A Picture Tells However Many Words I Want It To

Here, I write fics based off of images. I love requests so please feel free to leave one in my ask or submission box. My current big fandoms are the Avengers, Hannibal and Les Mis. Writing updates are currently a little sporadic, while real life tries to kick my ass.  avenger[s] avenging

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The stone-cold realisation washes over Angel like a bucket of water to the face.

He stares at the person in front of him: his friend, his seer, his confidant and rescuer. When he looks at the short, smiling man, the only person he can see is Doyle.

Doyle, taken before his time, sacrificed to a light that should have been Angel's burden to carry.

"C'mon, tell me you didn't see this coming," Doyle asks, ambling towards him. "Miraculous resurrection? Getting your good old friend back? Just like old times, wasn't it?"

Angel doesn't have the words he needs. He doesn't even have the actions, his hands failing to form fists.

"No," Doyle agrees. "Not like old times. It was better, right? You got what you wanted the whole time."

Angel thinks of how naive he'd been - he thinks of how it had felt to press his lips against Doyle's mouth and kiss him in eager relief to see him back with him. It had felt so natural at the time, the way that Doyle had sighed and opened up to him, wet and hot and perfect. It had been everything Angel had wanted; of course it had. It had been designed that way.

Doyle gives a small bow of his head. "If you want to applaud, go right on ahead. I'm quite the actor, aren't I?"

"Who are you?" Angel's voice grates like rusted metal.

"I'm exactly who y'think I am, champ," Doyle answers, stepping close enough that he has to look up in order to maintain eye contact. He's so close that Angel could reach out for him - he could start a fight or snap his neck and this whole, blood-stained mess would be over. "Priorities are a little clearer is all."

"You're not him. You're not Doyle."

Doyle pats him on the chest, two firm, reassuring claps of his hand. "You keep on believing that," Doyle says. "I've got work to do."

If Doyle walks out that door, people are going to die - that's a simple and brutal truth.

And Angel can't stop him.

He watches the man walk away, and can do nothing more than curse his own desperate dreams.

[xmenprompts]

Can someone write a happy story with Scott and Logan? I know there are a lot of requests on here right now and stuff...I am having the worst week ever & a Scott and Logan story is something I rlly need right now.

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It's a lazy Sunday morning, and there's no movement in the bedroom.

Outside, off in the distance, Logan can hear shrieks of laughter as the students start to get out and play. The sun's out, and usually Logan would be long out of bed by now too. For today, he's got a compelling reason to stay where he is.

That reason is currently asleep in his arms. Scott Summers, as it turns out, will sleep long and deep if you let him. Logan had always figured him for the kind of guy who would be out jogging by 6am. It's good to be wrong.

Scott's breathing is heavy and content, the deep rhythm of the well-rested. Logan tunes every other sound out. He listens to the sound of this impossible man sleeping, and he tries not to think too hard about how content that sound alone can make him. His arm is curled around Scott’s shoulders, but he shifts to thread his fingers through the man’s short, clean hair. It’s a joke to think of how he got to this place, lightyears from the wild, broken mess he’d been when he’d first crashed into the X-men’s lives.

In his arms, Scott begins to stir. The red light behind his lenses comes to life as he opens his eyes, and he makes a grumbling sound as the light hits him. “What time is it?” Scott mumbles, more asleep than awake.

“Early,” Logan lies. “Go back to sleep.”

Apparently Scott is tired enough not to be suspicious for once. He stays relaxed and slack in Logan’s arms – and Logan rests, content, for a little while longer.

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Hello hello.

Things have been deadly quiet around here lately. I've been working on other projects. I do anticipate doing some more writing around here soon, but I can't really define when "soon" is going to be. Meep!

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When Steve breaks from his coma, the sound of a familiar voice seeps into his consciousness. At first, he thinks he's listening to the radio - he tries to remember where he is, and how he got there, but it's a vague blur. He remembers the rush of adrenaline and the ice-cold realisation that he was going to have to take the aircraft down, but beyond that there is nothing at all.

He blinks his eyes open, and the light makes him ache.

"Stop milking it," says that old familiar voice. "I know you're awake."

Steve looks to the side to find an old man sitting by his bedside, with wispy white hair framing a wrinkled face and bright blue eyes. He squints in confused recognition, and begins to sit up to get a better look at him - because he knows this man. He has to know him.

"Yeah," he says. "It's me. I've been waiting on your lazy ass all these years."

Steve knows that voice. "Bucky?"

