw blood. His eyes flickered. Heart hammering, he stood there, frozen, obsessed with the pain. ‘It’s nothing,’ he thought hurriedly. ‘It’s the weather, it’s the meds, I’m tired.’ He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, trying to convince himself that the voice was just a hallucination, just a trick of the combination of the wind and the rain, nothing else. He wouldn’t turn around. He couldn’t. Not again. There was too much disappointment, all those other times, all those other false alarms, those fakers. Reporters scrambling to find a good look alike in order to get a reaction from the poor doctor. Teenagers even, young boys whose girlfriends had convinced them to try and rib him about his supposedly non-platonic relationship with the late detective.

All those cruel, little tricks.

No more tears fell. There weren’t any left. It was three years ago, three years! He would’ve liked to think that people would leave him alone, that people would’ve forgotten about him. Let him grieve in peace. But no one ever did. There was always someone, someone to throw another taunt or knock him to the pavement. And tonight was no exception.

He slid his hand further down his cane and gripped it tightly. He wasn’t going to take it lying down anymore. He’d loved Sherlock. And no matter what anyone said, no matter what so-called “proof” was waved in his face, he would never believe that the detective had told him a lie. But no one cared. No one ever cared anymore.

He swung, turning quickly, hoping that the blow of the cane would be powerful enough to knock whoever was following him to the ground. But the shadow raised his hands, catching the cane in a firm grip. The doctor snarled, but the man merely pulled him closer and looked him directly in the eyes.

“John.”

The doctor’s hands slipped from the cane. Those blue eyes. That hair, those cheekbones, the upturned collar, everything. He sucked in a breath of air and reached forward, his little fingers skimming the man’s thin, pale cheeks. It couldn’t be real. No, it wasn’t possible. “Sherlock?” He whispered, his voice cracking painfully as he spoke for the first time in nearly three years. The detective immediately collapsed, tears streaming down his cheeks as he fell into the doctor’s open arms. “I’m so sorry, John,” he murmured, burying his face in the warmth of the other man’s jumper. “I’m sorry for everything.” The doctor could barely breathe, his heart pressing against his chest as he  looked up into the sky and mouthed ‘Thank you’ to the clouds. 

And they just stood there, two broken things, one relying completely on the other’s support, neither caring as the rain poured down on them. The doctor twisted his fingers through the detective’s hair, and the other man tightened his grip, clinging to him as though if he let go, he would lose his best friend again, this time forever.

John closed his eyes and sighed, content at last. But when he opened them again, he was no longer out on the street in the pouring rain, no longer in the arms of the great detective. Instead he was lying on his bed, the grey sheets gripping his sweat-soaked body, a blue scarf cradled in his arms. The doctor sat up. A dream. No. God, no, could that really have been all that it was? He pressed the scarf to his lips, trying to ignore the red stains splattered along the material. Not a dream. A nightmare. A bloody nightmare even worse than the ones where he saw Sherlock throw himself from the roof of the hospital. Hitting the ground. All that blood. And his eyes, his eyes were always open, so young, so lost, so blue. Over and over and over again. The doctor slipped a hand beneath his pillow and pulled out his old army pistol. Smooth, dark, lethal. He fingered the trigger, his other arm still swaddled in the detective’s old scarf. His heart tightened. He was a complete idiot to even think that Sherlock was still alive. There was no surviving that fall. There was no coming back from the grave. The nightmares would never stop. John raised the gun to his mouth, hand wavering slightly. The cool metal brushed against his lips and he shivered, fear coursing through him. He could end it, take out on everyone else, all those people who had mocked him as he tried to pick up his groceries or pull his rubbish to the curb. He could do it. A simple pull of the trigger. 

One last cruel little trick.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

At a screenwriting camp as of the moment. So I should have something good for you all within the next week. For the moment, though, enjoy this:

http://www.thatssotrue.com/view/story/115039

All That Remains

The following takes place in the movie Spider-Man 3. It is from Harry Osborne's point of view just moment before he makes a great sacrifice.

