When it's hot out, even my panties have less material! 😂
stepping out of my comfort zone posting this pic but I felt particularly pretty wearing this top so...
Indie Hank J. Wimbleton from Madness Combat.
Promo image made by @theikofos
PSD, header and icons made by @genotsidy
Kano is my husband?? nah he’s my hugsband
Felt cute, might break some corazones. 💔
Things have been a bit weird this week, bit I’m trying to get back into the swing of writing. This chapter is something I have often wondered about, which is how would Sherlock explain to Molly about the coffin? We often elide that in fanfiction by having someone else tell him, but I wanted him to say it in his own words. As always please comment, like and share, and enjoy! This is always easier when I hear from people.
The next time they wake up the sun is setting and Sherlock is fully awake, stroking his fingers gently through her hair. He freezes the moment she opens her eyes, his breath catching. Molly flops onto her front, looking up at him through her lashes and he licks his lips. Brings the hand which was in her hair up to stroke her cheek.
He looks nervous. “Did I wake you?” He asks.
His voice is surprisingly quiet.
“No.” She huffs out a pleased breath, setting the straggly hair which haloes her face fluttering, and they share a smile. She feels rested, surprisingly so, especially given the drama of the last 24 hours. She sits up. “How long was I out?”
Sherlock’s eyes slide from hers, he drops his hand from her hair. “I’m not sure,” he says, “I wasn’t really paying attention to the time when I came here.” He takes a sharp breath through his nose and says the words quickly. “I just really wanted to see you.” And he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Warmth blooms in Molly’s chest; she could get used to this.
“Because you love me?” She means it to come out teasingly, as a statement, but it’s a question- Good God, why is it a question-?
Sherlock notes her tone, shoulders dropping, expression turning haunted. It looks… It looks to Molly almost like he’s readying himself to take a blow and she hates that. It makes her reach for him, her hand finding his, interweaving their fingers.
This seems to settle him. “Because I love you,” he says quietly, nodding. “Because I had to see you after what happened...“
“What did happen?”
She hadn’t meant to be so blunt but the moment the words pop out of her mouth Molly realises that she wants to know. She had put some of it together on the phone, hearing the panic in his voice when he begged her to say Those Words. The way he’d hung up on her, the way Mycroft’s boys had turned up at her flat so suddenly, all of it had indicated that something was seriously wrong.
It had scared her half to death.
But she still isn’t sure what it was that had prompted him to find her, to tell her he loved her. She doesn’t know what happened to turn her bossy, mercurial, funny, weirdly wonderful friend into the gentle, reticent man currently sharing her bed.
At the question Sherlock’s expression turns pained again. He shakes his head to himself, closing his eyes and instantly all Molly wants to take the words back, she wants to gather him in her arms and tell him that everything is going to be alright. She even tries to do it, scrambling onto her knees. When she makes the attempt however, he shakes her head. Eyes still closed, he lays his forehead against hers and presses her back onto the bed with a gentle hand to her chest.
After a moment he says down on his back beside her.
“Was it bad?” She asks in a small voice, because of course now she suspects it was.
He nods. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.
He reaches out and takes her hand.
“It was… vivisection,” he tells her quietly.
She looks at him sharply, horrified. Acting on impulse Molly places her other hand on top of the hand he’s already and some of the stress goes out of him. She begins running her thumb rhythmically over his fingers, there, where they’re twined together, until he stills.
It seems to her that they’re both in need of soothing.
“We were… It was a game,” he says eventually. His voice is so quiet, so...hollow. “We were playing a game, that’s all.” Molly’s heart tightens. He must sense it because he opens his eyes, his gaze wild as he leans over and kisses her mouth. “I wasn’t playing,” he mutters fiercely against her lips. “I wouldn’t say those words to you if it wasn’t… I meant them, I mean them...”
“I believe you.” And she does. She knows she shouldn’t, but she does.
For a moment silence reigns, their breathing harsh and their only point of contact their hands on Molly’s chest, but then-
“There was a coffin,” Sherlock says and now his voice sounds distant. “There was a coffin, and it was…’ He shakes his head to himself, bites his lip. He flops back onto the bed and to Molly’s alarm, tears start leaking from beneath his lashes. She reaches out, stroking one off his cheek, and he presses fierce a kiss to her palm, turning to look at her.
The sheer pain in this face breaks her heart.
