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Harkstiel, “Hey, have you seen the…? /Oh/.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair as he moved through the ruins that had  been old when this planet was young. Castiel didn’t ask for help lightly, but here Jack was, under an orange-blue sky with three moons and a constant wind. “Have you seen the…Oh.” Jack stopped and looked at Castiel crouching in front of what appeared to be a child. “Is that him?”

Castiel gave a small nod and made room for Jack to crouch next to him. The kid appeared human, but Jack knew there was no guarantee.. He put his hand out, but Castiel caught it.

“He’s caught in a psychic web. It needs to be another human that draws him out.”

Jack grimaced and nodded, settling himself on his knees in the dust. Delicate work. He reached out his hand again and touched the cool forehead.

He felt himself falling but a dark-winged angel caught and steadied him. He pressed deeper into the mind, climbing through carefully woven strands. Psionics was never his best skill, but at least he’d been trained and had Castiel’s grace to guide him.

It felt like a long struggle, but at last they reached the center and the boy. Jack knelt next to him and spoke quietly, gentle persuasion, until finally the boy got to his feet and followed him back out.

Jack opened his eyes and felt the ache in his knees. The boy was blinking as if coming out of a long sleep. Castiel gave Jack another nod and gathered the boy in his arms. In a moment they were gone.

Smiling softly, Jack hit a few buttons on his manipulator and the ruins were empty again.

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JackxIanto “Last time I ask you for a favor!”

“Last time I ask you for a favor,” grumbled Jack, rolling out from underneath Ianto’s car. The Captain was covered in grease and engine fluids; he’d have to throw these clothes away. Looking down at himself a smile quirked on his face. “Not the worst I’ve ben covered in, there was this one time…”

“You asked me for a favor, I proposed a trade,” Ianto interrupted him. He was dressed in his weekend clothes, but still managed to look impeccable in jeans and shirt.

“Well she’ll purr like a kitten now,” Jack climbed to his feet.

Ianto’s eyes narrowed. “You might want to hose off.”

Jack took a step closer. Ianto had been lounging agianst the wall, now he started to edge to the side. Jack was quicker, catching a wrist and pulling him in for a kiss. The younger man couldn’t help but melt into his arms. Reaching up, Jack dragged a greasy hand down Ianto’s cheek .

The welshman made a strangled noise and pulled away. “Shower. Or I’ll turn the hose on  you myself. Sir.”

Chuckling, Jack started stripping right then and there. “You’re a bit dirty,” he said, “why not join me?”

“I highly doubt there is anyone dirtier than you.”

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janto “i think you missed your calling”

Ianto gave a low whistle. “I think you missed your calling, sir.”

Jack grinned as he stepped away from the finished cake. “Be around long enough, you learn a few things.”

“Tosh will appreciate it.” Ianto was eyeing the carefully laid icing.

“She’d had a rough year,” Jack said quietly, then caught Ianto by the waist and kissed him soundly. “I do know a few other things you can do with frosting.”

“All of your hobbies seem to lead back to the same place.”

Laughing, Jack led Ianto into his office. In the moment, neither of them remembered to comer the cake. So it was Myfawny that got to enjoy the cake and Jack that had to make an early morning run for a replacement.

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Johnlock “Can I tell you a secret?” :)

“Can I tell you a secret?” Sherlock’s voice was loud in the suffocating darkness. They’d been trapped in this cupboard for what felt like hours. They’d dove into it for cover from a late janitor, only to find it locked behind them. Sherlock’s mobile was dead and John had forgotten his.

“Of course,” said John, blindly taking his hand and finding it cold to the touch.

“I’ve never been overly fond of the dark.” The normally commanding voice sounded tiny. “When I was a boy I accidentally got locked in the cellar. Mycroft noticed I was missing.” He sounded put out, that Mycroft would rescue him, even then.

John squeezed his hand again, shifting in the tight space. His knee ached. “I’ve never seen stars like in Afghanistan,” he said quietly. It would light up the sky. Don’t get so many stars in London.”

“They are there, if you look,” said Sherlock.

John chuckles softly. “I know astronomy isn’t your strongest skill.”

Sherlock huffed and moved a little closer though they were already nearly on top of one another. “Tell me about the stars?” he asked.

Racking his brain, John told him everything he could think of until he felt Sherlock’s head drop onto his shoulder, breath slow. the git had fallen asleep. John put an arm around him; soldiers could sleep anywhere.

They were awakened by Lestrade’s voice. Sherlock didn’t seem quite awake yet, so John rapped on the door until it swung open to the Inspector’s worried face. He offered a hand up and John took it, limping slightly as he moved to the side.

“The GPS in my mobile,” said Sherlock.

“You’re welcome,” groused Lestrade.

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out some paper. “This is what we needed.”