 Metal clanging. Snake hissing. A desperate cry for help. Mary-Jane. I look up, pushing myself to my knees. Peter sits a few feet away, doubled over, his wrists lashed to the bar above his head with some sort of... black webbing. Blood streaks his face, the skin nearly worn away over his cheekbones. One more strike would kill him. My head! I can hear the hissing again. I clamp my hands over my ears. Standing above Peter is a large beast clothed in a tight black suit, teeth bared, the muscles rippling in its arms. The frightening mask draws back, receding from the beast's face, another creature entirely. Blonde hair appears among the black strands of webbing, and its blue eyes gleam with something that could only be described as hunger. "Eddie," I hear Peter breathe, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't do this." The words stumble free of his lips, fear a clear image on his pale face. The thing grins, shaking its head. "I like being bad," it hisses, and suddenly the black skin is crawling back over its face. The creature roars, rearing back, and for the first time I see the weapon that it holds in its claws: my glider. Lethal blades protrude from the front, aimed directly at my best friend's chest. The beast screams, and the blades begin their descent. Time slows as I rush towards them, my brain telling my feet to move faster, faster. I press on against the crushing ache in my head, reaching the enemy just before the cruel weapons can pierce Peter's chest. A block of pain suddenly catches me in the stomach, and my arms tense up, fists clenched tightly. I look at Peter, but his gaze does not meet mine. His mouth is open in shock, and I can see a tear beginning to slip down his cheek. But why---? A wave of agony washes over me and suddenly Peter is screaming, but I can't hear anything, and I'm lost, I'm lost, my eyes finally pausing on the blades protruding from my chest. The dark creature howls in rage. A flick of its wrist and I'm flying, quiet, my hands blindly grappling for something, anything, but my perception is off. I can no longer see. A metal bar catches me just above the mouth, the pain intensifying as I feel the bones in my nose shatter, blood exploding from my face. I am falling now, down a long, dark shaft in the unfinished building. My senses fail me, a crushing darkness clouding my vision. Harry! someone screams, and I want to answer her cry, want to reach out my hands and hold her, to kiss her, to whisper my love in her ear. I can feel her little fingers, my lips pressed aginst her neck, eyes flickering. I love you, I whisper. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou--- Then the ground comes up to meet me, and all that's left is the faint scent of strawberries.

 -----------

 Oh, so here's the thing. If you didn't understand the strawberry reference, I'll tell you it right now. When Peter and Harry are arguing earlier on in the movie, Harry teasingly touches his lips and tells Peter that when he kissed Mary-Jane it tasted like strawberries.

Memorial Day

Sorry. Been away over Memorial Day weekend. Got back today though. I'll start my new piece at around 1PM, and it should be finished by the end of the day. I just have to decide whether to write about The Hunger Games, Lord of the Rings, or Spider-Man...

Just a Thought

For any of my readers who want me to write about something specific, please comment below. I will pick one of the suggestions and write about it within a week. It must be something movie or tv show related. Something like the pieces I've written before.

Eye

I hate this more than I hate Joffrey Lannister for killing Ned Stark in Game of Thrones.
I hate this more than I hate D'artagnan for killing Rochefort in The Three Musketeers.
I hate this more than I hate the creators of Missing for killing Sean Bean off in the first episode.
I love this as much as Jack Sparrow loves his compass.
I'm more scared of this than Grace was of Sean Bean in The Hitcher.
This makes me more upset than Spock was when Nero the Romulan destroyed Vulcan.

Punished

As promised, the following tells the prologue to the story of Patrick Jane from The Mentalist. It depicts the scene where Jane discovers a present that Red John has left him:

My hand is on the doorknob. I set my jaw, teeth gritted. I’m afraid. Terrified, in fact. I won’t deny it. I was never one to hold back my feelings, not from anyone. It’s my only fault, really. And, not for the first time, I seem to be about to pay dearly for it. I turn the knob, and the door shudders, the slip of paper that was taped to the smooth surface falling slowly to the ground. I suck in a breath of air. If he’s wrong, if he’s toying with me, it’s a sick trick to play. But something tells me that he’s not kidding. That he is completely and utterly serious. And that I’m not going to like what I find. I push the door all the way open, and my eyes flicker immediately to the huge red smiley face painted on the wall. “No,” I breath. I cross the floor and draw my fingers towards the hideous sketch. And that’s when the smell hits me. The odor of blood, of a corpse. My heart screams for me to turn and run, to call the police, but I don’t. Instead I let my gaze settle on the bed. I have no reaction at first. Curls of hair lie messily on the pillows and disappear beneath the blankets. Almost subconsciously, I pull them back, and for the first time in my life, I scream in true fear. My wife stares up at me, her pale face twisted in a grimace of pain. Blood coats her mouth and chest, trickling slowly from the gruesome wound on her neck. Her arms are pale, her hand tightly clenched around--- 

God please, no....

My breath catches in my throat. I’m not breathing. I reach down and uncurl my wife’s fingers from around my daughter’s wrist. My baby, my sweetheart. She lies there, motionless. Tear stains streaking her round cheeks. Another grisly cut along her own delicate neck. I run a hand over her body, and I realize that I’m shaking. And all of a sudden I feel cold. A whimper of hopelessness escapes my lips. I slip my palms beneath her back and pull her limp body into my arms. My legs turn to water beneath me, giving way until I’m lying there on the floor, my body racked with sobs, my baby girl clutched tightly to my chest. He’s taken everything from me. He’s ripped everything I love out of my life. Never before has he done anything this personal. Never before has he broken his pattern of killings. But for me has. For me, and only me. I close my eyes as tight as I possibly can and I scream. I scream for as loud and as long as I can. I scream until my voice grows hoarse. I scream until I hear the sirens and pounding of fists at my door. I scream to let him know that I received his message. I scream to let him know that I understand, that I realize he’s punishing me. And I scream to let him that the next time we meet, he will die.