“The coffin was small,” he continues, voice growing stronger. “It was well-made. Practical. Real. There was a brass plaque on the lid saying I Love You-“ He shakes his head at that, laughs despairingly. “The moment I saw it, I knew. I knew.”
She doesn’t understand.
“I knew that it was to do with you,” he says, and his voice is getting faster now. He’s staring very hard at the ceiling. “I knew it was something to do with you, I knew it had to be. She’d been watching me, you see, she knew about John and Mary, about Mycroft, about Mrs Hudson, about everyone…”
Sherlock blinks. Focuses on her. For a moment he looks every inch the Consulting Detective she’s always known. “Her name is Eurus,” he says slowly. “Eurus… Holmes.” Another bitter laugh. “She’s my sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“I didn’t know I had a sister either.” Again his voice is distant. “Mycroft never told me, the bastard.” He gives another harsh laugh. “And if I ever remembered her, I locked it all away, up here.” He taps his temple; he seems so very angry at himself, it’s difficult to watch.
“She’s brilliant, my sister,” he continues. “But then, all us Holmes are clever. So cunning, so merciless: it’s a wonder we don’t cut ourselves, we’re so very sharp.” He puffs out a breath. “She wanted to know about me, so she arranged for a mystery to bring me to her. She put John, Mycroft and I through our paces in order to get our measure, and show us hers-“
“And some of that involved me?”
Again he looks sharply at her and Molly shrugs.
“Seems like a good guess,” she points out defensively.
He shakes his head, a ghostly, proud smile at his lip. “That’s not a guess, that’s a deduction,” he tells her. He turns on his side, moving closer, and they share another wan smile. Acting on impulse, Molly closes the distance between them, rests her head upon his chest. She listens to his breathing, feels the soothing, even measure of it.
The silence stretches out.
“The coffin was supposed to represent you,” he says, eventually. “The first time I saw it, I thought you might be inside it. I thought that maybe she’d already found you, already hurt you...” He shakes his head and Molly’s heart twists in her chest. She tightens her grip on him. “I’m not sure I could have lived with myself,” he mutters, “had I been responsible for that...”
“You wouldn’t have been responsible,” Molly says calmly. He looks at her and she meets his gaze: she’s not having him blaming himself for something someone else decided to do. “You didn’t make your sister do anything, you aren’t responsible for her actions,” she repeats firmly.
“I’m responsible for her noticing you,” he retorts. “It’s because of me that she wanted to hurt you, that she ordered me to call you and make you say…”
And he trails off, Those Words hanging on the air. Even though he has already repeated them to her, has already assured her that he meant them, the memory still seems to haunt him.
Knowing even half the story, Molly supposes she can’t blame him.
“What did she do with the coffin?” She prompts eventually, because if he’s come this far then it’s better that he get the whole story out. She doesn’t want him holding it in, doesn’t want it festering.
He sighs. Locks his arms around her, grip tight as if he’s trying to assure himself of her presence. That she’s really here and not that awful place inside his head.
“She told me to call you,” he says quietly. “She told me to make you say you loved me. She told me that there were bombs in your flat, that you’d die if I didn’t force you to-“
“So you were trying to save me,” Molly says, and it makes everything both worse and better.
But isn’t that always the way, with her and Sherlock?
“I was,” He says, looking desolate. “I was trying to save you. And at first that’s all I was trying to do. But then, once I said it… Once the words were out…”
He huffs out a breath and Molly presses a shy kiss to his chest, trying to reassure him.
“Once the words were out you realised you… meant them?” She ventures.
He nods. He looks grateful that she hadn’t made him say it. “The second time,” he murmurs. “The second time I said it, I realised. I realised how true it was, how long it had been true- And how long I had been running from it.” He tightens his grip on her and again Molly suspects it’s a means of reassurance. And if that’s what he needs then that’s what she’ll give him. So she presses another kiss to his chest.
“Afterwards, I… “ He stops. Opens his mouth once, twice, and still the words don’t come. She’s about to assure him that he doesn’t have to tell her anymore but before she can he starts talking again. This time his voice is steady and strong, even if he’s speaking fast.
Again, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling.
“Afterwards, after I got you to say it, Eurus told me it had been a bluff,” he says. “There were no bombs, no threats, she just wanted me to dance to her tune.
She wanted me to watch as I broke your heart.”
Molly doesn’t know what to say to that.
