(no subject)

hello peoples of livejournal,

i, mary-jane, will be in london, along with a few of my friends, from tuesday the 17th of july up to that friday, and i’d love to meet some of you! or all of you, though that might be a bit overwhelming. and impossible.

so any single one of you who is able to come to london for a day or a bit longer, we could arrange fun things! like go to the v&a. and look at naked statues. or have a pick-nick! pick-nicks sound fun. but yes, fun things!

yep that’d be loads of fun and good for making friends! so pack your bags and your bathing suits and start swimming.

love,

mary-jane

The drabble series: ceramics

It was a simple fact Sherlock was needed more often than John. John didn't really mind, as long as he didn't have to have Sherlock spew dust in his face.

Their owner was often busy and used Sherlock to dust up his broken cups and cat hair and sweep it right underneath the kitchen cabinets. Sherlock did mind this. Being swooped belly-down through a heap of broken ceramics was not particularly high up on his bucketlist.

John, being flat, plastic and hollow, could just fit Sherlock's body in his and this suited the both of them just fine.

Sometimes, their owner, a government official owning more cats than he could care for, forgot to return Sherlock to the shelve on which they were kept and neither of them would be able to sleep for the days it took their owner to notice and sweep up the cobwebs in the dishes.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes hadn't any particular career goals, being a dustpan and a brush, and they seemed to be quite content with this. Sherlock was bright, even if the dust occasionally rendered him incapable of sight and would eventually make him blind, and John was brave, scooping up the strangest of objects, damaging his edge and scratching his surface, and for the moment, they seemed to be quite happy together.

Even several years later, after their owner thought it time to purchase a steel version of the pair and brought them outside only to throw them down the skip, they fit together, the one a bit more weary than the other, and the other a bit more forgetful than the one.

John Watson stuck with Sherlock Holmes as he was rid of his hairs and kept looking at him as they were both rolled towards a burning oven, the flames licking their battered skins.

The drabble series: Human

When John Watson died, Sherlock Holmes became quiet for a while. Mourning, they called it, yet it only lasted a few hours. Sherlock was retired by the time he took off his wedding ring. The body of John Watson had grown cold and Sherlock stared. Then blinked. Then sat up and placed his wedding ring in his their bedside-drawer.

He took a few minutes before he took his phone and remembered calling Mycroft had become impossible since a few years. He dialled the emergency number instead.

Sherlock Holmes did not touch the body of John Watson, for he couldn't bear the thought that it was cold. John couldn't be cold. He closed the door of their bedroom and decided to not look back.

Sherlock Holmes begged the coroner. He really did. But they wouldn't let him. Sherlock looked at the autopsy report and read only cold, clinical facts. Nothing about the way John's eyes wrinkled when he smiled, and nothing about his enormous heart. The enormous heart that really ought to not fit within the confines of a human chest, and yet it did.

Sherlock thought of John, silly John, so human, and for a few seconds, thought of what on earth he was supposed to do now. He couldn't fill their home by himself. He'd look tiny and miserable and not at all happy like he used to.

Sherlock Holmes spent the next few hours confused and alone on the steps of St. Bart's and wondered how it could possibly be that he had been sitting in the rain longer than his old heart was supposed to take, yet he had still not grown as cold as John Watson's skin had felt.

The drabble series: Lakes

John Watson has not used drugs since his college days and does not particularly take pride in this, per se. Let's just say he doesn't particularly think it a feat to be celebrated. 

He has been travelling alongside Mike Stamford, his guide, yet seems to have temporarily lost him. And John Watson, for one, is thirsty as fuck. He has been fruitlessly walking past trees that all look the same for hours and he is right sick of it. 

John Watson is not a man to give up, not even while having parched lips and a bum leg and tripping over roots reaching up to his kneecaps. So he trods on, falling every five seconds, scraping his cheek over something he is quite certain Mike told him was poisonous and ignores the sting. He limps and falls and sighs until, finally, he reaches some form of a lake. It's closer to resembling a large puddle, yet it takes a lot of John's willpower to not fall down on his knees and shovel water into his face, preferably hitting his mouth. 

It takes John almost as much willpower as it takes him seconds to realise he's not alone. A few feet away from him sits a boy. A boy with hair as dark as his eyes and, if John weren't certain of his clean slate of stated drug use, he'd say he were imagining the wings on the naked teenager's back. The boy was too pale, too thin, surreal, and John couldn't look away. The boy looks at him and his high, sharp cheekbones colour. He runs and John can't find the strength in his aching legs to stand up and follow. He is tired and cold and the last thing he sees is the golden light of the nymph disappearing in between the forest.

