My mornings are Russian Roulette.

Another day
Another round
Another sun
Another barrel of a gun

I wake up feeling wonderful
And hopeful the next
Only to crash land to frustration and depression and eternal damnation

I can hardly make sense
Of who I am
Or what I want anymore

It gets tiring not knowing what to expect from me
Why can’t my days be a constant high?
Or at the very least a steady flow
Not this roller coaster ride I never asked for
Mostly vomit, hardly any thrill

Each day is either hit or miss
Will I be bad or good today?
Up the steps
Or spiral deeper into darkness
I am Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
I am angel and demon inside

There is no thrill in this game I don’t want to play
I live to die another day

Dude, it's just chocolate
  • Friend: You want some of this Bicol chocolate?
  • Me: *forcibly* No!
  • Me: It tastes like coconut oil, desperation, and bitter memories.
  • Me: It gives me a headache.
  • Me: So no. I don't want your damn chocolate.
  • Me: It doesn't taste like home.

"Small, mousy, glasses. Clearly some sort of nerd by the looks of her." Irene adds.

"Hm, yes, but quite a shallow deduction, don’t you think?" Sherlock continues with a teasing smirk and the unnerving laser-sharp focus she always admired. "You can see by the scruff marks on her boots that she walks approximately ten miles in uncemented road just to get to the city. You can see from the residue left from her steps that she walked on pavement with loose dust. That is most places in central London. But look, she was carrying a book, got it from the public library then because covered, worn books with yellow ID stickers are more likely to come from them. So lives far away, not quite rich, and addicted to books."

"She’s insecure." The Woman butts in.

"What?" Sherlock turns to face her now.

"Insecure by the way she hunches her shoulders. Quite the nervous, fearful type by the way she rubs both index and thumb repeatedly. Was she being followed? Unlikely. You can see by the way she covers herself up in haphazard layers that she’d most likely not be seen by the world. Still, by the way her doe eyes look around, she likes being part of it. Shy, then. The typical cute, naive, geek girl." Irene finishes with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock looks at her with barely-contained appreciation. He doesn’t know how or when but suddenly The Woman and he have taken a liking to playing deductions whenever they got bored, which was often. Hardly anyone got to keep up with his mind. John hated the game. He said it was for know-it-all assholes who didn’t know how to shut their mouth. He thought it must be a derision of some kind pointed at him considering that he just told a lot of people how he slept with the same blanket he used as a child. Ridiculous.

Asides from Mycroft, only the Woman was able to catch up with him. Not only did she play the game, she opened new levels. What he lacked in emotion, psychology, and social cues, the Woman excelled in. They contradicted and complemented each other like two halves of the same chaotic being.

"Do you ever think I could be the cute, mousy, innocent type?"

Sherlock scoffed at that, choking him out of his reverie. “You’re hardly what anyone could call innocent, Woman.”

Irene rolled her eyes but continued, “Yes, but if I tried, do you think I could pull it off?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and scanned the way she leaned into him, the telltale smirk she often used gone from her expression. “You’re serious? Why?” She shrugged and went back to staring out at the window, looking for another object to deduce.

Sherlock crooked his neck to look at her more clearly. “Why in the world would you want to be like those naive, sensitive weaklings? What brought this on?”

"Nothing, Sherlock." She stared at him pointedly. "I was just thinking that’s all. Drop it."

"No, that’s not it." Sherlock continued though he heard Irene blow out a frustrated sigh. "I see the distant way your eyes stared. There’s a glaze to them. Some sort of longing. You’re actually considering trying to be one of them. Why?"

"I said it’s nothing, Sherlock. Just a passing thought." Irene huffed at him.

"Tell me." Sherlock stepped closer.

Irene faced him now. “Do you ever get the feeling like we’re the only one in this world? Believe me, I love being me, but sometimes don’t you think it’s a bit lonely to be above everyone else? It seems so simple, so easy, so…” She sighed, staring back at the window. “I don’t know. But sometimes I feel like we’re the odd ones out.”

"Why in the world would you want to be normal?" He said the world normal as if it were taboo. "It would rob you of your best qualities."

