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.

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 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.