The old man at his side bursts into a bright smile that is painfully recognisable. "At least there's no chance of brain damage," he says.

He reaches out to clasp onto Steve's hand where it rests upon the bedspread. "It's been a while," he says.

"How long?"

"Long enough for me to get a couple of white hairs," Bucky jokes, gesturing at the shock of white hair on his head. He's losing it on the top as well, and even his eyebrows are like white bristles.

Steve needs more than that. "How long?" he insists.

Bucky shrugs like it's nothing, but Steve sees the way that he swallows down all emotions. "Seventy years," he suggests, "Give or take."

The thought of it is a punch to the gut - all those years lost to sleep, the world rotating around him, Bucky turning stooped and old but always sitting there, always waiting. The unreality of it all, the simple unfairness, makes him want to scream the place down.

"Bucky..." he says, because there's nothing else - he wants to run, to escape, but there's nowhere to go.

Bucky's hand squeezes his fingers. "You're awake you big lump," he says. "That's all I wanted."

There are doctors and tests and the vast, unknowable future to go through - and through it all there's Bucky, making the impossible manageable, joking and smiling as if no time has passed. Steve could never make it through it all without him - his best friend, always there, always waiting, no matter how many years might pass.

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For all that they are members of the same loose team, Bruce and Clint don't see a lot of each other. It's nothing unusual. Clint sticks to himself, and Bruce isn't exactly a social butterfly.   But Bruce notices him.   When Clint enters the room, or plunges into a fight, Bruce's skin tingles - every inch, every cell, becomes aware of his presence. A handful of conversations, himself hiding quietly in the midst of a group, was all that it had taken to capture his attention; barbed sarcasm and hidden insights seem to lurk in every word that comes from Clint's mouth. He's nothing like anybody Bruce has met before.   An assassin.   Clint is someone from a spy novel, a thousand worlds away from the crowded life Bruce leads - or, in any case, used to lead.   Now, shoulder-to-shoulder in a world of superheroes, he finds himself at Clint's side at irregular, dizzying intervals.   "Might be time to let the big guy out," Clint says as they're surrounded, sharp-toothed menaces all around. Back to back, the two of them struggle to watch everyone at once. "Any time now."   The usual objections bubble up in Bruce's throat, desperate to be unleashed - because it's dangerous, and uncontrollable, and the extent of the damage will be far beyond anything they can anticipate. It's all true, but when Clint says, "I've got your back," Bruce believes him.   The Hulk doesn't need protecting - not by a bow and arrow, and not by a mortal man. As a human, on the other hand, Bruce could sure as hell do with the support.

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The shield itself is nearly indestructible. The paint work is not. After one especially bad battle, Steve takes himself away to an empty office in the SHIELD headquarters. He closes the door behind himself and places his shield down on the neat desk.   Beside the shield, Steve places a small jar of metallic paint, and he takes a seat at the chair behind the desk. Flicking a paintbrush out from down his sleeve, where he had squirrelled it away earlier, he unscrews the lid from the paint and focuses on the bumps and abrasions on the shield.   There's something soothing about it, he'll admit - the silent downtime, the repairs done by his own hand. It's enough to let him push the rest of the world to the back of his mind; he can block out the memory of the fight and the pain of grazed knuckles, for a while at least.   That's the theory.   In practice, he freezes when the door opens - and when he finds Agent Coulson watching him from the doorway, he doesn't say a thing.   "You're in my office," Coulson points out.   He steps into the room, while Steve can already imagine what Tony will say if this gets out: he can imagine the teasing, the accusations of vanity, and it always gets under his skin even while he's facing down someone who must spend half his morning sculpting his facial hair.   Coulson moves closer to his desk, and leans over to examine the extent of the damage. "You need a hand?" he offers.   The tone of his voice makes Steve imagine long evenings pouring over models and weekends spent at historical re-enactments. It makes him smile, as much as he tries to fight it. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admits. Painting he can do. The rest of the repair-work is probably beyond him.   Coulson pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the desk, with the grim expression of someone who has been offered the opportunity of a life-time. "I've got this," he states - and, with Coulson looking so grave, Steve believes him.

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Hannibal AU [One-Shot]

Tony's hand rests against Steve's throat, where he can feel the pounding of his pulse beneath his finger tips while Steve's wide eyes stare at him in horror - Tony can see it, right before him, as the pieces fall into place. Scraps of missed evidence rear to the forefront of Steve's mind, deliberately ignored hints and stubbornly excused misbehaviour. Examined under a new light, it all begins to make sense.

