|Go ahead. Explore. There's probably nothing in there that'd kill you.|
(For original stuff, just peruse my gallery. )
The Righteous WomanThey’re working one of those in-between jobs again. It sounds stupid to say they’re basically just filling time, waiting for the apocalypse, but Dea can’t shake the feeling that that’s exactly it.The Righteous Woman by ~the-improbable-ive
Hey, beats twiddling your thumbs.
She sent Sam into the dilapidated convenience store, opting instead to sit in the Impala’s driver seat, playing her music louder than her stick-in-the-mud brother would ever tolerate.
The radio crackles once, a loud, drawn-out static, then shuts off. “What the...” she bends over it, half-prepared to run to check on Sammy, when a prickling on her neck causes her to turn around.
She almost jumps through the roof. “Cas! Gimme a little warning next time, will ya?”
He stares at her, as serious and intense as ever. It’s been a bit more than two weeks since she last saw him, and he doesn’t seem to be much worse for wear. His hair is ruffled, maybe he has a shade more stubble, but he’s largely un
While They Last: part IIJohn Watson is a soldier- was a soldier, maybe, but tenses don’t matter, because that is what he does.While They Last: part II by ~the-improbable-ive
He soldiers on. Even on the days when everything he’s let get away from him is haunting him and he’s almost earned back that limp.
It’s a different flat, not a bad place to wake up, but not a good one, either. It’s at a very nice price and it’s just the right size for one man (that is, small). Everything has a place, and everything is in that place, militaristic with the touch of disorganization you find in a bachelor’s flat. He goes to work at the surgery, he comes back, and there are no body parts in the freezer, no chemicals balanced precariously on the counter. The mail is not jackknifed to the mantel, and there’s no skull beside it. He doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night because of shooting or swearing or a sudden case or melancholy violin music.
And all of it is perfectly ordinary.
So when he wakes up from a most extra
While They Last"Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?"While They Last by ~the-improbable-ive
-Alfred Lord Tennyson
"So," Lestrade says, crossing his arms. "What're we looking at?"
He's giving Sherlock that look, the same focus, curiosity, trust, and confusion he did the first time John met him.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and his eyes flick away from the corpse for a second. "A body, Lestrade, I thought even you could discern that." He smirks at John's half-snort of laughter, then is completely focused on the scraps of something that was once human.
Lestrade doesn't respond, but watches each taut line of the consultant's form, bent over for closer examination. Sherlock's gloved fingers trace along the veins of the cadaver's wrist, gently skipping over the cuts carved into the arm.
The cuts aren't limited to that limb. This young man's body turned up in the morgue- laid out on one of the slabs, like the killer was presenting a challenge, like he wanted to be found- scored all over. Besides the damage