Things I learnt today: During WW1, MI5 used Girl Guides to send secret messages. They used Girl Guides because they quickly found that Boy Scouts couldn’t be trusted and were’t efficient enough.
“At the start of the war Boy Scouts were also used. But it quickly became clear that Girl Guides were more efficient because they were less boisterous and talkative.”
the boy scouts were too gossipy, so they used girl guides as spies instead this is probably the best day of my life
I can’t be the only unsurprised person here.
look, with mother’s day coming up, I feel the need to remind people that there are people out there who
- don’t get along with their mothers,
- don’t think their mothers are beautiful,
- don’t want anything to do with their mothers
and guilt tripping them in any way, or shaming them for not buying gifts/flowers/etc… is ignorant asshole behavior, and is v detrimental to someone’s mental stability surrounding any abuse they received from their mother.
And some of us want to be mothers but for various reasons, can’t. So this is kinda hard for us.
AO3 Gothic.
You have already left kudos here.
You have already reached into the well of ideas and thoughts, of yearning and romance, of sweat and angst and laughter, and pulled out this particular variant. You have already allowed these words to dip inside, to touch you in that insatiable place where your id resides. The OTP has already murmured their words of love and devotion, their commitment and passion like a comforting, calming wave of clarity washing over you. They are sure, so you can be sure. They have found love, so love exists. They are the sun and the moon and stars to one another, so the universe is not infinite, after all; it is a known entity, soft and reassuring as the look on your fave’s face when he hands his soulmate that first cup of espresso during their first coffeeshop meetcute.
Except.
You have already left kudos here, haven’t you.
Haven’t you.
Haven’t you returned to this place, desperate for confirmation, eager to feel what you felt the first time, eager to feel something, anything, to feast on the belief that love is real and you are safe? Anything to reassure yourself that there is only one pairing, and it is true, it is truthful, and you can trust it, it would never lie to you, never make you cry and laugh and wring you out of emotion only to build you back up and promise you happy endings, endings that never come because *you have already left kudos here,* you have already tasted the pain and exuberance of this story, already let it settle over you like a blanket, and yet now look at you, back for more, you starving, insatiable, useless creature, clicking the kudos button like Pavlov’s dog, click, click, click, as if the click can save you, can fill the emptiness that descends the moment you stop reading.
How many times have you read the fic? How many times have you come to it begging for validation, only to go away unsatisfied, always craving more? Do you remember it? When was the last time you read it—was it a day, a year, an hour ago?
Or have you always been reading the fic?
Have you always been returning and returning, grasping at tropes, wearing your carefully cultivated “reading slashfic in public” mask, drawn over you, so that no one will see?—
So that no one will realize that you have never been reading the fic.
The fic has been reading you.
You have already left kudos here.
You have already left kudos here.
You have already left kudos here.
So I had this quick little ficlet pop in my head:
John stumbled as they were pushed into the small cell to sleep it off. Sherlock mumbled a deduction at the cop that was closing the door, then all but threw himself down on the tiny bunk and almost immediately started snoring. Prat.
With a sigh, John sunk to a seat, leaning against the bunk. Sherlock’s hand was hanging down and he looked at those elegant fingers. I don’t mind, he’d said. And then they’d been interrupted. Bugger.
With a thunk, John tipped his head back against the wall. Stupid. He was getting married tomorrow. To a very nice woman that hadn’t faked her death for two years. Who hadn’t left him grieving in silence. Wanker.
Sighing, John ran his fingers along Sherlock’s, just feeling the bones. The skin was rougher than it had been two years ago. The detective had been through some things, John could see that much. Not that Sherlock would tell him anything of course. Twat.
“I’m getting married tomorrow,” he said out loud. Mumbled. Leaning forward he rest his forehead against the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Should be getting married to you.” Sodding hell.
It was true, he knew it in his heart even if he couldn’t say it aloud. He’d loved Sherlock Holmes for a very long time. He’d mourned him harder than he’d ever mourned anyone. Tried to crawl into a bottle for a time, something he’d always swore he’d never do. But Sherlock had driven him to it. Cock.
Pulling back a bit, John made sure he was still snoring, sound echoing around them. He dropped his head and kissed the back of his hand, then leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Morning would be here and with it a wicked hangover. Then the wedding and whatever the hell Sherlock
was going to say in his best man speech. Probably read straight from his blog or something. Arse.
John closed his eyes and felt gravity pulling him downward. One hand reached over to entwine his fingers with Sherlock’s, though he’d never admit it. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and Sherlock never did make it easier. Bastard.