Red John Meets Patrick Jane

Appearing on this blog either today or tomorrow will be a short narrative starring Patrick Jane and Red John from The Mentalist.

Reckless

Apologies for the patheticness of this next piece. It was written during the last few minutes of my History class. It depicts the execution of Lord Eddard Stark in HBO's Game of Thrones, from the point of view of the young King Joffrey Baratheon (aka Joffrey Lannister).

Screams. All around me. I hold no weapon in my hands, and yet most of the cries are directed at me. Down the stairs to my left kneels the once-powerful Eddard Stark, face beaten and bloody, some remnants of the food thrown from the crowd stuck in his tangled blonde hair. He is breathing heavily, sweating, his pale cheeks and trembling lips a giveaway of the fear he hoped would not be apparent. My mother’s hand curls tightly around my wrist. “This is madness!” She hisses, but I jerk myself from her grasp. “Daddy!” Someone cries, and I glance to my right to see Sansa, my beloved fiancée, in the hands of my guards. She’s struggling viciously, and I’m sure if she wasn’t always trying to act like such a lady, she’d have kicked both of the soldiers in the balls long ago. “No,” whispers her father, the acceptance of his defeat clear on his face. I take a step forward, my breath catching in my throat as the hooded executioner’s axe begins its descent. And then, suddenly, everything is quiet. The crowd is still in an uproar, but their cheers are lost to me. All I see his him. Lord Eddard Stark. He is calm now, truly calm. His eyes flutter closed, then open. I scream an insult, but he does not answer, or even appear to hear. His face is suddenly tense, and he only glances up once, his gaze making contact with someone in the crowd, Then he lets his head drop, and he sighs, all of that pent-up worry gone in a single instant. Sansa cries out one more time, her voice reaching my ears just as the axe hits her father’s neck. His head falls slowly from his shoulders, the swiftness of the executioner’s cut not at all lessening the amount of blood that’s suddenly flowing from the body of the dead man. Sansa moans, her mournful cry rising above the shouts of all the others. And then she drops, my beautiful, my sweet Sansa, her red hair trailing after her as she collapses in a faint. I do not belittle myself enough to kneel beside her, but rather I look to my mother, and at once I see how much this man’s death is going to cost us. The revenge I planned is now far from my mind, and all I can think of is how much I’m going to pay at the hands of this man’s sons before I’m finally allowed to slip into the painless state of death. But then I remind myself, ‘So is the life of a king.’ Tyrant, my heart whispers, but I push that thought aside. I don’t have time for this. And as if in a final decision, I swivel on my heels and move further away from the wailing of the women and, unknowingly, closer to my doom.

Aged

Battle scene between Ned and Jaimee from Game of Thrones:

Forward. Back. ‘Balance, Ned,’ I tell myself. ‘Keep your balance.’ I am calm, if not a bit apprehensive, but that’s not how I appear. Pommel of the sword shifting easily in my hand, I dart towards my adversary, then, swiftly, back and away. Sweat layers my temple, my once golden curls plastered to my dark skin. I know I am weakening, as does my opponent, but our fight is hardly fair. He is young and powerful, a man - or a lord, rather - who is thought to be the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros. Kingslayer, we call him. A murderer, a cocky lad, one who delights in the killing of those who’ve done no wrong. He hisses now, swiveling his sword in his hand, the weapon perfectly balanced. He steps towards me threateningly, but before he can even raise the blade I’m screaming, dropping to my knees as a searing pain shoots through my thigh. My adversary snarls in anger as he strides towards me, sheathing his sword, the blade thickly coated in gore. He nudges my leg with his toes, and I nearly cry out. For protruding from my thigh is the sharp end of a spear, now drenched in my blood. The soldier who stabbed me releases his weapon, smiling as the Kingslayer approaches, expecting some sort of reward. But instead he suddenly finds himself reeling backwards, the harsh pommel of his lord’s sword nearly breaking his nose. The soldier gasps, and he opens his mouth to say something, but immediately thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut. The Kingslayer looks down at me, glaring, teeth clenched. His eyes flash, and for I moment I can see nothing, pain deadening my senses. Then I feel his hand on my shoulder, pushing me to the ground. I  groan in pain, and he says something callous, but I am only able to catch one word: Sansa.

My daughter.