"Hmm, yes." She smirked. "But I just think it’d be easier. You wouldn’t have to think much. You’ll just be one of them."

Then he saw it.

He doesn’t know how Irene usually scans people based on what they like but he thinks it must be something akin to empathy. He can see from the way her shoulders slumped, and the way her eyes glazed far into the city that she was longing.

Now, she was the insecure one.

Sherlock knew how difficult it is being the odd one out. Being the brightest of the kids in school, you get picked on as a weirdo. Even now in adulthood, he still gets considered as a freak. Yes, he found friends in John and Lestrade but he couldn’t really get into that same level of companionship the way they understood each other. No one can really understand him.

Except the Woman.

Now she feels this way, this insecurity from being different, extraordinary, far more brilliant than any woman she has seen. How in the world does she not see how she predominates the whole of her sex?

Suddenly, in an uncontrolled surge of emotion, like a dam bursting, worn from all the years of holding the torrent in, he stepped closer to her, wrapped an arm around her, and drew her chin to face him.

"Don’t you see? You’re beautiful."

theconspiracyroom:

adlockheadcanons:

mannequinreverie:

Sherlock thought this must be what an earthquake felt like if it happened inside your body.

Vibrations were sending his fingers into a trembling frenzy. He could feel the cool air against the sweat pooling on his forehead. A hollow ache started to throb against his chest, like tectonic plates…

Thanks so much :-) I can’t really think of a way to carry it on so if anyone has any ideas, let one of us know.

ooh this is actually very promising! you start with a mystery. :) 

here are some comments since you want some. do keep in mind that this is just my opinion, though.

  1. love the movie reel part! i think it’s great that you drop a few hints for events that happened but reserve their explanation for later chapters. (e.g. the three months of depression is potential fodder for future angsty flashbacks).
  2. sea green, ocean blue, marsh-murky and any body of water used to describe eyes are a trope overused. a simple “blue” would suffice in most cases. 
  3. use commas to improve transitions. they aid in pacing and add that pause a reader makes in their head.
  4. proofread. excess words and missing letters may be minor, but all together, they can be glaring.

all in all, your fic has potential! i don’t know if i can suggest anything plot-wise, but you seem to be on the right track with the mystery thing. the challenge is to create the circumstances of why irene had to leave nero.

This is reaaaalllyyyy helpful. Thanks a lot. :)

i want to write.

but what do i say?

when the words are spools of yarn

in colored disarray

Tremors

Sherlock thought this must be what an earthquake felt like if it happened inside your body.

Vibrations were sending his fingers into a trembling frenzy. He could feel the cool air against the sweat pooling on his forehead. A hollow ache started to throb against his chest, like tectonic plates breaking at the fault line.

All that happened once he saw the curly dark-haired, approximately ten-month old infant lying on a wicker basket, wrapped in a powder blue blanket. There was only confusion at first but all that panic started to register once he saw a pair of familiar ocean azure eyes staring back at him. They were so fixed on him that it was as if the infant were telling him, I know who you are.

The sight of him almost gave him a heart attack but what really sent him over the edge was the text that followed.

A little unsettled, he picked up his phone from his pocket and read: 

Goodbye Mr Holmes

What was happening?

The earthquake inside him started to rumble up to magnitude ten. He tried deducing the situation at hand but all his mind can conjure are memories. Memories of shared cigarettes, smokey eyes, blood-red lipstick, feather-light touches, adrenaline, and the betrayal of chemistry. Flashes of dark corners, talwar swords, silencer guns, battered shacks, and bruises: good and bad. Image after image flooded through his mind like a movie reel that never ended.

The Woman predominated the whole of her sex and reigned in his Mind Palace. Only she can do this. Now she’s doing it again, and the pleasure is so painful it could only be Irene Adler.

How could she do this to me? He immediately knew the answer once he asked the question. Of course, this was The Woman. But after ten months of silence, he never thought to hear from her again. Not after she suddenly disappeared a week after they finished dismantling Moriarty’s network. They’d spent the final days of his “death” in Florence; the adrenaline of the chase proved to be quite the aphrodisiac again. He tried to rationalise although he knew there was something more at play: sentiment. It was sentiment that brought him to her flat in Moscow. Tracking her down after three months of depression, demons, and miserable solitude. It was sentiment that retained that same fiery dynamic between them like no time passed since Karachi.