Tony breathes it in, the realisation and betrayal. For months he has followed in Steve's shadow - he has been a friend, a colleague and confidant. He has poured advice and poison into Steve's ear and he has been here to help clean up the consequences. Thanks to him, Steve has become something more than he had been before - something stronger, sharper, better.

Secreted in his hand, a scalpel waits for the right moment. Tony has spent a lot of time thinking about the colour of Steve's blood, as they have fought side-by-side. Now with Steve's eyes wild and his body tense he feels the pay-off as it all starts to sink in: the illusion smashes against the ground.

Steve shoves him away, all that immense strength focused on Tony now. There's a familiar fire in his eyes now - Tony is used to seeing it directed as his enemies, but it's a thrill to bear the brunt of all that righteous anger.

"It was you," Steve says, and Tony feels the world turn beneath his feet. History forms around them, the very course of the world mapping its way out ahead of them. In his hand, his scalpel feels very small, and very weak. "This whole time... All those people... It was all you?"

There is barely time to grin before Steve's hands clench - playing the hero, playing the part. He's hardly ever been real from the moment he woke up: he's been a character playing a part, nothing more. He moves forward, on the attack, and Tony's arm flashes forward - how many times has he performed that exact move? Steve's skin parts like paper, a ripple of blood down his abdomen.

His eyes widen - shock, not pain. The pain won't hit yet.

Tony strikes again, plunging deep. "I never meant for it to end like this," he murmurs, but he always knew that this is where they'd end up. Steve's hand clasps at his wrist, but Tony brushes him away as the blood really begins to pour.

But this is Steve, the hero of the piece, and he doesn't go down without a fight. One punch, super strength behind it, is enough to send Tony crashing to his knees - no suit to hide behind now. He had believed that the shock of his real identity would have been enough to knock Steve out of play, even without the aid of a scalpel. He's learning now how wrong he was.

If Steve is going down, he'll take Tony with him.

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When he wakes up, Steve feels as if he's still waiting for Tony to catch him up - decades have passed, with him asleep at the bottom of the ocean, a medical impossibility, but Tony has always been two steps ahead of him, right from the beginning. Why not now? Even lost in a strange century, in a future that feels as alien to him as another planet, he can't help but hope, desperately, stupidly, blindly, that Tony might have found a way to follow him here.

They tell him the truth and he reads the story in black and white - SHIELD files and newspaper reports and coroners records, but it doesn't matter how many thousands of words they take to tell him that Tony is dead - he can't believe it. Can't and won't and it all blends together now anyway.

"I'm sorry, son," Fury says, and Steve hardly hears him. "I know it's a lot to take in."

It's the understatement of the year. He could live with this - he could survive in the future and he can make himself adapt, but the thought of the life he left Tony to chills him to the bone. "He thought I was dead," Steve says quietly, while he pours over the files Fury has presented to him. Tony appears in faded photographs, older than Steve remembers, his eyes colder and wiser. "The whole time, he thought I was gone."

"He never stopped looking. All those years, he never stopped."

And somehow that's worse - there are no children listed in the files, no spouse or happy ending. Steve disappeared and Tony's life had stopped. For the rest of his life Steve is going to have that hanging over his head, the responsibility for an unwritten story. He stares at the files, his heart aching, and wishes desperately that there was some way - any way - to go back.

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Will Graham is a dangerous man, although perhaps he hasn't realised this - to have him in Hannibal's home is to let a time-bomb wander through his halls, a delicious risk he shouldn't allow himself to take. Hannibal is not a man prone to leaving anything to chance, yet Will is an unknown variable. Oh, he can't help but play games when Will in his house - the spider and the fly, stalking one another through silken hallways. He allows Will to root through his cupboards, to make coffee from his cups, and when Will hesitates while looking for milk in the fridge Hannibal's heart leaps just a fraction. The darker, impatient hunger in his brain whispers, finally.   "What's this?" Will asks, reaching for the tupperware stored near the back.   A large part of Hannibal longs for Will to inspect it closely and realise the horrors waiting for him there - he would like to see the lightbulb flicker above Will's head, would love to watch his face as he struggles to reconcile the evidence before him with the friend at his side. It is a moment he both relishes and dreads.   But not yet.   "Your coffee, Will," he prompts. "You've been avoiding it. Do you not wish to be alert?"   Will gives a smile like a grimace. "Not really," he confesses. "Really, what is it? It's not labelled."   "A culinary experiment, I'm afraid. Perhaps later we can try it together." Later, when it has been processed and lovingly cooked into something more palatable for the human eye. "Can you tell me what's really on your mind this morning? You're troubled."   "I'm always troubled," Will answers, painfully dead-pan. "It's my 'thing'." He picks up the box, fingers poised to open it, resistant to any attempts to capture his attention and change the subject to himself. He is moments away from opening that box and finding cured skin inside - a sight that will surely belong to no beast but man.   Hannibal takes drastic action.   He hooks his hand behind Will's neck and draws him in to press their lips together - when Will's hands go slack in surprise, he takes the box from his numb fingers while he tastes the surprise on his mouth.   Distraction successful, he begins to pull back, only to find Will's hands clutching the lapels of his jacket to pull him in once more - at once cautious and demanding, a perfect blend of utter contradiction. The darkness in Hannibal curls in delight and he pulls Will gently in against him - a new method to distract him indefinitely.