It takes England six days to recover the body of John Watson.

(no subject)

John has a box. A nice one. All lacquered wood and shining copper. He’d say it’s his most cherished posession, if not for what is in it.

Sherlock doesn’t know about it. John thought he did, for a few very scary seconds, but as soon as he woke up stark naked next to a sticky and stinky flatmate, he dismissed the notion for what it was and went back to being the little spoon.

It’s a nice box. A very nice box. A family heirloom, that. Managed to yank it out of Harry’s fingers just as she took it from their mother’s nightstand. It is a box in which precious things are to be kept. 

Sherlock has a box too, John knows. One in which he keeps memories of a time before John. Small things. Clips, buttons, needle and syringe, photographs and the like. Things that didn’t mean much to John until Sherlock set the box in his lap and told John stories of dark alleyways, vans and those hectic family photos he used to hate.

John often contemplated telling Sherlock about the box. About what he kept inside of it at night, and what he would take out in the morning. But then he’d press his ear to the shiny cherry wood of the lid, and listen to the soft beat beat beat from inside and think he just didn’t have the heart for it.


The drabble series: Petals

When Sherlock is born, he looks at the tall leaves of his father first. Then at his own, and thinks he's really not that impressive. His stem is thin and his crown withered and he frowns, yet does as he's told and listens to his mummy telling him he'll grow up to be strong one day, like his father and brother.

When Sherlock is a bit taller and his leaves have grown to be nothing but clumsy appendages, he is taken away from his relatives and clumsily stuffed in a pocket. Sherlock doesn't see anything until he is taken out and put in a flowerpot.

The man, John Watson, army doctor, invalided home, shoulderwound, Sherlock learns, takes good care of him and after a few days, Sherlock doesn't mind the loneliness so much.

Sherlock grows up to be nearly as tall as his father, yet as thin as his mother. His petals grow longer and perhaps even a bit curly and he doesn't remember his mother's being this black. Then again, he remembers barely anything.

Sherlock Holmes watches John Watson grow shorter. He's never seen this happen before, and he looks on with morbid fascination. Eventually, even his hair loses colour and he starts spilling the water he's feeding the only plantlife in his small appartment. Sherlock watches the hands grow wrinkly as his own leaves and is wondering what exactly is happening before shaking his moment of confusion and replacing it with interest.

Sherlock has lost exactly four petals. John Watson has lost half a head of hair. They both seem to not care about this, and Sherlock notices that even he is starting to slouch a bit.

It is after many years that Sherlock watches as John's shaking fingers drop the watering can and he losing his footing. He doesn't even notice when the water hits him and floods his roots.

The Drabble Series: Buttons

Sherlock wishes he had eyelids, yet all his makers gave him were buttons.

He would also like joints, yet all he has is twigs.

Sherlock would like a heart, perhaps feelings, but he’s stuck with nothing but snow.

He can recall the children running past, but not what happened before that. Nor what happened after, for that matter.

All he knows is that he’s really cold.

Sherlock doesn’t see. Sherlock’s buttons are shiny and he uses them to observe. He looks at people and calculates. He calculates and waits, because those are the things Sherlock is best at.

He can’t get to the homes in front of him, not even if he wanted to, and everytime he sees a mother calling her children inside for a hot drink, he would feel something if he could.

He spends his nights thinking and attempting to shiver and he spends his days jealously onlooking children wrapped up in coats.

He listens, his snowy brain remembering and discarding, and watches each day as the same man walks to and fro the park, his cane tapping tiny dots into the slowly melting white.

He remembers his face, can almost read his thoughts in the expression and starts hoping, after two-something days that the man will look his way once.

It takes the man a week to notice him.

It takes him another day to stop and stare, and from then on, everytime the man stops to push the button on Sherlock’s snowy belly back, Sherlock thinks he hears beating in his ears.

After four days, the man brings along a carrot and sticks it in his face, and suddenly Sherlock is overwhelmed with smells so incredible his brain nearly shuts down.

The next day, John doesn’t stop.

Sherlock takes a few seconds to think about this, thinks he hears the beating again, but tries not to notice the man returning from the park within minutes.