But none of that mattered when she suddenly disappeared from their hotel room after a week of unadulterated pleasure from winning the game; leaving no trace of where and why she had gone.

He never head from her since. 

It was only a lie. Their relationship.ran on a hair-width thread that came undone from the secrets they harbored. They were dynamite; explosions never last.

He thought it was the fear of sentiment that drove her away. Now, he finally knew.

He stared back at the child on the front porch. The baby was staring at him with the curiosity and eagerness of someone well beyond his years. It was as if he was trying to scan the details out from him. He picked him up hesitantly and muttered, “What now?”

In a semblance of an answer, the boy pointed back at the wicker basket. Lying beneath the tangle of sheets and cushion was a note. Sherlock examined the paper: parchment. imported. ink from Noodler’s Konrad fountain pen. USA. few splotches from the side indicate haste. 

Don’t let them find Nero. 

A single faded fingerprint was imprinted near the ‘o’. This was careless. But no, Irene would never do anything without reason. This was a clue. This was a starting point. This was the beginning of another game.

Now after ten months of silence, he must find her, and bring her back from the dead once more.

"Sherlock." He heard John’s footsteps approach. "What in the world is the taking you so long? We still have a case to finish with— why are you carrying an infant?" John crooked his neck to see Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock took a deep breath before he faced him. His shoulders were set stiff, back ramrod straight though deep inside, he was the opposite of fortitude.

He cleared his throat, and replied, “Another case.”

————————————————————————

**This was from a lovely prompt by mymultifandomuniverse. Such great fun. Can’t wait for part two. Comments are appreciated. Can anyone please help me britpick and revise this and the upcoming chapters? Message me if you can help. :) Oh, and you guys can send me more prompts/headcanons. Flood my inbox, if you want.

Anonymous said: Are you still taking prompts? How about a good old adlock sickfic? :)

"Woman"

Sherlock sounded like steel cutting through glass. His voice, barely a whisper, an omen of the tornado slowly ravaging through Sherlock’s brain, leaving him breathless.

This wasn’t The Woman. This wasn’t the woman who strutted in five-inch stilettos and couture. This wasn’t the woman who commanded the room with her mere presence. This wasn’t the woman who can bring the world to her knees with a single glance. This wasn’t the woman who mattered.

The woman before him lay broken. Numerous tubes and wires snaked around her, monitoring her every heartbeat and brain activity. Bandages made up most of her clothing, a wide one in her torso was tainted with splotches of red. A metal brace held her right leg, tying her to the hospital bed. Her face was so pale, you can almost trace the veins. Her lips were cracked dry.

Sherlock drew near her lips, trying to hear what little breath flowed out from her. This wasn’t the Woman. This couldn’t be. He tried to convince himself.

But the case file at the end of her bed proved otherwise. Second day in coma. Car crash. Some stupid five-ton truck driving at sixty miles per hour took the wrong road and collided with her car. Her driver wasn’t so lucky, DOA. But looking at the Woman, this wasn’t something you can call good luck.

He never thought Irene could go this way. An assassination, most likely. Clean gun shot. Poison. Strangling. But never an accident. Irene could never be so careless. But fate wasn’t something you can argue with.

Fate. Sherlock scoffed at the thought. He didn’t believe in such things. Even right now he could think of ways to track down the driver and make him pay. Destroy the company. He would even go so far as to assume someone did this on purpose. Ever since he’s found out about her parents, he was starting to worry about her. Though he would never admit it.

Now he wish he had.

Holding her hand, he whispered, “Stay. Please.” More audibly, he continued, “If you go, all my efforts in Karachi would only go to waste. You know I don’t waste my investments. You’d miss out on a lot of cases. We still have to track your parents down; your help is most invaluable. Besides, I doubt you have any heirs to your vast estate. What a waste.” He managed a dry laugh. “You would be a waste. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite like you. No one has ever challenged me like you. I don’t think I can ever find anyone who could rival and equal me like you do. Your mind would be a loss if you went away. Just —”

Sherlock’s voice started to break. He took a deep breath to gather himself. “Stay. Please. I just don’t think I can lose you again.” He shuddered, a single tear betraying him. “Please. Don’t go.”

