We May Shine
We May Shatter
May Be Picking Up the Pieces
Here on After
We Are Fragile
We Are Human
We Are Shape by the Light
We Let Through Us
We Break Fast
Because We Are Glass.
-
It was easy to lose himself to the grief after Maeve died. She had been the first person he’d ever well and truly loved. She had been the first person who’d ever well and truly loved him.
Day after day, he sat in his empty apartment replaying the last moments of her life, wondering what he could have done (should have done) to make things end differently, to make her still be alive. Even if he was no longer alive to enjoy her presence, he would have been happy knowing that his sacrifice meant she’d continued living. He did not have a death wish. He just had a deep love for her than made her life much more valuable than his own. His death would have been a small price to pay for her continued existence.
But things hadn’t worked out that way. Her life had ended and with it went Spencer’s desire to live on.
Night after night, he sat alone in his pain remembering. Remembering everything. Her voice. The slant of her writing. Her sense of humor. Her laughter. The fear in her voice. The tears on her face. The last words she’d ever said to him.
He recalled it all with a mix of joy and pain. For a brief moment in time, he’d had her. He’d had her. They’d had each other. They’d been happy. And then she’d been ripped away from in a sudden movement that left him wheeling and broken. Half of himself with her gone. And he wanted to forget. Wanted to forget ever having her. Wanted to forget losing her.
The days passed, all blurring into and unending night. He sat in darkness. People came and went. The phone rung constantly. He could not believe she was gone. She couldn’t be gone. She just couldn’t be. Living in a world without her was unacceptable. Impossible. It was impossible for his life to go on with her gone, and yet he was alive, therefore she must be too. She had to be.
He didn’t recall leaving his apartment and making his way to the nearest payphone. He didn’t recall dialing her number and hanging up after only a moment. He did recall the waiting. Standing there waiting. Waiting for her to call him back. This was their ritual. This was how they did it. He called and hung up. She called him right back. Why wasn’t she calling? He dialed the number again. And again. And again. No longer hanging up, just letting it ring, waiting for her to pick up. Why wasn’t she picking up?
He slammed the phone down again and again and again, letting out an aggravated scream, more of a pained cry. A wounded animal. A lone wolf. Calling out in helplessness. Tears rolled down his face. Heart-wrenching sobs tore their way from his chest.
She was gone. She was gone.
Closing his eyes, he could see it. Over and over. He could see it. Hear it. Smell it. Feel it. An endless loop it played. Over and over. Losing her again and again.
He stumbled his way home and closed himself back in his apartment. He sat there, seeing it. Living it. Crying and broken.
He wanted to forget. Why couldn’t he forget? Was there any relief for this pain?
Relief from pain.
Relief.
There was one thing that had once brought him some relief. He’d vowed he’d never touch the stuff again. He’d swore he was done with it. And yet, he hadn’t gotten rid of it. It was still here. Tucked away somewhere he never looked and where no one would ever find it. He liked having it near. Sometimes, after particularly bad cases, he’d fantasize about pulling it out of it’s hiding place and welcoming the relief it would bring. He’d never done so. But maybe that was because he’d never hurt enough.
He was hurting enough now.
He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. There almost wasn’t enough strength in his limbs to pulled the refrigerator out of the way, but he was determined. He pulled it with all him might, until he had just enough space to wedge himself between it and the counter. And there it was. Calling to him like an old friend. Two little bottles of clear liquid and a package of syringes. Tucked in a plastic baggie, taped to the wall, waiting for him.
He pulled the baggie free and wiggled his way out of the confined space. He sat down on the floor and stared at what he’d retrieved. He’d swore he’d never touch it again. He’d had too much to lose. But now. Now, he’d already lost everything.
To Be Continued…
Right, it’s been forever since I updated one of these stories. I’m not giving up on them, I just can’t decide which one to start working on first. So, which story would you guys like to see updated sooner whether than later?
I just want to see a real, published novel containing mpreg. That’s all I need to sate my fangirl heart. Give me than and I can die happy.