I roar, thrashing blindly at him as he moves further away, his lips curled into a sneer, a laugh retreating from his mouth. And for the first time in my life, as I lie there in agony, I realize what it is to be alone. 

A Sudden Drop

Bran, a character from the hit TV show Game of Thrones, is the narrator in this excerpt. It takes place during one of the first few episodes in the first season, when Bran comes upon Cersei and Jaimee going at it in the tower. There is no descriptive sex in the following piece, merely the telling of what took place from Bran's point of view.

My hands are raw, bleeding against the rock. It hurts me, but I move even faster, venturing further towards the voices and the gasps of pain. Suddenly my foot slips, I nearly cry out. Fingers tightening around the ledge, I grapple blindly for a foothold, the distance between me and the ground an all-too-lethal threat. Then I feel the cold rock skimming my bare toes, and I breath out in relief. Farther along and the voices grow in volume, but the shrieks seem now more of excitement than of fear. The corner nears me, and I poke my head around the side. My throat constricts, mouth dry as I gasp, shocked. It is the queen, nearly bare, her legs curled around the waist of a man whose back is to me. Her eyes are tightly closed, moans of pleasure just barely passing through her lips as she runs her hands over his smooth chest. The man shifts his stance, his face no longer concealed. The blonde locks that grace his thin face curl perfectly around his ears and down his neck. His tongue runs over his lips, blue eyes flaring as another wave of ecstasy hits him. ‘Jaimee Lannister,’ I breathe. Not the king. Not even a relation of the king. But rather the queen’s own brother, a cocky lord of the Westeros. Suddenly the woman screams, one of her long fingers gesturing furiously in my direction. I move back behind the wall, but her brother is too quick. I feel fingers curling around my collar, and I screech in fear. But it’s no use. I am dragged back to the window, my fingers bleeding beneath the nails as I try to keep my balance. Jaimee looks at me curiously, ignoring the queen’s incessant cries of “He saw us! He saw us!” My chest tightens; I can barely breathe. Power emanates from the man’s mere presence and, though It causes me great shame to admit it, I greatly fear him. Jaimee grasps my shirt collar tightly and pulls me towards him, and for a moment my hope returns. He sighs, looking at me sadly. Turning to the queen, he smiles. “Ah, the things I do for love.” Then a force catches me against the chest, and suddenly I’m screaming, falling. The air whips past me and I grapple for something, anything to hold on to, but it’s no use. I’m too late. I hear the queen’s voice above me, shouting furiously at her brother, but her words are lost in the wind that beats viciously against my skin. I glance down, and that’s when I hit, a scream of agony caught in my throat. My vision suddenly explodes, no less than a dozen colors invading my eyes and then everything is black. Darkness pushes down on my skull, drowning everything out until it all disappears. I am alone. And then there is nothing.

Techs Capture Wattpad

Wattpad, a site anyone can use to post stories they've written, has recently been blocked on all Pascack Valley laptops. Oh, joy. So now I'll be posting my terribly written stories here, for all you people to enjoy. You'll love it. Don't worry.

The Fall of Gabriel

The following is what I thought up when I saw Gabriel (aka Sylar) accidentally kill his mother in the TV show Heroes. It takes place during the few seconds following her stabbing:

she looks up at me and gasps. a sharp intake of breath. Fear. i can see it in her eyes. her lips tremble, the pale skin of her soft cheeks peppered with her own blood. “Gabriel,” she tries to whisper, but no sound escapes her throat. i cling tightly to her, willing her not to fall. willing her to smile and laugh like we used to, studying the snow globes she collected when I was a child. but her face is paling. her lips are turning an ashy blue. i tighten my grasp and she hisses in pain. i glance down at my hands, one on her shoulder, the other--- Oh, God! my fingers falter slightly, their grasp on the pair of scissors loosening. my gaze travels along the slender tool, over the curved hoops and down the body until it suddenly stops, the other end no longer visible, the sharpened blades buried in her chest. my heart beats faster, and i choke, my body rebelling against itself. i blink rapidly, shaking my head, the glasses perched on my nose slipping off my face as i attempt to make sense of things. i subconsciously release my hold on the polished utensil, and she staggers backwards, a hand reaching for the lethal blade. her eyes are drifting, vacant. i reach out to take her in my arms when she looks back up at me. my lips tremble and i swallow the bile that begins to form at the back of my throat. her gaze is one of betrayal and death. she stumbles, falling. i reach out to catch her, or at least i tell myself to, but my feet don’t obey. i am in an internal struggle with myself as she nears the ground, her body moving in slow motion. her right hip hits first, and the floor shudders as her head and shoulder follow close behind. i drop beside her, breathless. she doesn’t move, but her body continues to function, blood slipping from her wound and onto the floor. “Mother,” I whisper. but she’s already gone.