He leaned down to her and kissed her at he corner of her mouth, the same spot she kissed when she returned his coat four years ago.

Then, her hand squeezed back.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

I’m sorry. I can only think of Adlock as gravely ill. They’re extreme that way. More prompts please. :)

Send me prompts. Please. Pretty please.

Any prompt at all will do. It’s just that I have no plans of sleeping tonight, and my brain needs further stimulation. Send me prompts. Please. Thank you.

Anonymous said: Adlock prompt: sherlock finding out about Irene's parents. Xxx

"Another one dead." 

Lestrade grumbled as he added stack of files to the growing case. “That’s the fifth one in a month. We still don’t know who the murderer is. We don’t even know if it’s the same guy. We have to figure this out, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. The thought that anyone would doubt his intellect was ridiculous. “And that’s why you’ve called me, of course. To do the figuring out. I assume that there are no links to the victims’ backgrounds but,” he took out one of the folders and scanned it. “You see, there is a pattern. A solitary stab to the chest. Although autopsies show different causes of death, poison, strangling, broken neck, they continue to stab their victims at the heart.” He scanned through the photos as if he were looking through high school memoirs. “Someone’s sending a message.” He looked at the detective inspector with that unmistakable spark in his eyes whenever he’s faced with a challenge. 

Lestrade huffed and shook his head, “Well, I’ll leave you to this. I have to help John with interviewing the victim’s families.”

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing him. Ten minutes after Lestrade left, the front door opened. Tainting the air with a familiar vanilla fragrance whilst leaving the sound of stilettos at its wake.

Sherlock sighed. “I told you to stay away. You’re supposed to be dead.”

The Woman laughed as she walked over to him. “Hm, where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock turned to look at her. She was wearing one of her signature structured dresses, black lace over white forming kaleidoscopic patterns, hugging her body in the most flattering way possible. She adorned herself with diamond marquise-cut earrings, Louboutin stilettos, and an amused smirk. He turned his eyes back to his work at that.

"What are you doing here, Woman?" Letting the annoyance color his question. "Can’t an old friend visit?" She said as he looked over his shoulder.

Her breath stopped as he looked at the photos. He can sense her body temperature drop. He could almost feel her frozen at the spot. He turned to look at her but seeming to remember herself, the Woman looked at him with inquisitive eyes. “What’s that?” 

"A case. Murder." He said as he stared at her intently.

"Obviously. But what’s it about?" Her voice sounded nonchalant but he could see the anxiety forming from the lines forming on her forehead. 

"Five victims have been stabbed on the chest in a month. There are no apparent links to them, only that they were quite big names in England. What’s interesting is that although they’ve been stabbed on the chest, the causes of their death vary from poison to strangling. So the stab was a signature, a message." 

"Hmm," she replied distractedly as she sat on his chair. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Irene, scrutinizing every detail. Her eyes focused on a distant point in the room, pupils darting from one object to another. Her thumb kept rubbing her index and middle finger in a frantic pace. Her shoulders were stiff, held up like a shield.

"You know something." Sherlock looked pointedly at her.

That snapped her out of her reverie. She lifted one corner of her mouth up in a sly smile. The dominatrix was back in place. “Do I?” She smirked at him and quirked her eyebrows as if to say Go on, then. Impress me.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked back at the list of victims. Journalist. Businessmen. Politician. Novelist. Men. Women. Aged from early 20s to late 40s. Nothing connects, unless…

He looked back at The Woman with a new gleam in his eyes and then back at the list.

All are highly successful in their fields of work. All working on highly-demanding jobs which may require a stress-relief of some sort. All have an exorbitant amount of money to spare. Money to spare on…

"They’re your clients." He suddenly exclaimed.

Her smile grew wider and sat back on Sherlock’s chair. “Someone’s after you.” She continued to smile, though she can see the strain forming at the corner of her lips. She crossed her legs. She didn’t say anything.

