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Aug. 27th, 2010

huffy moving

Art: Gladstone and *that scarf* COLOUR

 As the colour image is being a pain, the link to it is here: 
http://s1025.photobucket.com/albums/y319/maddyduke/?action=view&current=Gladstonecolour.jpg&newest=1
microwave

Art: Gladstone and *that scarf*

 Because I had time on my hands and felt like drawing :)
And because GLADSTONE WANTS THAT SCARF JUST AS MUCH AS EVERYBODY ELSE <3
Comments and concrit are very welcome. They are crack to me
(have never uploaded a pic before, apologies for newbie mistakes...) CLICK TO ENLARGE
A/N the colour image is being a pain and not showing - please see the comments for a working link :)





Gladstone + the scarf (B+W)










G


huffy moving

BBC!SHERLOCK FIC: You Give Love A Bad Name

Title: You Give Love A Bad Name
Characters/pairings: Sherlock, John, Harriet, Sherlock/John pre-slash (sorta) (implied) (IDEK)
Rating/Warnings: T? m/m Sexual references, nothing explicit, just mischievousness...
Word count: 1,800 approx. 
Summary: John was never going to let Sherlock borrow his phone again.
Disclaimer: Sherlock was created for the BBC by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm not them (dammit) ergo, I'm making no profit.
A/N Written for this prompt at the meme sherlockbbc_fic:
John's ignoring Harry's calls. She calls while Sherlock is borrowing his phone. Leads to conversation and John trying to get the phone off Sherlock.
Title from the Bon Jovi song that also serves as John's ringtone. IDK.
My first fic (this is the first fandom that has convinced me to dare try) so concrit is very welcome. Enjoy!




John grumbled as his pocket vibrated for the third time since lunch. He could tell without looking that it would be Harry.
Again.
Tough. He was exhausted. The cases had been hard and – due to the latest flu epidemic – his job had been harder. He couldn’t remember when last he’d had sleep longer than the catnaps he caught in his and Sherlock’s many taxi rides. He ached to his bones, his muscles oh-so-slowly unwinding as he breathed deeply. Lying over the old couch, his arms dramatically flung over his tired eyes and coat still half on, he was finally able to rest – he was not moving for anyone.
“John, I need your mobile.”
He groaned, peering under his arm at his flatmates tall, thin frame. Sherlock strode elegantly in, shaking the misty rain from his coat as he shrugged it off and hung it meticulously neatly on a stand. When he saw no phone was forthcoming, he looked at John for the first time, frowning when he saw the position he was in, his eyes moving across his flatmates limp form before coming to rest on his face, once again half-hidden. The corners of the detective’s mouth twitched into a smirk.
“You look ridiculous.”
John didn’t even grace that comment with a retort, but shifted enough to turn and face the sofas back, eyes sliding resolutely shut. He heard Sherlock step lightly across the room, but stay mercifully silent – his sluggish brain assuming something else had taken up the dark-haired mans attention. Breathing deeply, his thoughts slowed as he drifted toward sleep.
He was jerked unceremoniously back to reality when long, cold fingers slipped under his sweater.
Letting out an undignified yelp, John twisted his body to face his flatmate, only to be pushed with surprising strength back onto the pillows, his shoulder protesting slightly at the force. Sherlock was kneeling beside the sofa, face carefully blank, and one hand unashamedly roaming across John’s beltline while the other held him carefully in place. He felt the cold hand deftly search through his pockets and then retreat along with the pressure on his shoulder, grasping his mobile. An expression of victory graced his features as his grey eyes finally met John’s scandalised expression.
“Were you expecting something else?” An eyebrow rose as Sherlock gracefully pushed himself up, careful not to lean too heavily on John’s already protesting body. Words failed the doctor completely; he felt he should protest something, but the playful comment was unexpected, as was the faint blush creeping up from his collar. He strove to find some witty comeback, but his thoughts were coming slowly, not helped in any way by his friends close proximity and strange behaviour. Instead, he laid there, his mouth hanging open slightly, just watching the taller man, his pale fingers already skating across the keys. His eyes travelled over the dark curls, past striking silver eyes, lips that were pursed in concentration, down past the narrow chest and waist, hidden by a royal blue shirt...
He was beautiful.
And it was NOT gay for him to think that.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push away the aching tiredness in vain. When he opened them again, Sherlock’s eyes were on his and he was frowning again, his gaze darting across his face.
“Go to sleep, John.”
It was an order he couldn’t refuse. His eyes closed for a final time and he relaxed. A few seconds passed and he felt a weight upon him, a rough scratching on his skin – a blanket? The warmth that came with it suggested so, and as it was tucked around his shoulder he caught Sherlock’s scent inches away and mumbled something incoherent even to him. A deep chuckle reverberated through the sofa, the last sound he heard as fell into a deep slumber.
****