A couple of weeks ago, AnnaTuxedoCat drew this for me during her livestream. I don’t know how I forgot to post it. It’s a bit of Hamex for us all to enjoy. She drew this entirely based off a written description I gave her.
More of her art can be found HERE.
So, I’m totally plotting a Criminal Minds, Teen Wolf crossover. And I’m totally planning on pairing Spencer with Derek Hale and Stiles with Derek Morgan. I’m totally going to make this happen.
Warning: the following story is rated NSFW work due to non-explicit sexual content of both the Homosexual and Heterosexual variety. The rating is mostly due to this being about adolescent exploration of sexuality and contains a few scenes of children (around age 13) engaging in illicit acts. Read at your on discretion.
I don’t think you quite understand how awesome that makes me feel. All the Wrong Reasons is both my first Criminal Minds fic and my first omegaverse fic. And I also came up with the plot as a way to keep myself awake during a 12 hours work shift that started at midnight. With all these things working against me, knowing that people out there are really enjoying it fills me with such a thrill. I hope you continue enjoying it and I hope I continue providing you with something worth reading and enjoying.
Hamish opened his eyes and found a hand lying in front of his face. It was pale and calloused with short, stubby fingers and had paint under the nails. He blinked slowly and when he opened his eyes, the hand was still there. He stared at it. It looked just like his hand. He tried to flex his fingers, and the fingers on the hand moved. He shakily brought his other hand around and touched the soft skin on the wrist of the hand in front of his face. He felt the touch. Slowly he dragged his fingers up the wrist towards the hand proper. Tears welled up in his eyes when the illusion of the hand vanished and his fingers fell through the air and landed on the bed,
For a second, he’d allowed himself to hope. He’d hoped that all the horrors of the past month had just been a dream. He’d hoped that he was no longer flawed and crippled. He’d hoped that his missing limb was still there. He’d hoped, and that hope had only caused him more pain.
A sob tore it’s way out of this throat, scratching like sharp claws or a blade. It had wailed up in his chest and pressed out of him in a loud, almost animalistic sound. A wail of pain and mourning. A cry of depression and longing.
Tears rolled down his cheeks and large salty drops. Burning a path across his skin. Tracing the outlines of the disfiguring scars across his face. All he could do was weep.
He wept for his missing hand and the future that it had taken with it. He wept for the unconventional beauty he hadn’t appreciated until it was gone. He wept for the life that was his no more.
He was now just a broken, ugly thing. Crippled and disfigured. Something that needed to be hidden away from the world. It belonged in the dark. It lived in nightmares. It couldn’t even be called human anymore.
His physical pain was now just a ghost of a memory. Something that would only ache when it rained. But the emotional pain was lasting. And the mental pain was like deep gorges tearing him asunder.
He would never recover from this.
He would never be whole again.
He stared at the stump that had once been his hand. An ugly scarred thing. Useless. Utterly useless. Incapable of serving any purpose other than to remind him of the darkest time of his life.
He wished they’d just killed him. That would have been better than this. They should have just killed him, instead of forcing him to live on as something hideous, broken, unlovable.
Unlovable.
His parents tried. Tried to treat him just the same. Tried to pretend that nothing changed. But he could see it in their eyes. See their fear. See their shame. See the way they passed the blame.
He was not the same anymore. Things were not the same. And they could not love him while they were too busy blaming each other. Never accepting it was both their faults. And his fault too. It was all their faults. But not really. Not really their fault at all.
It was them. They were the monsters and the beasts who had seen fit to turn Hamish into one of them. To tear apart the Holmes family. Starting with the littlest one.
And more than breaking the family, they had broken Hamish. Somewhere beyond repair. They’d taught him about betrayal and pain and desolation and devastation. They’d taught him about hate and anger and vengeance and respect. And they’d taken away everything from him. His friends and his future. His hopes and his dreams.