"Tell me." He urged after a beat. 
"And spoil all your fun?" She sounded nonchalant but he can see the undercurrent of distress beneath her calm exterior.

"Someone is either trying to break down your clientele to leave you bankrupt—" He stopped when he heard her scoff slightly. He rolled his eyes then continued. "Or someone’s trying to find you. With the way the murders were executed: clean, simple, hidden. I’d say they were experts. Assassins. Since you are the only link they have, then this would mean someone wants to find you." He looked at her, eyes turning into the color of storm clouds. "And kill you. Somebody knows you’re alive."

"Moriarty?" He asked himself, then shook his head. "No, he wouldn’t waste so much time and effort on targeting you to get to me. Moriarty wants me; he’ll start with me. I doubt he knows anything about us in the first place."

He looked at the photos once again. He took out his magnifying glass and inspected the victim’s wounds once again. “These are no ordinary knives. The openings are too wide for an ordinary knife. It’s not a sword, the wounds don’t run that deep. It’s not a blunt object, they’re too clean.” He drew the pictures closer and moved them from one angle to another. “It’s as if the blade curves at some point. The blade isn’t even thin, there’s a wideness to it. It’s like…like a predator sinking his teeth into the prey. A fang.” He looked back at Irene.

Her arms and legs were crossed. Her expression was blank. But she’d grown two shades paler. “You know them. You’re familiar with this mark.” He folded his hands behind his back and bore azure grey eyes into her, trying to drill the truth out of her with his stare.

"When you first saw the photos of the victims, your face bleached. You stopped in your tracks, and I could hear your breath stopped for approximately six seconds. It’s not just about the clients. You know the signature of the murderer. You know them and you’re afraid of them. A fang. Chemistry results reveals some sort of silver residue. A silver fang-shaped blade. You know them."

She smiled at him politely as she crossed her arms. But he could see from the glassy haze of her eyes that she was close to breaking down. He walked to her, dropped to his knees to level his gaze with hers, and said, “Tell me.”

He took her hands on his and brought it close to his lips.

An intimate gesture. A showing of sentiment. A vulnerability. But for the first time in a long time, seeing her carefully-laid fortress slowly crumble in front of him, it doesn’t matter.

"Please."

She took a deep breath and one traitorous tear rolled down her cheek. “My parents.”

————————————————————————————————

**Okay, so I don’t know if this is what you expected but any comments?

Adlock prompt: sherlock finding out about Irene’s parents. Xxx

"Another one dead." 

Lestrade grumbled as he added stack of files to the growing case. “That’s the fifth one in a month. We still don’t know who the murderer is. We don’t even know if it’s the same guy. We have to figure this out, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. The thought that anyone would doubt his intellect was ridiculous. “And that’s why you’ve called me, of course. To do the figuring out. I assume that there are no links to the victims’ backgrounds but,” he took out one of the folders and scanned it. “You see, there is a pattern. A solitary stab to the chest. Although autopsies show different causes of death, poison, strangling, broken neck, they continue to stab their victims at the heart.” He scanned through the photos as if he were looking through high school memoirs. “Someone’s sending a message.” He looked at the detective inspector with that unmistakable spark in his eyes whenever he’s faced with a challenge. 

Lestrade huffed and shook his head, “Well, I’ll leave you to this. I have to help John with interviewing the victim’s families.”

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing him. Ten minutes after Lestrade left, the front door opened. Tainting the air with a familiar vanilla fragrance whilst leaving the sound of stilettos at its wake.

Sherlock sighed. “I told you to stay away. You’re supposed to be dead.”

The Woman laughed as she walked over to him. “Hm, where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock turned to look at her. She was wearing one of her signature structured dresses, black lace over white forming kaleidoscopic patterns, hugging her body in the most flattering way possible. She adorned herself with diamond marquise-cut earrings, Louboutin stilettos, and an amused smirk. He turned his eyes back to his work at that.

"What are you doing here, Woman?" Letting the annoyance color his question. "Can’t an old friend visit?" She said as he looked over his shoulder.

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