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John's Lullaby (Johnlock)
Dr. John Watson abruptly awoke from sleep, screaming a name on the top of his lungs. His name. The name of his best friend that he could no longer say without breaking down into a fit of sobs. John took slow and steady breaths, trying to get his bearings and calm his reeling head and heart. Trembling hands reached up to wipe the moisture away from his tired eyes. Almost everytime he tried to rest and get some relief from the horribly dull and painful days, the same nightmare would plague him. It would sneak in his brain unwanted and make him watch Sherlock Holmes take the sickening plunge off of the hospital building, falling down, down, down...until finally landing with a horrible and final thud on the pavement. That wasn't the worst part; no, far from the part of the nightmare that shook John Watson the most. The worst part was that no matter how hard he tried, how loud he shouted, Sherlock couldn't hear him. John's cell phone would ring, and he would always answer, but Sherlock coul
Johnlock: The ReunionJohn climbed the narrow stairs slowly, one step at a time, metal cane clacking one ahead of him. He stopped to catch his breath and looked at the closed door to his apartment. His eyes fell back to the cane after a moment; with a heavy sigh, he realized what had become of him. He still didn't quite understand why that one event had bothered him so much. He'd bore witness to countless deaths, many overwhelmingly more gruesome. Perhaps it affected him so deeply because the victim had brought it upon himself or the fact that the victim was his flatmate and best friend.
John shook his head. No matter how personal, how tragic, he'd gotten over the other losses (granted, he'd had a little bit of help and a lot a bit of distractions), and he could get over this one too. He trudged into the flat and slammed the door behind him, as if to emphasize the point to himself. He eyed the couch against the wall, right under the spray painted smiley face and bullet holes he'd refused to patch up. Leanin
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More