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Lestrade, upon hearing Sherlock's pronouncement, gave John an amused look before thrusting the offending object into Sherlock's arms and simply walking away. "John. JOHN. What do I do with it?" The usual baritone was suffused with a mild note of panic as the infant woke up, startled by its sudden change in position, and looked up at him, puzzled. "It's a baby, Sherlock, you just have to hold it," said John, frowning, as Sherlock held it up under the arms to examine it critically. "And it's actually a he, you know." "Yes, yes, I know its name," he said, turning it around to examine the other side. "Not very interesting." His elbows were ben

Swinging Swinging is joy in rhythm. The legs stretch and extend, as far as they can go from standstill. They come back and curl up on themselves – as lazily or intensely as you would ever want to go. Nobody judges when you're swinging – or, if they do, at least you can't find it in yourself to care anymore. Your muscles strain against gravity, armed with a seat and rope, and push you farther farther and higher higher into the stratosphere. Your entire body is tense with the effort, to allow your weight further leverage against this will. Dull, glitzy pain flits through your mind – but you're almost there – you reach th

   Sit and tell a story, John. Bring a detective story and a thermos of tea )two cups( read it and present it to the judging gravestone it listens with an ugly sneer and scoffs at the dialogue )though he's dead you can hear his voice( and you've never heard a silence so wretched )he demanded it in life; he would not receive it, even in death, so help him God( Bring along an encyclopedia of poisons list them off to the name engraved )the man engraved also, for he himself could never be entombed( You'll consider them what they might taste like on your tongue )probably like dust – as everything else does( Consider the im

The hospital is plastic and inorganic as Feliciano steps through the pneumatic doors. A thick woolen coat rests on his body and a thick red scarf is tied snugly around his neck, and his cheeks bloom with the pink color of cold. The strap of his school bag is clutched in one gloved hand, and the other fidgets nervously with anything it can take hold of -- the large buttons, the lining of his pocket, his scarf. He approaches the front desk and inquires after his friend, and, hearing that he is awake, sighs in relief. The nurse looks tired and harried, so Feliciano does not pause to tell her how glad he is to hear her news, and instead hurries

[A/N: please be sure to check artist's comments at the bottom!] Auld Lang Syne 1. Ivan Braginski did not believe in ghosts. He was an ordinary, if big, man – a ballet teacher  -- deceptively tall and heavy, with a frown too gentle to be angry and a smile too cold to be happy. His aunt raised him, along with her daughter. Ivan did not remember why two men and a woman (so key in all of their conjoined lives) were missing. It might have been a war, a sickness, a bottle of whiskey. And it didn't matter to him. Not much did. Besides his dancing (his only constant companion), and his cousin and aunt (both loved him very much, and both l

"I thought you were bad at cooking." "Terrible, really. But I'm honestly not awful at making peanut butter cookies." Arthur caught Gilbert's look and rolled his eyes. "Are you going to help me or not?" "Yeah, sure, whatever. Should I bring an apron?" "Probably. And would you mind bringing the chocolate kisses?" "Is that the only kind of kiss you want me to bring?" "Don't be an ass." Gilbert smirked.  "Just be at my house tomorrow." "What time?" "After lunch some time. I don't know. Just be there." "Can I take you out to lunch? Just to make sure your kitchen is in a good enough condition for baking. Of course." "Oh, of course." Arthur

Fairy Godmother, forgive me. They all died and the last knight standing before my tower I guess he was my savior, I trod upon his back first as I stepped down the human staircase. I took the hand of the Reaper, Sir Death he was, encased in scarab armor. See, he said, touching my cheek with chapped lips, it's so easy, isn't it. With all their souls in the sack around my neck the spirits knotted together to become a chain the Reaper instead of the tower has me now, Fairy Godmother. I didn't save myself.

     I was asked by your fearless leader (applause here) to write a little sumtin'-sumtin' about the editing process, which drew me to a pause. Editing, to me, has always been, pretty much, my saying: "This is wrong. Fix it." However, your fearless leader's request brought me to the realization that, uh, I should probably back some of this crap up. Dictionaries are generally trustworthy! Let's try one of those! Merriam-Webster defines "edit": as such: "…(c) to alter, adapt, or refine especially to bring about conformity to a standard or to suit a particular purpose." Eh. If Merriam or Webster had bothered to ask my opinion, I would have