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I was inspired by this post to write a feelsy Jack Harkness ficlet:

Ocean of Memory

Jack Harkness twitched. He felt like he was falling, memories rushing by like an ocean, reef and shoals trying to slow his descent. With a grunt he landed in dalek dust, alone save a fading screeching echo. He had died to save them. And he had been abandoned. He had died. But he wasn’t dead now. Anger swelled up. He deserved an explanation. He deserved answers.

The memory shifted. A train car, many tiny wings. Alone with death, who had once again passed him by.

A battlefield. Which war? Did it matter? A shell, blinding light. Waking screaming in pain as an unwilling body knitted back together.

Another bomb. Sending them off. A hasty kiss and a promise. But that man couldn’t come back. None of them could. His own grandson’s dying eyes. More names falling behind where he couldn’t reach.

Jack jerked, someone was here, someone was trying to get at his memories.

Training started to kick in, to force the intruder out. Pain lit up his nerves, but pain he could handle by now as he struggled with the invisible foe. The rushing sound turned into water pouring over his head, limbs too weak to struggle for the surface, drowning, sinking, dying again.

He kicked for air. Dirt covering him, smothering him. A few seconds of air, just enough time to know and remember and then he was choking on the weight of the city above.

The intruder was frustrated. So many memories to sort through. Good. Jack fought. He always fought. Tooth and nail and whatever weapons he had at hand. One time he used a tractor.

There. Not death, love. Hands seemed to bear him up. The faces were faded with time but their touch was familiar. Lovers, friends, never was, could have beens. But they were here, too, and love could be stronger than death, especially when carried by a man who was all too familiar with both.

Gritting his teeth, Jack roared back to consciousness, yanking the device off his head. The humans standing next to him stepped back in fear. “What do you want?” he asked. They looked between themselves. Jack took another step, dizzy, almost stumbling. One of them reached for his arm just as the door was kicked open. Jack smiled, grateful. His team, the family he had in this time and place.

One of them moved to his side while the others quickly subdued the scientists. “You okay?” the man asked.

Jack leaned in and kissed him. This moment, this love, to one day be filed away with all the rest. “Now I am.”

They finished the clean up quickly, Jack still leaning on his team.

They stepped out under the stars and he glanced up at them, one for every memory, twinkling in the darkness.

Also on AO3

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seiya234:

charamei:

genocidaltheta:

i never understood the war doctor???

like eight is dying, and ey’re all like “make me a warrior” 

and then we get john hurt and all they do is graffiti things and im sorry but thats not a warrior either the elixir fucked up or moffat just like, ignored his own minisode for the 50th

The trouble is one’s basic nature.

The Doctor has not been in this new body long enough to sort out a new set of pronouns, let alone change clothes or find a companion. But they always were quick at finding trouble, and so naturally the first thing they did after taking off was to crash-land on a remote planet and get arrested by a gun-toting mob of angry aliens with eight eyes apiece and turquiose hair growing out of their backs.

No problem, they think grimly as they are ushered down the usual badly-lit corridors into the usual badly-secured cell, The priestesses made me a warrior, didn’t they? I’ll just grab that guard’s gun and –

And –

Oh, cora.

They can picture it very clearly. They pretend to stumble, fall into Guard #1, grab xir gun and shoot Guard #2 before he can react, then turn, shoot Guard #1 and run off down the corridor as fast as their new legs will carry them. (Exactly how fast that will be, they don’t know. Fast enough, hopefully.)

There will be very little blood, but plenty of gaping laser burns and the stench of scorching flesh. Guard #2’s face will be blackened beyond all recognition. It will be a senseless waste of life and the whole thing will look like a stunt from one of those action films humans are so fond of.

They’ve been in enough wars over the millennia to know that this is not how war works. War is brutal and bloody and above all tedious, neither side giving an inch and neither side trying anything more inventive than the next way to kill. Above all, war is for the young.

(They catch the end of that thought as it goes by, and surreptitiously put a hand to their face. Wrinkles. They’d forgotten the wrinkles for a moment there. The last body went on and on forever with barely a change: now it seems all that lack of aging has caught up with them. Typical.)

The elixir was meant to make them a warrior, they think sourly, and resign themself to not stealing the gun as the guards open the cell door and shove them inside. A soldier. Not another dried up, tired-of-the-universe, can’t-go-on, seen-too-much wretch like the last one ended up being. Something more like the seventh –

Oh no, I’m not going there again.

Ah.

And there it is. They cannot be newly a warrior, because they are not new to war. Instead the elixir has done all it can, and has made them what they are: an old soldier. tired and beaten down and absolutely fed up of guns. This is no good at all. The last one ran out of things to hope for long ago, and now here they are, and they…

…they… have… hope.

It’s a remarkable discovery. They had been without it for so long, and yet here it is, nestling snugly and warmly inside of them as if it never went anywhere. What a miracle-worker regeneration is.

“Right,” they say to themself, “Let’s start with that, then.”

First the cell, then the aliens – without using a gun – then the pronouns and the clothes. And then the Time War. Even an old soldier can fight, if they have to.

