Scribbles in a notebook on the web

The writing blog of gonesherlocking. This is where I'll be posting fanfiction and other things I write. Icon by my problematic twin drawingdumbstuff

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My Martian!lock fic already has 100 hits aaaaaaaaah!!

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Sherlock (TV), The Martian - Andy Weir Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, James Sholto (Sherlock), Janine (Sherlock), Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Mycroft Holmes Additional Tags: Astronauts, Astronaut!John, Long-Distance Relationship, Mutual Pining, showtunes, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Space Summary:

(Alternatively: Phantom of the Space Opera)

"This is a log entry to confirm that I, Dr John Watson of the NASA Ares III mission to Mars, am alive as of the evening of Sol 6. It is also to confirm that, considering the circumstances, none of the Ares III crew broke protocol by leaving me behind. 

Please God, let me live."

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The Fish Hater's Guide to Cooking (or: My Piranhaconda Don't)

This is a short piece I wrote for my creative writing class at college. The prompt was “write a list of instructions to catch, prepare, cook and serve a fish of your choice.”

I’ve never cooked fish in my life.

The Fish Hater’s Guide to Cooking To catch: · Hire a large fishing vessel complete with rigging, cages and nets · Find six or more hardy American fishermen and dress them in fluorescent waders · Sign a three-season deal with the Discovery Channel · Set sail to wherever the blunt yet loveable captain says his old-timey map indicates to be the best place to catch the fish of your choice - avoiding the dragons, of course · Catch more than the government’s fishing quota and significantly harm the ecosystem · Fudge the numbers to earn a profit To prepare: · Mentally prepare yourself for the job ahead – do yoga, a Sudoku, meditate · Research the fish you’re going to cook by purchasing twelve cookbooks you’ll never use but will love staring at the pictures in · Get distracted by Mary Berry’s Baking Bible – make forty cupcakes · Realise that you’ve wasted your entire day and put the fish back in the freezer until tomorrow To cook: · Befriend a TV chef · Adopt a child who goes to their child’s school · Bump into them at the school gate and chat about the weather · Learn their partner’s name – ask how they are · Bring their child home for a playdate – now they owe you · Get them to cook the fish for you · Supply them with a TV camera and some royalty-free backing music to make them feel at home To serve: · Buy some obscure French garnish that no-one’s going to touch · Invite your parents to dinner · Drink lots of wine and chat about the economy – be a real adult · Ignore them when they talk about your much more successful brother · Drink more wine · Don’t eat the fish · Drink more wine

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Sand - fluffy Johnlock for thefallenangelsside

[I apologise for this being so short as taking so long I forgot then I wasn’t inspired then I was lazy then yeah, sorry!]

The setting sun pulled the last dregs of daylight across a small Cornish beach, which was slowly being devoured by the blue-grey teeth of the rising tide. It’s warmth, however, lingered and wrapped itself around the two men who were walking along the shore, and were in turn wrapped around one another. To a far-off outsider their closeness, the softness of their words and the tilting of their heads towards one another in the orange light of the fading day would have shown love, romance and everything that is postcard-picture about the world. Step a little closer, however, and one would hear this;

"I told you to put the bloody swim shorts on. That suit is ruined." “Those things were not swim shorts. They were a monstrosity!” “You are such a bloody drama queen.” “I refuse to wear anything with a floral pattern, you know that.” “Well, you could have at least rolled your trousers up-“ “I’m not a school-boy, John!” “-Or taken your blazer off. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got sun-stroke and dehydration.” “And you think I’m a drama queen… Ow!”

This, of course, does not mean the two men did not love one another. Quite the opposite in fact.

These were their sweet nothings; their “I love you,” “I need you” and “Be mine.” Each sharp word was a gentle, playful caress, each barb a teasing poke. They both knew this, acutely aware of the surges of passion and warmth that rushed through them with every insult knocked back and small push of an elbow into a stomach.

"Tell me what you hate about me again."

The taller man paused, stopped to recline against a large, damp boulder in the centre of the beach, and pondered his next words as he pulled his smaller counterpart into his arms. His chin rested upon the older man’s shoulder, his arms around his waist. “I hate your ugly jumpers,” he murmured, tucking his hand under the stripes he was wearing now and enjoying the warm touch of tanned skin across his soft belly. “And that awful pair of comfy blue pants you keep in the top drawer. Your terrible morning tea, and when you kiss me and your breath tastes like horrid toothpaste, and /especially/ when you hold my hand.” A small huff comes as a reply. “There’s no bloody pleasing you.” Two matching smiles curl upwards and two hands lace together so that matching rings clink and glitter in the fading sunlight.

"And you?" “And me, what?” “What do you hate about me?” The solider’s head tilts to one side as his new husband’s lips find his skin to press down kisses, which are soft, loving, possessive. “I hate how tall you are, and that I need to go on my tiptoes to kiss you. And I hate your awful suits and that dreadful waistcoat you wear on special occasions. Oh, and I especially detest that little curl at the nape of you neck which twists the wrong way.” His hand lifts up to find the rebellious lock of hair so he can twist it around his fingertips and use it as leverage to pull his newly wed husband down for a sweet kiss.