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In Which Steve Is An Artist (And Tony Is A Fan Boy) [3/5]

Against his better judgement, Steve takes the commission.

"Patronage," Tony insists, "Let's call it that. Sounds way better."

Steve remains dubious.

Still, he finds that he enjoys the project more than he thought he would - drawing from life is a whole new experience, but he gets to put his own spin on it, stylised lines taking over the sleek utility of the Iron Man suit. It makes him miss his own characters, living in another world for a while, but he settles into it more than he thought he would.

Tony hovers. That is the only word for it. He is in and out of Steve's hotel room as if he owns it - and, since he is paying for Steve's expenses for the duration of the work, he technically does.

"Do I really look like that?" Tony asks while looking over one of the pages. "Does my face really do that when I'm angry?"

"Yes," Steve confirms, without bothering to glance at which panel Tony is investigating. He's been having a lot of fun with Tony's reaction shots. What can he say? The guy has a good face. "You asked me to draw for you."

"I thought you'd make me look cool."

That, at least, makes Steve glance up from his sketches. "You don't like it?" he asks. He tells himself that he has a mature response to criticism, but he can't help but frown. "What is it exactly? I can still change it."

Tony watches him with a smile on his face, infuriatingly indulgent, and eventually says, "Come to dinner with me."

It's not what Steve's expecting; it only makes him frown more. "I really need your feedback here."

"Come to dinner," Tony repeats, "with me."

It's enough to bring Steve's thoughts to a juddering halt - the art leaves his brain. "What?"

For once, Tony's smile is soft and indulgent. "You've been sitting in here for a week straight. Let me take you out."

Put like that, it sounds completely normal and rational. Steve's brain should stop skidding to conclusions, putting together false pieces of evidence to come up with strange solutions. With all of Bucky's doubts rattling in his thoughts, it's no wonderful he's paranoid; Bucky is convinced, after all, that Tony is just looking for a way to take advantage of him, one way or another.

He relaxes, because it's true enough - time has slipped by without his notice, and he's missed more meals than he can count simply by losing track of the time. "That'd be good," he admits.

"Great, let's go." Tony is half-way to the door before he's even finished the sentence. "This is officially a date, by the way," he adds, as if he's deliberately conspiring to make Steve's head spin.

It's working.

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Toni stares at the headlines screaming at her from the newspapers and magazines. She takes in the grainy cell-phone footage of her suit flying through the sky above the city. As coverage goes, it's all come out well. Nobody seems determined to take her down just yet - but, through it all, a bead of unrest stirs inside her.

She reads the papers and can't quite name the burning embers in her chest - it's not the reactor, the glowing light that holds back death. She's angry, and she just can't say why.

Pepper clips through, paperwork in hand, and Toni's heart sinks at the thought of trying to work. After all she's been through, it seems so distant - so small.

"You look hungover," Pepper notes, as she comes closer. "You've got a meeting in twenty minutes."

"Have you seen what they're calling it?" Toni says, because she has no desire to think about the meeting looming in front of her - investors, advisers, another long board room filled with old, rich men telling her she's doing everything wrong. "'Iron Man'. God forbid there's a woman out there saving their asses."

"Yes," Pepper agrees, in that tone that implies she isn't agreeing at all, "That's the worst thing about all of this."

"I'm just saying," Toni says. She jabs at the paper on the desk with a dismissive finger. "Nobody thinks it could be me."

Pepper shoots a sharp glance at her. "That's a good thing," she says. "Remember?"