He dreamed of Sherlock.
It wasn’t the first time, but he could blame it on over exhaustion, the intense cases, over exposure to Sherlock and his...well, Sherlock-ness. As a doctor, and from Ella’s lectures, he knew that dreams were heavily influenced by day-to-day life, by major stresses; it was a way of releasing tension and ridding you mind of the clutter of the day.
He also knew that your subconscious brought to light things you never dared think about during the day. But he was ignoring that part.
There was no clarity to his dreams, just a mess of images; soft black curls, sometimes dry and shining, sometimes wet and slick with London rain, sometimes grasped in angry fists. Shining, piercing eyes, lit up with a thousand emotions or carefully devoid of none at all, half lidded or wide open. Smooth, alabaster skin, frozen like stone, or warm, muscles rippling underneath. Pale lips drawn in a rare smile. Chest rising and falling with exertion. Long (talented?) hands wrapped around smooth wood and strings, coaxing out ethereal melodies –
Instead of the passionate violin notes John’s subconscious was used to, he could hear...a guitar. And a voice. It sounded quiet, like it was far away. Confused, the images fading slowly away, the sounds became more distinct.
...Was that Bon Jovi?
As suddenly as it began, the music stopped, leaving silence in its wake, until –
“Hello..?”
The voice cut through his hazy mind like a knife through butter. The tone is off though, wary, so unlike the (sultry?) voice he usually dreams talking to him. There’s wariness in it that makes the soldier side of him tense.
“John is...indisposed. This is his roommate.” The mention of his name distracts him from revelling in the smooth sound of Sherlock’s voice. Who was there? Who would come to talk to him? Most callers were just interested in the world’s only consulting detective... He half-heartedly tried to will his muscles into movement; they were stiff from sleep and his awkward position. How long had he been sleeping?
“I –He – Well – Will you please stop talking?!?”
Stop talking? He couldn’t hear anyone.
“He is sleeping. He has been up all night with me most nights this week – it is to be expected.”
He was glad Sherlock appreciated the fact he was only human, even if he didn’t make allowances for it. His muscles were slowly waking up; he could shift against the cushions on the sofa, the warm, thick blanket laid upon him only making it harder to drag himself from dozing. His eyes were too heavy to open just yet.
“What does a lack of grandchildren have to do with it?”
John frowned. Sherlock was making less sense by the second, ignoring the fact he seemed to be talking to himself. That, from experience, was a regular occurrence in the rooms of 221b, usually justified by the presence of Sherlock’s beloved skull – but the conversation so far would be a little weird to have with something quite so dead, even by ‘sociopath’ standards.
“What do you mean ‘I have to tell your mother’?” Sherlock’s tone was actually confused. With much effort, John managed to force his eyes open, wincing at the light, a blurry image of Sherlock standing across from him coming into view. He stood, his back to John, tracing the bullet holes in the wall with one hand.
“Hm? Oh, just thinking about something I did with John’s weapon.”
As his eyes focused, he saw the phone in his other hand, nestled in black curls. Ah, now it starts to make sense. Though, John thought, it was unusual for him to actually talk on the phone – texting was definitely his forte. Mycroft, maybe? His brain was working faster, making links more clearly. That was viable, he was one of the few people he would discuss John’s illegal weapon with-
“No, I borrow his phone all the time. He doesn’t mind.”
Borrow...
He suddenly recognised the phone in his hand, and the memories returned.
“I don’t think your brother would be happy if I told you what he did in bed, Harriet. It’s not very interesting, anyway...”
Harriet?
Suddenly his synapses fired like lightning, bits of conversation thrown back at him:
Up all night with me...I have to tell your mother?...something I did with John’s weapon...
Oh bugger.
His groggy muscle were suddenly full of energy, propelling him across the room, still half tangled in blanket, to appear suddenly in front of Sherlock’s shocked expression. He glared and grabbed at the taller man’s arm, but instinctually he backed away, a smirk suddenly appearing on his face.
John growled. “Give me the phone, Holmes.”
Sherlock stood his ground. “Oh, he’s up now. Would you like to speak to him?” He cocked his head, listening, never taking his eyes of John’s face. He shook his head. “Sorry, John, she doesn’t want to speak to you. Says I’m more honest so she’d rather talk to me...” The grey eyes sparkled with the energy normally only seen before a big case, a particularly clever puzzle.
“I bet she would. Give it to me.”
“Don’t be impolite, John. No, usually I can get away with most things, I don’t often get told off...” Sherlock stepped lightly backward as John advanced angrily. “Usually I tell him what I need him to do.” The backs of his legs collided with the coffee table and he stumbled slightly. “Though I may get in trouble for this.” He cocked his head again. John would not admit that it was adorable. “She says she’ll call the police if you hurt me.”
“Most of them think you have it coming.” His voice was deep, threatening, low in his throat. He skilfully darted forward, knocking the detectives arm and grappling the phone from his grasp, tumbling them both over the table and onto the carpet in an ungraceful heap. He heard an ‘oof’ as his weight landed squarely on Sherlock, knocking the breath from him, but found it hard to sympathize. He held the phone up to ear, hearing the speaker cackle before it was even close.
“Harry?”
His sister’s voice was painfully smug. “You dog, Johnny!”
His eyes narrowed. “You know you’re hearing what you want to hear, right?” His sister laughed throatily.
“Get off, John!” Sherlock squirmed breathlessly underneath him. John desperately tried not to get distracted, hoping Harry hadn’t heard.
He hoped in vain. “The evidence speaks for itself, Johnny–boy!”
“Shut up, Harry.” He closed the call with the press off a button, chucking it across the carpet, before directing a cold stare to the detective underneath him.
How would be the best way to punish him...?
The ringing phone went ignored.