He attempts to not notice the man for another three days; goes back to freezing and staring at his fallen buttons.

After this, his eyes fall out, and one of his twigs gets taken. He doesn’t mind. He’s seen the others wither and disappear into a heap much earlier and has accepted his fate for what it was.

His thoughts remain silent until he feels something.

He feels something being wrapped around his nonexistant neck and suddenly feels a lot warmer.

He knows he shouldn’t. Knows he ought to be cold, knows feeling warm was a dangerous thing, but then his eyes are popped back in and his bottom button gets stuck back on, and while his arm is still missing, the sight of the man, army doctor, invalided, dishwater hair, is enough to warm him.

He feels warm for days after, and when he feels his face running and his legs disappear, he isn’t particularly worried.

The Drabble Series: A Quarter Gallon

John didn’t think badly of himself, nor particularly well. He always figured he was just there.  After all, being made of plastic, what more could a bottle of water do than stand and look pretty? 

John distinctly remembers being bought. A pound fifty, they’d paid for him, and John tried his best to not be offended. After all, his skin did tell the lie of him being filled up to a quarter gallon.  When he is brought back to the man’s flat, not even having caught his name yet, he is stuffed in a fridge, right next to a head of which he can’t seem to find the body and a smelly carton of milk. He tries to inch away from it, yet even if he could, it seemed a jar of fingers and an open tupperware containing hair barred his path.

After countless of minutes consisting of countless of seconds, the door opens and he is wrenched loose and put right next to a microscope and petri dishes containing things he’d really rather not contemplate. Pain as his cap is screwed loose, soothed by pale fingers, then weakness as he is both slowly emptied into several petri dishes and engulfed by heart-shaped lips.

He thinks they feel rather warm and that he’s never felt anything like it.

John distinctly remembers being born, long, thin fingers holding him beneath a tap while slow humming sounded. The fact he doesn’t know how he got here or who he is, doesn’t particularly bother him. 

The Drabble Series: Above Zero

  Above Zero  

John remembers his birth as if it were yesterday (which, coincidentally, it was).

He may not remember the time when he was still nothing but water, but he remembers waking up stone cold, in a dark room, stuck in between two layers and a set of toes.

He does not remember his mum, nor does he remember his dad, but he was certain they wouldn't have been able to tell him of great past adventures or quests of romance. After all, what more could an ice-cube do but dissolve above zero?

John names himself Watson, because he quite fancies the sound of two names, and tries to count the minutes he's alive. After forty, he gives up, for he isn't planning on making a log of lying down and doing nothing and recording time is tedious.

After God knows how long, the drawer opens and John Watson, ice-cube extraordinaire is joined by fuzzy meat that would be fingers if they'd only have nails and if he would have any breath, he'd sigh.

John Watson was just about to give up any resemblance of thought he was able to have in his poor, frozen conscience when the door opens once again and a pale hand pulls the drawer forward.

He is lifted by long, thin and especially bony fingers and John thinks that this is a rather heavenly way to die.

John Watson, after fortysomething minutes, finally fills his purpose and dissolves in a mug of hydrochloric acid.

The Drabble Series: Pebbles

Pebbles

Sherlock swims in his tiny bowl and thinks, what if he was to jump out right now? After a few seconds, he's forgotten this. Then, he thinks, perhaps that godforsaken castle could fuck off so he'd have a bit more thinking space.

Sherlock knows his mind is small, yet larger than most of his species. He knows his scales shine a bit brighter than the others before him and he knows he couldn't even grasp onto a thought for a full minute if he tried.

For a few days, Sherlock Goldfish is alone. He swims in circles and thinks of something different each time he passes the tiny plastic treasure chest which could crush him if the lid were to snap shut. He thinks what it would be like for someone to join him behind the neverending glass walls. He thinks that plant in the corner hasn't even responded to the flapping of his tail and finally concludes the black pebbles look especially shiny for this time of the year.

When he is joined by another fish, yellow, bright, crooked tail, he thinks nothing much of it except for 'oh'. He doesn't greet the other, and even if he had once planned to do so, he would have forgotten it halfway through.

Sherlock swims in his tiny bowl and thinks. He thinks his new companion looks as if he'd enjoy a good conversation. He thinks his companion looks rather sweet, in his own, googly-eyed way. After a few hours of this, he thinks that perhaps, he might just love his new friend a teensy bit.

The thought is as fleeting as the rest of them.