"I know." Toni's knuckles tap in irritation against the desk. "They think I've hired a robotic body-guard after the crap in Afghanistan."

"Maybe that means they'll back off for once. Toni, focus. Meeting, twenty minutes, you're not even dressed."

Reluctantly, Toni walks away from the papers, but it hardly matters.

By the end of the day, she is making an announcement to the whole rotten lot of them:

I am Iron Man.

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Hello all!

Popping by to say that I've not forgotten you and that I know I've got some lovely requests waiting in my ask box. I'm sitting my driving test soon so most of my evenings are spent clinging desperately to a steering wheel for dear life. I'll start posting again as soon as possible, but in the meantime there's going to be a bit of downtime. Sorry!

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The world has split itself in two in indecision - superheroes are a public menace or an unknown threat. They should be arrested or they should be celebrated.

Spider-Man seems to have been placed very firmly into the 'public menace' category. Just 'cause he doesn't have a fancy American flag stitched onto his suit, or a casual billion dollars to throw at publicity. Awesome.

Even more awesome? Having Captain America and Iron Man standing right in front of him, like he's about to get the most epic scolding in history. He scrambles back to his feet, having shortly been knocked to the ground by a certain patriotic shield, and holds his ground. He wonders what goes faster: Iron Man's suit or his own web-slinging?

"If you guys are here to arrest me, I'm going to call foul," Peter says. "All I'm doing is what you guys do."

Captain America is frowning at him. Captain America. "How old are you, son?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's dangerous out here."

"Yeah, I kinda noticed that." Getting his face beaten in on a semi-regular basis by over-sized novelty thugs is enough danger for a life-time. "I'm not backing down just because I'm not in your club. If people need my help, I'm going to help them. You don't get to stop me."

"That's not why we're here," Tony says, his face framed by the faceplate of his suit. "This is more of a recruitment drive."

"..." For a rare second, Peter doesn't know what to say. Behind his mask, he frowns and tries to work this out. "You're asking me to sign up?" he checks. "Become an Avenger? Me?"

"We're all in New York together. It makes sense."

"You know everybody hates me, right?"

Tony's grin is positively smug. "We'll work on that," he promises.

For the first time in a long while, Peter feels like he's not the enemy. He smiles, and basks in Steve's cautious faith in him, and feels for once like maybe he's not alone.

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In Which Steve Is An Artist (And Tony Is A Fan-Boy) [2/5]

Despite all his promises to himself that he wasn't going to be foolish enough to jump into a stranger's car to be whisked away to an unknown location, by the time the evening comes around Steve finds himself standing in the lounge of Tony Stark's mansion. Left alone while the A.I. summons the house's owner, Steve looks around himself in awe: this is the kind of place that leaps straight from the pages of a sci-fi novel. Tony Stark, billionaire inventor, has summoned him to his home. Steve is a small-time artist; he might be enjoying some success at the moment, an industry buzz forming around him, but he isn't arrogant enough to lose sight of himself. In the grand scheme of things, he isn't big enough to warrant any kind of attention. Footsteps herald Tony's approach, and moments later he comes into view. If Steve had stopped to think about it, he would have imagined that Tony spent all of his time in sleek suits, his eyes hidden by designer shades, but here he is wearing a t-shirt smeared with motor oil, as if he has spent the evening climbing through a car engine. At the sight of Steve, he smiles like he can't believe his luck. "You actually came," he says, walking forward to grab Steve's hand. "Pep didn't think you'd turn up." "I was curious." "Glad to hear it." Tony shakes his hand for longer than he should. "I'm a big fan." Steve can't help frowning. "Really?" "What, a guy like me can't be a comics nerd?" Tony finally releases his hand. He shrugs. "Actually, that's accurate. I've got a business proposition for you." "Business?" "You've heard of Iron Man, right? Everyone has." Tony allows himself a smirk, and for a moment Steve frowns and thinks about how nice it would be to have someone take him down a peg or two. "He's a superhero - I'm a superhero. I'm looking for someone to tell the right story, and I'm told you're the right guy for it." Steve stands in one place as Tony moves, and watches as Tony's hands speak with him in broad, excited gesture. "You want me to draw Iron Man," he concludes, "For you." "It's all branding," Tony admits. "You guys are the key demographic." "This is all just for publicity?" "No. Yes?" Tony shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Sort of. I'm going to have the government on my ass pretty soon, and having the public behind me is going to be important." "Have you read any of my stuff?" Steve checks. "Idealistic, patriotic, and kinda anti-establishment. I like it." Tony's grin is infectious, no matter how much Steve tries to resist it. "I'm funding everything. Think of me as a patron, medieval-style - Pepper's got everything sorted, all you need to do is hole away for a while and work." Steve can think of a thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea. He's still smiling as he says, "What do you honestly expect me to say here?" "Yes?" Tony suggests. "Definitely yes? Thank you? 'I promise to use my artistic talents for good and not evil'?" Steve is trying really, really hard not to like Tony Stark. He thinks he might be failing.