As their lips meet a gust of air shivers across the surface of the water, bringing with it the smell of the sea and an aching for the warmth of a crackling fire, a close body and thick blankets. “Shall we go back to the cottage?” “Are you cold?” “Freezing.” “Me too. I have been all day.” “That’s because you’re soaking wet, you dunce.” “Warm me up?” “Inside, you bad man.”

They smile fondly at one another and walk hand in hand back to the little house on the edge of the sand, the stars beginning to shine weakly onto their backs and an excited skip in their steps. “Sherlock Holmes, I bloody love you.” “And I love you, John Watson.”

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Pie and Cream - Fluffy Destiel for ichangemyurlmorethanmyunderwear

"Cas? Baby?"

A warm gust of stinking, grey air hit Dean as opened the motel room door. Large puffs of it choked his nose, making him cough, and the swirling wisps stung his eyes, blurring his vision. “Cas!” His shout was more urgent this time and he pulled his jacket up to his mouth so he could go inside, wafting away the thick, sickening clouds of grey as he desperately tried to find the source. He was expecting to find the whole place ablaze, Cas unconscious on the floor and needing to be dragged out and given mouth to mouth or something terrible.

What he did not expect - but was a hell of a lot happier to see - was the angel stood in the middle of the kitchenette in a checkered apron, staring confusedly between a little red box in one hand and a burnt pie the other. The contents of the offending pastry was still bubbling and hissed as the hunter stepped closer.

"I put it in for fifty minutes," Cas mumbled to himself then looked up at Dean, his face despairing, "It said between forty and sixty. Fifty is between fort and sixty!" Dean shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?” “The pie, Dean!” Cas replied, waving the box in his face. “I was baking it for you, but the instructions are wrong.” Dean snatched the box out of his hand and Cas put the pie on the counter top, trying to hack the remains out of the tin with a knife so he could try again.

"You put the oven on way to high," Dean said, moving to stand next to him, "Of course it was gonna burn, fairy wings." “Dean, I am an angel, not a fairy. We’ve been over this many times before and I-“ “Yadda, yadda, yadda,” the hunter interrupted, smacking his hands together like a chattering mouth before nudging him out of the way and taking the knife out of his hand, “Let me do it, you dope. Get me some plates.” Cas scowled as he was jostled out of the way. standing there for a moment with his arms folded across his broad chest and his brow furrowed before he huffed and did as he was asked. “Are you really going to eat it?” he queried, settling down two plates from the onto the counter. “Of course,” Dean replied and leaned in to peck him on his stubbly cheek, “My baby made me pie. How could I not at least try it?” Castiel pressed his lips together to suppress the smile the was creeping onto his lips.

After a few minutes of stabbing at hard crust and a burnt finger or two, Dean dished them both up a slice of the charred pie and dipped into the refrigerator to grab a can of whipped cream, dragging Cas along to the table to sit down with him. “This’ll make it better,” he promised, spraying out a large dollop of white onto the blackened surface of the angel’s pie crust before adding some onto his own. “Bon appetite, gorgeous.” Slowly, trying not to offend Cas with his cautiousness, he hacked out a still sizzling spoonful and held it up, licking his lips a moment before taking the it into his mouth.

Upon the first bite, a mixture of emotions crossed his face; first joy at the cream, then repulsion, then controlled repulsion and then fake happiness. He smiled brightly at Cas. “Gorgeous…” he scratched hoarsely. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Cas sighed, looking just a shade more than disappointed. “A little,” Dean admitted, which only made Cas’ frown deepen. “Hey, c’mere.” He pulled his boyfriend into a hug, kissing his cheek. “You made something for me and that’s all that matters. Capisce?” “Yeah, I capi- Hey!”

The angel jumped as a cold dollop of cream was wiped into his nose. He quickly tried to rub it off with the cuff of his trench coat but Dean was already wiping more onto his cheek, this time his initials. DW. He pulled back for a moment to admire his artistic skill then leaned forwards and, slowly, with kitten licks from his tender tongue and sweet presses of his soft lips, licked and kissed the mess away. Cas felt himself flush pink. “How about you and I take the rest of this cream into the bedroom and I can show you just how grateful I am, hey, big boy?” Cas swallowed deeply, his head jerking down in a quick nod.

Dean grinned triumphantly, kissing his sticky cheek once more, and went to stand up. He was quickly caught, however, by Cas’ hand on his shoulder and found himself being pushed back down into his seat. “Dean,” the angel said quietly, leaning in to murmur in his ear, “Thank you for being so kind.” A smirk played across the hunter’s lips. “No problem, baby.” “I love you.” “I love you too.”

((Hope this was fluffy enough for you and I totally couldn’t remember if you asked for anything else in the prompt sorry I’m a bad person))