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The Truth About Anthea((((A/N: I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHEN THIS TAKES PLACE.))))
John Watson was getting a little sick of Mycroft's threats and mini-kidnapping. He had just recieved a phone call telling him to get in the car that waited outside the restaraunt, but he was determined to finish his sandwich first. Mycroft wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't dare risk his brother's anger. The sandwich was mediocre, the bread dry and the meat stringy. He finished up his dinner and paid the bill. He saw a big black car on the curb and stepped into it, not asking where he was headed. He took a minute to realise that there was nobody in the drivers seat. Anthea must be out for a smoke. When she returned, she drove off without a word, pretending not to notice John. But the woman who stepped into the car wasn't Anthea. She pulled into a driveway and then noticed John dozing in the back.
"John," greeted Mycroft.
"This better be worth it, Mycroft."
"You really should check the driver in the car before you get in."
Scibros and CupcakesThe last thing Rainbow Dash felt was her skin being cut away from her skull, and the metal of the blade scraping her teeth.
Then she was gone.
"Bruce, where are you? We've got dinner reservations in a half an hour-" Tony Stark was cut short by the sight of his boyfriend lying face-down on the floor. "Bruce! What's the matter?"
"Leave me alooooone."
"Bruce! Tell me what's going on!" Tony sat next to his boyfriend and pulled him onto his lap. "What's going on?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Bruce, you know you can tell me anything, right?"
"Not this." Tony was getting worried. Bruce was Tony's sole confidant, and vice versa.
"I don't say this to many people, but you mean so much to me. I-It hurts me to see you hurting." Bruce looked at him.
"What is this, a Nicholas Sparks novel?"
"He's alive! Now. No bullshit, Bruce. What's up?" Bruce buried his face.
"Maybe if you stopped speaking into my crotch..."
Bruce sighed. "I'm a Brony." Tony burst into laug
The Stark Mansion (SherVengers Chapter Two)Five hours later the three men, along with Tony Stark's bodyguard Dan, who everyone kept calling Rob, were boarding a jet. It was a beautiful jet, of the ilk that Sherlock had had as a kid. Stark Industries was emblazoned in big black letters on the side of the jet. Sherlock questioned Tony for an little while longer, and then decided to switch to Rob/Dan.
"Did you know Peter?"
"No. I was hired after his disappearance."
"How well do you know Mr. Stark?"
"I just work for him. I'm unable to disclose any information withou-" This sounded rehearsed.
"If he finds out you've been hindering my investigation, how do you think he'd react?
Rob/Dan scratched his beefy arm.
"Please cooperate. What can you tell me about Mr. Stark's line of work?"
"Uh, he, uh..... makes money."
"Yes. Most do."
"Um, he takes calls sometimes....He talks about iron a lot."
"Was he close to Peter?"
"I dunno. I guess, but I wasn't hired until-"
"Yes, yes, I get it."
"Are there any discre
The Visitor (SherVengers Chapter One)"Sherlock! Wake up, you've got a visitor!" John pelted his flatmate with pillows.
"M'up. Whayawant?" Sherlock had actually been sleeping as of late; he had finally admitted that he was smarter when he was well rested. John was annoyed by this latest round of boasting, but if it meant less crabiness, he would have been willing to pay just about anything.
"Visitor." John went back to the drawing room. A dapper man was sitting there on the couch, gazing restlessly out of the window. A beefy American bodyguard had told John that he would only speak to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock came down the stairs, dressed only in the white sheet off of the bed. The man stood up respectfully, and John was surprised to see how short he was, as he gave off a very imposing air.
"Mr. Holmes," said the man, who was apparently American, too. "My name is Tony Stark. I hear you're the best detective in the world. American cops leave a lot to be desired."
"That's no different, then," John muttered under his breath.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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