Comments are wonderful.

Aug. 13th, 2010

Random dance

Writing Practice - Sherlock Role-play

. . . Not that kinda role play, gutter bunnies.
Just mine and my sisters way to practise getting into characters :)
Thoughts welcome.

(Sherlock ruffled the paper in his hands, shifting to get more comfortable in the old, faded armchair)
EH, PACHA? Read on...if you dare...Collapse )
huffy moving

Creepypasta is creepy.

FRIDAY THE 13TH?!?!?!
*ahem*
So my sister thought today would be a good day to introduce me to creepypasta.com... it wasn't scary as such, but c'mon, give me a chance!
If I die tonight, message me how Supernatural ends.

Aug. 12th, 2010

huffy moving

Got your breath back? Ready when you are.

God I love the internet.
After reading the amazing work from the lovely people writing at the sherlockbbc_fic page I am sorely tempted to help out...I'm just looking for a prompt that kicks my dusty old muse back into action :)
Also, can't get over how much I want a smartphone after watching Sherlock with his...If I said it would help me fight crime, do you think the government would give me one...?
Summary of the day: EPIC CLEANING. Without any sneaking of to read fic at all. Honest.

Aug. 11th, 2010

huffy moving

ONE. WHOLE. YEAR.

 So. I google my latest obsession - BBC Sherlock - in the hopes of being given some hints about the next series...
 They're making a new series.
 Yay!
 But it's not coming out for at least a year.
 ...WHAT?!?!

I have to survive a whole year with 3 episodes to fill my time...
I'm going to go mad, aren't I?

All I can say - it had better be a whole 22 episode series!
Or bricks are being thrown.

Aug. 10th, 2010

huffy moving

Delving into memory

 I was browsing through my hard drive today and came across some old stories I'd written for GCSE. Thought I'd post one up and see what happened - it's not doing anything staying there! Enjoy.
Also considering putting up and writing some fanfictions, Sherlock being the first to come to mind...
To OC or not to OC? That is the question...

Trickster - the story of one girls yearly quest for revenge.Collapse )

Aug. 9th, 2010

huffy moving

A Note to Begin

 Weird how some days you decide to do things you'd never thought you do.
Today I start my own blog...
I solemnly swear to get up to mischief  WRITE EVERY DAY.
Within reason of course.

My name is maddyduke.
I have work to do. *grins*