Greetings!

 So I fully realize that no one is here reading this quite yet, but as I'm still not quite sure what to do with this journal I figured that I should probably start with a greeting/introduction of sorts. Then I can get down to the business of posting silly fanfiction.

If anyone here knows me (something I don't really expect, but you never know), it is quite probably from either tumblr or AO3, where I publish some fanfiction for both Sherlock and Cabin Pressure. Those are my main two fandoms, along with Doctor Who, although I have yet to write anything for Doctor Who and don't have any plans to in the future. This journal will very likely be a place for me to collect my writings that are scattered across tumblr and AO3, as well as a way for me to participate in the Cotton Candy Bingo challenge. So fairly soon I will begin cross-posting some of the tumblr-only ficlets that I have written, and the ficlets that I'll be writing for the CCB challenge.

I may also begin posting some of my longer stories here as well, possibly even doing chapter-by-chapter updates of my Cabinlock story Breathing's Just a Rhythm. Finally, I have been considering breaking out of fanfiction and attempting some original writing (something that terrifies and excites me at the same time), so there may be some posts of me musing on ideas, working things out, and rambling about characters and whatever else I need to write down. We'll see.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy the writing!

Sorry About The Doom

Everyone had doubted, at some point. Even if it was for the briefest of moments, even if the doubt had been summarily dismissed after it had appeared, they had existed. Because after all, why wouldn't people doubt them? Why would the world not be suspect of Molly's motivations the instant they saw her new boyfriend and the startling resemblance he bore to the man she had desired for so long? Martin Crieff, the luckless pilot who looked so very like the dashing detective, and yet nothing at all like him in stature or bearing or confidence. Of course people would assume the worst in Molly’s motivations for being with such a man.

Douglas, the man who had introduced his unlucky-in-love captain to the niece who seemed to suffer the exact same maladies as he, had feared that her nearly instant attraction to Martin had been the product of misplaced attraction. The startling resemblance the two men bore to each other had not occurred to Douglas until he had seen them in a room together, but even despite the miles of intangible distance between their personalities and the staggeringly obvious difference in their heights, there was no denying the fact that there was some similarity that they shared. Was it really so unbelievable that Molly would see that as well? That she would settle for Martin as the lesser but more easily attainable alternative to the man she truly desired? Douglas hoped not. For all the teasing, for all the needling, for all the endless barbs that he sent in Martin's direction he did wish the best for him, and it was for that reason that he worried. He worried that Martin would be hurt, that his one attempt at a successful relationship would end in disaster. He could only pray that he would not be proved correct.

The moment Carolyn had first seen a picture of the infamous Sherlock Holmes on the internet after hearing oh so much about him and his escapades, her eyebrows had shot directly into her hairline and years of hard-won experience and bitter lessons whispered a warning in her ear. She could not say exactly what it was about the imperious man who should look nothing like her stammering and awkward Captain that reminded her so strongly of Martin, but the resemblance was uncanny. And if Carolyn had learned anything from two failed marriages and more disappointments and betrayals than she cared to remember, it was just how terribly wrong a promising relationship could turn. She hoped that Martin would not face the same heartbreak at the hands of a less-than-honest lover that she had, but cynicism was a hard habit to break. They would have to wait and see.

Even John, kind, honest, trusting John, had doubted for just a moment. It was not a thought that he was proud of himself for, not something he liked to realize about himself, that he had thought Molly capable of such a thing. Molly had been nothing but kind and helpful to him, and here he was assuming that the only reason she had started dating her new boyfriend was that he looked so very like a certain flatmate of his that she had fancied. It was incredibly uncharitable, and yet as he shook Martin's hand and privately marveled at how very similar two incredibly dissimilar men could look had come the tiny whisper of "Oh, so that's why she likes him." The thought had been quashed nearly as soon as it had occurred, but it had still existed. John had doubted Martin and Molly as a couple.

The only person who never had any doubts whatsoever that Molly Hooper loved Martin Crieff for himself, and not for any resemblance he bore to Sherlock Holmes, was Sherlock Holmes himself. After their first meeting with the much-discussed airline captain, John had waited for the biting and unthinkingly cruel comment from Sherlock about Molly finding a poor substitute for himself, but it had never come. In fact, Sherlock had said nothing about Martin during or after the encounter, something that shocked John to his very core. He kept listening for the snide assessment of Martin’s height, the callous deduction of all of his flaws, the flat statement of just how Molly felt about her new boyfriend with no heed paid to how anyone else might feel about it. But after Sherlock had simply greeted Martin with a quiet hello and a cordial nod of his head, and when he continued to remain silent on the matter, John could bear it no longer.

“So, Martin then…” he began uncertainly, unreasonably curious about Sherlock’s assessment of the couple and yet unsure how to bring the topic up delicately.

