alihay

A Tribute to Guisippi It took a while for anyone to notice anything wrong. In the modern Tate, strange things aren't exactly uncommon. In fact, most of the artwork could be called strange. So most people walked past it without much more than an appraising thought and a consideration of how it represented the status of society. It was a young girl who realised. Small, pink flowery coat, golden hair in messed up ringlets and a Hello Kitty held close to her chest. It was her who screamed and screamed and screamed, through her mother's pleads, through the tittering of the other gallery-goers, through the heavy thud-thud-thud of the heavy, worn

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! "... is a drunkard and a good-for-nothing layabout, don't even know why your mother invited him to this thing, God knows neither of us can stand to be around him for five minutes-" "But you need his support and connections," Mycroft muttered absently, licking his finger

It was a beautiful day. The blue sky was the type of blue sky artists dream of re-creating, the occasional clouds that dotted said sky the purest cotton white, providing the lovers strewn across the soft emerald grass with careless, endless amusement as they debated on their shapes, hands moving and pointing, used as an excuse to take their other half's fingers between their own, to have their heads side by side, to smile and laugh and enjoy the wonders of nature.        However, the beauty of the day was causing several people problems. Namely, the meteorologists of BBC Weather. You see, there wasn't meant

A child who grows up in a place of learning won't be like the other children. A child who goes to bed hearing of pagan rituals and human sacrifices will be different. A child who has chemicals and test tubes, organs and skeletons, stone buildings and books in place of parents has no hope of being normal... Tatty stood in front of her small mirror, making sure she had all of her bright white hair in her grasp before tying it up and out of the way. A few strands fell over her eyes, wisps of a fringe, but that was fine, they wouldn't get in the way.      Her eyes darted to the clock – fifteen minutes. Positively early. But she liked tim

Sherlock's Dead, One Way Or The Other       "Just so you know, if we get out of this alive – I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"       "Why must you be so melodramatic, John – one, of course we'll get out of this alive, there's no 'if' about it, and two, you wouldn't kill me. You don't dislike me that much."       "Wanna bet?"       "Are you really going to make me list all the evidence?"       "Well it's not like we've got anything better to do, is it? Just lots of time to pass, while we sit here, WAITING TO GET SACRIFICED!"       "Be."       "...What?"       "It's 'be sacrificed', not 'get sacrificed'."       "... Really? Yo

Kushiel; Guardsman. It's a wonderfully satisfying feeling, watching years of work slowly begin to knot together into a glorious, perfect conclusion. As it proves worth it - those hours of labour, days and days sat staring at a map or list of names and places and scouring newspapers - you can breathe for the first time as your mind lightens, and you steadily begin to fill with a comforting warmth.      And it was this feeling Kushiel was revelling in as he leant back into the stained upholstery of his seat in the corner, watching those sat at the bar with a slight smile. He picked up his bottle of beer, resting the cool rim against his lip

CRYING OVER SPLIT CYANIDE PART 3 – NOTHING HAD CHANGED AT ALL     Could I never be on time, not once in my life?     Usually it was insignificant things, like work, weddings, exams – not this time. No, not this time.     No.     No, no, he wasn't going to –     It wasn't going to happen.     Mycroft hadn't come up. He'd muttered some reason about pressing appointments, queen and country, him not being able to stand it –     I hadn't listened to him. He really didn't matter.     As I leant over Sherlock's body, my fingers still resting on his pulse, as if holding it would hold him to life -     I wep

I stand at the Pier's edge, And look at the moonbeams. They float gently over the water, Like the lightest, silver silk. They look soft, and comforting. Only broken every now and then By the splash of a fin, Or tail – Then the fish goes, And the silver silk continues Undisturbed. The wood, Old, worm-ridden, Creaks beneath my feet In the gentlest breeze. I still remember how it used to look, The last time you dragged me out here To watch the moonbeams flit across the waves. All painted, glossy, Good as new. It almost looks as old as me now. I can imagine you laughing at that. Every month you would co

CRYING OVER SPILT CYANIDE PART 2 - THE OTHER BULLET [ extract added 27th march by SH     I wasn't entirely sure how long I'd been on the phone to Mycroft. I knew it had been a while.     How could I have got it so wrong? I was never wrong. My instincts were always right. Always!     And then the world goes and dies. . .     I'd always loved him. Always. How could he not see that. How. Perhaps I'd done something wrong . . .     I was new at this. Entirely new. How did anyone expect me to know what I was doing? Why hadn't Mycroft helped me?     Perhaps he didn't think I'd needed to be helped. Perhaps, like John had said, I was