It’s them or the Daleks. And it might – it just might – actually turn out all right in the end.

this is a good fic i like the fic

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themadkatter13-fanfiction:

anglofile:

makeyourdeduction:

natasaromanoff:

imagine if you were born with the knowledge of your soulmate’s name but it was a really common name like chris

sherlock’s constantly annoyed that his soulmate has one of the most common names on earth

john’s annoyed because how is he ever going to find someone named sherlock?

“Do you know how many men are named ‘John’, Mycroft?”

"Do you honestly think ‘Greg’ is any easier to find?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.”

John’s heart stopped as the man ducked out of the room and all he could do was turn and look helplessly at Stamford. The man gave him an understanding smile, no doubt thinking that it was the deductions that had stunned him. It wasn’t. Rather, it was hearing his soulmate’s name for the first time in his life.

The name had been imprinted on his soul since birth, his other half, but he had despaired of ever meeting someone with such an uncommon name. But now that he’d met one, he was reminded that not all soulmates ended up together, and even then, not always romantically. John Watson was a visibly aging, war-damaged doctor with no prospects. And Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant, gorgeous man who, judging by the suit he’d been wearing, still had everything going for him. Even if they were soulmates, what chance did he have?

~X~

Sherlock had kept track of every single ‘John’ he’d ever met, apparently subconsciously because he’s tried to delete the knowledge of each one of them. All 163. And John Watson made 164. There was no reason to suspect that this John would be any different.

Until a week had gone by. John had complimented him, called him ‘brilliant’, ‘amazing’, ‘fantastic’. Had killed someone to save him from himself. Only complained about his experiments and and spare corpse parts when they threatened to contaminate their food. Nothing that any John had ever done for him before. Nothing that any anyone had ever done for him before. So now… What was the protocol on asking a friend what their soulmate’s name is? And if the name on John’s soul was his, what were the chances that would John answer truthfully?

~X~

“You idiot,” John murmured at his unconscious friend. The git had become comatose after a suspect’s daughter had hit him in the head with a frying pan after being on the receiving end of some rather painful deductions. They were approaching 32 hours of non-responsiveness, all of which the blogger had remained stationed at his detective’s bedside. “Maybe next time you’ll pay attention when I try to tell you to stop while you’re ahead.”

He sighed and hung his head, raising his interlaced fingers to rest his forehead on them. “Not that I want you to stop deducing. Even after living with you for the past few months, it still blows me away to hear you what you do. It’s… amazing. It truly is… amazing” John gave another sigh, closely followed by a frustrated sound as he sat back heavily in the uncomfortable chair.

“I think you’re my soulmate,” he said suddenly, unable to take his eyes from Sherlock’s face. “I mean, the name of my soulmate is ‘Sherlock’, and besides you being the only ‘Sherlock’ I’ve ever met, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m not gay but you’ve still managed to make me fall for you anyway, you preposterous peacock. Even so…” John broke off, finally turning his gaze away to dart towards the door, feeling incredibly vulnerable and wary of hospital staff breaking into the moment. He licked his lips and dropped his gaze down to his fingers before continuing, unable to even look his unconscious friend in the face as he spoke. “I can’t really believe that the name on my soul belongs to you because I know the name on your soul isn’t mine. I imagine it’s probably Moriarty’s. Or The Woman’s. They suit you far better than I ever could and it shows. You were never so… interested than when you were working their cases.”

Abruptly, John gave a small cough and rolled his shoulders as he stood up. The room’s air felt unnaturally heavy now, charged with his revelation. “I’m going to go now. I haven’t slept since before my idiot of a best friend caught wind of this case. I just… I didn’t think I would ever get another chance to confess and I certainly wasn’t going to do it while you were conscious. Okay. I’m leaving now. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He nodded once and then started towards the door.

~X~

“John.” His voice was uncommonly weak, despite his propensity for not talking in large chunks of time. He must have been unconscious for some time. Still, his doctor, one are raised to push open the door, froze in his tracks before turning around.

“Sherlock?” The relief on the ex-soldier’s face was blatant in every wrinkle and he was at Sherlock’s side in seconds. “How does everything feel?” The detective ignored his question.

“Come here,” he whispered, both because it would make the other man bend low and because his throat really wasn’t cooperating with him at the moment. Overall, it had the desired effect as John leaned over him, ducking to put his ear near Sherlock’s mouth. Before he got there, the detective turned his head to intercept, pressing his lips against his soulmate’s. Seems he wouldn’t have to ask John what the name on his soul was after all.

The kiss was simple, just lips on lips, and after a moment, he pulled away to rest his head back on his pillow. John’s eyes were comically wide and his head hadn’t moved. And he appeared to not be breathing.

“The name on my soul is ‘John’.” He suspected that, if his heart rate monitor had been on John’s fingertip rather than his own, it would be beeping quite intensely right now. There was a quiet moment before his blogger moved, blue eyes turning towards him. As tan cheeks darkened and pink lips spread in a brilliant smile, Sherlock thought it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.