Sherlock looked over at him with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look on his face. “Before you ask, yes I did indeed see the resemblance between the two of us.” A quick smirk flicked across his face, there and gone again in an instant. “And frankly I’m insulted that you think I missed it.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes slightly. “Yes Sherlock, this entire conversation is about you of course. No, what I was wondering is –“

Sherlock cut him off, once again racing to the answer of his question before John could even complete it. “She loves him. It’s obvious, really, pathetically obvious even. The two of them are practically shouting it out for everyone to hear, I’m appalled that you missed it.” John’s face must have shown the confusion he felt, if Sherlock’s sigh and eye roll were anything to go by. He raised his hand to tick off his fingers one by one as he spoke. “Firstly, and most obviously, the two of them cannot keep their hands off of each other. They held hands as they entered the room, they stood shoulder to shoulder the entire time, and whenever they were not in contact Molly would seek him out for reassurance. Second, the way she looks at him. Her eyes, to use a fanciful expression, light up when he is speaking. She smiles every time their gazes meet. And the way she looks at him when she thinks no one is looking…”

Sherlock trailed off, face thoughtful. John had no idea what had made him appear so distant, but the moment was gone nearly as soon as it had begun. Sherlock shook himself back to reality and looked over at John, an expression like John had never seen before on his face. “Molly Hooper loves Martin Crieff, completely. And she is well loved in return.”

John never doubted them again.

Attack, Riposte

 This had been the longest and quite possibly the strangest week of John's life. He had not thought that any week would be able ever surpass his first week of deployment in Afghanistan, when it seemed that he had stepped off of that plane onto another planet where nothing would ever make sense anymore, but this week left that one in the dust. True, he wasn't being shot at and he was safely ensconced in the bustling heart of London instead of the middle of the desert, but John felt rather like the ground had been pulled out from under him in the blink of an eye. It had happened without any warning, and so fast that John had not been able to breathe a word of protest against the most ridiculous plan he had ever heard in his entire life. After all, what could possibly be more insane than having Sherlock, Sherlock compete in the London Olympic games?

Getting Sherlock into the Olympics had been alarmingly easy. Having an older brother with questionable and potentially despotic control over the British government notwithstanding, John privately believed that it should not be possible for a man with no previous athletic experience besides absurdly overpriced lessons as a child to sneak his way into what was supposed to be the pinnacle of human athletic endeavor. It just seemed wrong that Sherlock should be able to waltz in when so many worked so hard to be here, but here they were. After all, there was an international smuggling ring that had been created in the Olympic village, and the government was desperate to handle the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. And apparently the best way to do that was to send Sherlock Holmes, a man who was capable of spectacular feats of stupidity, undercover as an Olympic fencer competing for Great Britain.

John sifted nervously in his seat in the arena, counting up exactly how many ways this could go wrong. Sherlock was apparently a decent enough fencer thanks to years of private tutelage, but was he really capable of standing even a tiny chance against an Olympic-level athlete? The match that was coming up was very likely to be both short and humiliating, and John was not looking forward to watching it. All too soon it was Sherlock's turn, and there he was approaching the competition area foil in hand and ready to compete in the first seeding round. Sherlock, the git, looked as calm and collected as ever despite the monumental pressure of this moment, and as he strode forward clad in the pristine white fencing kit carrying the mask that was emblazoned with the flag of his country he looked every inch the consummate professional.

In fact, John realized with a start, he looked more than professional. He looked...regal. The uniform fitted him like a glove, and somehow his already composed and dignified bearing was only enhanced by it. His mask was donned with brisk efficiency, and before John could believe that this was actually happening Sherlock was bowing to his opponent and taking his stance. Long legs took up a powerful position, foils were lifted to the ready, and muscles were tensed and ready to spring into action. John could not tear his eyes off of Sherlock, and when he leaped into motion with startling speed he could not help but gasp aloud at the pure strength that was contained in his thrust. A buzzer sounded. First touch, Sherlock. First point, Sherlock.

Attacks and parries were traded back and forth with lightning speed. John, only dimly aware of the complicated rules governing the scoring of a fencing match, could barely keep up with the incredible quickness of their actions and the scores as they were tallied, but even he could discern one thing that startled him beyond belief. Sherlock was holding his own. It was incredible, but somehow Sherlock was managing to hold his ground against an Olympic fencer far better than anyone, including John, had ever expected. Even if he was currently behind, he was managing to score touch after touch that kept him well within striking distance of the lead. And he was moving unlike anything that John had ever seen. He was fast, and powerful, and moving with catlike agility as his foil danced in the bright lights of the arena. It was incredible, and very nearly unbelievable.

All John knew for certain was that if Sherlock continued much further in the rounds it was going to be very difficult for him to concentrate on the investigation while haunted by the memory of those long limbs clad in white dancing across a lighted stage.