“And I… I just snapped, Molly.” He shakes his head to himself. Glances down at her. She nods to him encouragingly and he drags his gaze away, back up to the ceiling.
It seems to make things easier for him to speak.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to control what I feel, trying not to let it dominate me,” he whispers. “Emotion is a weakness, that’s what I always tell myself. But when I realised what she had done to you- what she had had me do to you- Molly, there are no words for what I felt. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my entire life. If she’d been there in the room with me I would have killed her, I would have taken her life and I’m not sure anyone would have stopped me-“
“But you didn’t, did you?”
Molly is aware that for most people it shouldn’t be a question, but then again the man in her arms is not most people.
And if he had killed his sister, well, it sounded like there were extenuating circumstances.
He shakes his head though.He takes in a deep, calming breath through his nose. “I didn’t kill her,” he says. He presses a kiss to Molly’s hair. “In fact, I talked her down. And someday, I suppose I’ll be glad I did- Even if today is not that day.”
He lets out a slow, bracing breath. It looks to Molly like he feels lighter.
“So that’s everything you want to tell me?” She says.
For the first time since he’d turned up at her door professing love, however, now he looks chagrined. Molly can’t imagine what could lead to it, not after everything else he’s said.
“I tore the coffin apart,” he says. His voice is no longer quite steady. “I tore the coffin apart with my bare hands.” He frowns, attention focussed on the ceiling even as he pulls her close again. He curls against her, his body both seeker and shield. “I beat that coffin, I punched it and smashed it into plywood,” he says. “I think Mycroft was rather horrified by my display, but I couldn’t help myself…”
And suddenly he’s rolled her so that she’s on her back with him on top of her.
Suddenly he’s gazing down at her in this burning, hungry, breathtaking way that makes Molly’s heart thud and her blood heat.
“I nearly lost you,” he says quietly. His gaze is intent on hers. “I nearly lost you, Molly, and I never would have had the chance- I never would have gotten to tell you…”
“Hush.” She reaches up and kisses him, wrapping her arms around him, Her mouth burns with the pleasure of it, the heat and nearness of him making her body sing, When they pull apart he nudges his nose tenderly against hers and Molly thinks her heart might burst. “I’m here,” she whispers to him, “and we’re together.
Whatever your sister may have wanted, I promise I’m not going anywhere...”
And, not sure what else to do, knowing only how much she wants to be close to him, Molly kisses him again. Passionately. Sweetly. Her hands roam possessively over his body and her fingers tangle in his hair. His breath is hot and his body feels exquisite against her own; Time seems to halt, to let them go, and then they’re free, suspended in a pocket universe that’s only for the two of them. That only need be for the two of them, them and nobody else. So Molly kisses him, and holds him, she tells him she’s here, she tells him she loves him and he mutters raggedly that he loves her too…
They’re so wrapped up in one another that they fail to notice when Mycroft’s assistant arrives, her arms laden with fresh clothes, eyes diplomatically averted.
She informs them that Molly, at least, can go home.
“I’m not letting her out of my sight,” Sherlock growls in answer, and though Mycroft’s right hand rolls her eyes she nevertheless has a driver take them both to Molly’s flat.
They hold hands in the car, Molly’s head upon his shoulder.
the body ~ an archive of experiences & ever changing
Red really is my fucking colour. 💃🏻👄
(This was not posted for sexual reasons and I have no interest in sexting with you or seeing your genitalia. Also DON'T call me sexy, it makes my skin crawl. This is simply a woman sharing the love of her body with the world. PLEASE READ MY PINNED POST BEFORE FOLLOWING.)
Hello!! This isn't an art post but I just wanted to say that going to college for art (which is expensive as hell holy fuck-) isn't something you need to be a good artist
I'm not saying this bc I think I'm a good artist (I'm not, by a long shot), but bc I just saw a medieval painting of a cat and if those mfs can go around and get famous for their "Extravagant Masterpiece" while their cats look like the inbred second cousin twice removed of Garfield and fourth cousin/wife to Charles II of Spain, I promise you're more than good enough to make art and feel proud of what you've done <3
it's absolutely fine to have small dreams; as long as they make your heart beat faster, they're worth being chased after. be it a dream of owning a small bakery or a dream of spending days devouring the richness of fruits on an open field; in the end, they're simply your dreams. the ones who hold safe the strings of your heart. don't let the world take them away from you. okay? ♥