He would have been able to live with the wheelchair. Mobility wasn’t terribly important. He would have survived the scars. Because beauty was relative thing. But his hand. His art. His livelihood.
Why hadn’t they just killed him? He wished that he was dead.
Why had no one stopped them? Why hadn’t someone saved him sooner? Just an hour earlier and he would have still had his hand. He would have still had his will to live.
And his so called friends had stood back and watched them. Watched them destroy him. Reveled in the destruction. Rejoiced at his breaking. Embraced his devastation.
That had hurt almost as much as the lost of his hand.
It had destroyed his ability to trust.
Now he had no one and nothing. Except parents he couldn’t accept their own failures. And a psyche bordering on suicidal.
He could no longer walk. He couldn’t stand the sight of himself in the mirror. And he couldn’t even relieve his emotions through art.
Hamish pulled the covers up over his head and held his scarred wrist to his chest. He wouldn’t be getting out of bed today.
Possibly To Be Continued…
Absolutely Beautiful Prompts…
“I hate you!” Hamish yelled before turning and running out the door.
John rushed to follow him down the stairs, but was halted by Sherlock’s words. “Let him go,” the consulting detective said. “He’ll come back once he’s calmed down and is ready to have a mature conversation. I doubt he’ll go very far.”
John was torn. Hamish was only ten years old and John didn’t like the idea of him being outside alone, especially while he was so upset. What if someone decided to take advantage of him. But, Hamish needed some time to cool down away from his parents so that they could talk about this later.
He sighed and resolved to give Hamish tens minutes to himself before going after him. Hamish was a smart boy; he could keep out of trouble that long.
-
Hamish slammed the door behind him as he ran out of the house and out onto the sidewalk. He was fuming; his small body almost trembling with the force of his ire.
“I hate them,” he yelled, turning and kicking the wall next to the door. “I hate them. I hate them. I hate them!” He accentuated each sentence with another kick at the wall. “Stupid. Meddling. Mean. Butt-faces!” He spun away from the wall and started pacing back and forward in front of the door.
His arms flailed up and down as he continued his rant. “They never let me do anything! I don’t think that’s a good idea, Hamish. It’s for your own good, Hamish. Go to your room and read a book like a good little boy, Hamish.” He mocked. “As if they actually care! They just don’t want me to have any fun!”
“Parents can be quite the bother, can’t they?” A voice interrupted Hamish’s rant.
Hamish turned quickly and froze in place, surprised to have someone suddenly talking to him. “Who are you?” He asked the man standing in front of him.
“I’m Jim. I’m somewhat of a…friend of your parents.”
Hamish gave the man a doubtful look. His parents didn’t have many friends, and the ones they did have Hamish knew by either face or name. Yet he’d never heard of a Jim.
“Of course I say ‘friend’ in the looses sense of the word,” the man said with a smile. “Your father and I like to play games together. Do you like games, Hamish? Would you like to play one?”
“What kind of game?” Hamish asked, hesitantly. His former anger had faded away and been replaced by something he couldn’t quite name: a almost instinctual sense of fear.
“A very special game. One that will make your parents regret ever being mean to you. After this game, they’ll let you do whatever you want. Would you like to play?”
-
The moment the allotted ten minutes was up, John jumped to his feet and headed towards the door. It just did not sit well with him letting Hamish be out alone like this. He headed down the stairs as quickly as he could and opened the door.
“Hamish!” He called out when he didn’t see the boy outside. “Hamish!” He yelled again, stepping onto the sidewalk and looking up and down the street. “Hamish!” No one answered his yells.
“Sherlock!” John practically screamed, running back into the flat and up the stairs. “Sherlock, Hamish is gone!”
-
“You’re telling me you let a ten year old just walk out of the house by himself?”
“He was upset. We were giving him time and space to calm down.”
“Most parents send their kids to their rooms for that. A lot safer.”
“We’re not here to discuss John and my parenting skills, Lestrade. We’re here to find my son.”
“Right. How long was he out of your sight?”