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In Which Bruce Is An FBI Agent [Part 3]

Fuelled by caffeine and sheer determination, Bruce and Clint plunge into an all-nighter. Crime scene photographs and interview transcripts are spread before them - with SHIELD involved, forensic investigations have appeared at a pace that seems super-human. It's enough to make an ordinary FBI agent weep with jealousy. With his feet up on the desk, Bruce's face is set in a deep frown as he tries to get to grips with what he's reading. Empty delivery containers have stacked up in the bin, and he has to fight hard to ignore Clint, who has perched on top of the desk opposite Bruce's, his legs crossed as if he is a child at school. With nobody else in the office, not even Agent Coulson, there is nobody around to scold him for it. Nobody but Bruce, and there is no way that he is going to be doing anything of the sort. His eyes flick to Clint again and again, distracted by the concentrating frown on his face and the curve of his arms inside his sleeves - it's been impossible to focus since Clint took his suit jacket off and draped it across the back of his borrowed seat. Bruce feels light-headed in his presence. His cheeks seem to be constantly burning. "Any luck?" Clint asks, glancing up at Bruce for a bare second before his gaze falls back to the file in his hand. "I feel like there's something forming in here, but I can't quite get at it." Bruce wants to sound smart. Hell, he wants to be the one to break the case - not just for his own pride, but for the sake of the FBI itself. This should be an opportunity to put SHIELD in its place, but when SHIELD looks and acts like Clint all that Bruce secretly wants to do is stand back and watch. "Honestly, this looks more and more like your department. I barely know what I'm looking at." "Yeah, right," Clint says, looking up at him for real this time. "You're the science whiz, Doctor Banner." He grins at Bruce's surprise. "SHIELD's files are pretty thorough. They don't let us go in blind." "That's creepy," Bruce tells him, "And it's old news. I haven't been in a lab in years."   "You still beat me. I've never been in one. That means you've got a leg up." But Clint seems to see Bruce's doubt - he drops the bullshit, for once, and just looks at Bruce sincerely. "We'll get this guy, Bruce. We always do." Bruce is so far out of his depth here, and science-defying crime scenes keep replaying in front of his eyes. He's never going to forget the sight of floating blood droplets or frozen terror on innocent faces. Clint puts down the file he's reading and hops down from the desk, crossing over to place his hand on Bruce's shoulder - just for a moment, a rush of comfort. "We can do this," Clint promises him quietly. "Trust me." The contact fades away as Clint reaches for a new file and withdraws, but the warmth lingers on - it shouldn't comfort Bruce so much, but he finds himself relaxing a little more, convinced that the situation isn't as bleak as it seems.

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Could you please do a Steve/Tony dealing with a recently adopted Peter?

Hi, anon! Kid!fic/superfamily stuff isn’t really my thing, but I’m going to write you up something with Spider-Man and the Avengers - sorry it’s not exactly what you’re hoping for!

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Sherlock fantasises about his home-coming more than he would ever admit aloud. He has played through a thousand scenarios as he waits, and hides, and plots, all of them tinged with the cloying sentimentality of self-delusion - in his imagination, John is always glad to have him back. In the solid walls of reality, Sherlock knows it won't be nearly so simple.

So he can tell himself that John will grab hold of him in a hug Sherlock won't admit he wants; he can imagine the hot puff of breath against his neck, the sigh that is almost a sob, the clutch of John's hands and the desperate break in his voice as he whispers his relief. He can entertain those thoughts to keep himself sane.

But he knows it won't be like that, not really.

He knows that there are harsh words and pain and a broken friendship waiting for him in Baker Street.

For now, out in the cold, he can't think of a stony, painful reception. For once in his life he has to entertain a delusion - silence the hissing, dark part of his mind that whispers about the limitation of forgiveness, even for someone as accepting as John.

No, today he will daydream. When the time comes, reality will strike a cruel blow.