-
“I don’t think I like this game,” Hamish said, wiggling under the weight of the vest he’d been forced to wear. He stared at all the wires and things on the vest and couldn’t help but be a little afraid.
“Don’t worry,” Jim said with a smile. “It isn’t a real bomb. It’s just a dummy to scare your parents a bit. Once they see it on you, they’ll realize just how much you mean to them and will be wrapped around your finger forever.”
“I still don’t like it. I don’t want to play anymore.”
“But we haven’t even got to the fun part yet. Still, if you want to chicken out I guess that’s okay. I didn’t know you were such a big baby, though.”
-
“One of the neighbors say they saw him talking to a dark haired Caucasian male. Slender in build. Wearing a suit. Could be anywhere from twenty-five to forty years of age.”
“Well that sure narrows things down to almost half of London!”
“I’m doing my best here, Holmes. You’re supposed to be the super sleuth. If my work isn’t good enough, then you can find him on your own.”
“Wait, Greg!” John called because the detective could leave. “Don’t listen to him. He’s upset. We really could use your help.”
Greg sighed. “Fine, but only because Hamish is like a nephew to me.”
John let out a sigh of relief. Just then, his cell phone rang. He glanced down at it, but didn’t recognize the number. It might be Hamish.
He answered the phone and put it on speaker. “Hamish?” He asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“You’re half right,” his son said from the other side of the phone. “It’s Hamish’s voice, but not his words. One guess at who is writing the script.”
“Moriarty,” both John and Sherlock spat at once.
“Very good,” Hamish said, his voice trembling a bit. “You two are quite the smart pair. If only your son was as bright. You really should have taught him not to talk to strangers. Still, what a pretty little puppet your boy makes. I’d hate to see him break.”
“What do you want, Moriarty,” John growled. “You leave my son out of your little games.”
“But Hamish likes games. All little boys do. You have ten minutes before this game goes kaboom.” Hamish was crying as he said the last line.
“Ten minutes!”
“Zugzwang.”
The call disconnected.
-
Zugzwang is a situation found usually in chess, but also in various other games, where one player is put at a disadvantage because he has to make a move when he would prefer to pass and make no move. The fact that the player must make a move means that his position will be significantly weaker than the hypothetical one in which it was his opponent’s turn to move.
-
Ten minutes. They only had ten minutes to find their son! And the only clue was ‘zugzwang’. What the fuck was zugzwang!
“Ten minutes,” Sherlock said. “He only gave us ten minutes, so he’s obviously keeping Hamish in a place we can get to in under five.”
“Guys.”
“Shut up Lestrade, I’m thinking,” Sherlock spat. “So he’s probably still on Baker Street somewhere.”
“Sherlock.”
“There’s only a few places on Baker Street he could have taken him that wouldn’t have drawn undue attention.”
“Sherlock I know where he is.”
“But Zugzwang. What is that? A chess term, isn’t it? The point in the game when you’re undoubtedly going to be defeated.”
“SHERLOCK!” John yelled.
“What?” Sherlock spat.
“Greg says he know where he is.”
“I doubt that. The likelihood of him figuring it out before me is…”
“44 Baker Street,” Greg cut in. “It’s a Chess and Bridge store.”
-
“Daddy!” Hamish yelled when John and Sherlock ran into the back room of the Chess and Bridge shop.
“Hamish,” John almost cried. It terrified him seeing his little boy tied up in the corner of the shop with a bomb strapped to him. “Don’t you worry, Hamish. I’m going to get that off you right away.” He said, rushing to the boy’s side and working to remove the vest.
Sherlock stood back and looked around, as if expecting Moriarty to melt out of the shadows. John paid him no mind as he continued fretting over Hamish. He sighed in relief when his son was freed from the vest and quickly wrapped him in his arms.
“Let’s get out of here,” John said, standing and picking Hamish up as well, not wanting to let him go.
Sherlock nodded and led them towards the door.
“Hello boy’s,” a soft voice said, freezing them in their tracks. “Going somewhere?”
End.