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Similar Deviations

Sherlock in the Tardis

John almost walked straight into it. A blue box. Right there in the middle of the street. No one seemed to find it odd and John didn't even seem to have been aware of it, before he crashed his nose into it. Even now, when he finally saw it, he didn't seem all that interested. He scowled at the box for having stood in his way and then walked over to the edge of the street, planning to get a cab.
Sherlock however had lost all interest in the case Lestrade had brought to their attention. Certainly, a severed foot sounded intriguing enough, but there was something about this blue box that was even more interesting than detached limbs.
Sherlock circled it. A police box, as he'd expected. He recognised the old design, though he wasn't sure where his mind had collected that particular piece of useless data. He blamed John, since meeting him, Sherlock's mind was being force fed useless information every day. He had no desire to know who the contestants of the latest televised talent shows were, but now he did. And he had no desire to know how many planets there were in the solar system, but now he did.
"Hey, I've seen that before!" John had finally noticed Sherlock wasn't in the cab next to him and had gone back to see what Sherlock was up to. "I've seen that before," John repeated while circling the blue box.
"You almost broke your nose on it, so I would hope so," Sherlock said.
John shook his head. "No," he said very seriously, "I think I've seen it before, when I was a kid."
"I highly doubt it," Sherlock said. "Police boxes have been out of style for a few decades already."
"No, I have," John said. His brow furrowed as he circled the box again. "I think it was on TV," John said. He stood still and stared at the small white plaque that told them it was free to us. "And…," John hesitated and almost doubted his own memories, because they didn't seem to make sense. "And, there was a man inside."
"In the police box?" Sherlock asked sceptically.
And before John could try to argue his point, it was proven for him by the door of the blue police box being slung open - causing John to almost break his nose again - and a man appearing from inside the box.
"Oh, hello," the young man said.
Sherlock looked at the odd slightly dangly figure. He looked like a professor would in a cartoon, just 40 years too young. Student. Likes to think himself old fashioned. Probably part time actor. Most likely a…
"Err… hello," Sherlock's deduction was interrupted by John's greeting. John stuck out his hand, "I'm John."
"Hello John, nice to meet you, I'm the doctor."
"Doctor who?" John asked.
"Just the Doctor," the young man said and grinned. He pushed his quiff away from his face.
"Err… okay," John said hesitantly, then turned his face to Sherlock.
"Could you tell me which year it is?" The Doctor asked John.
"Which year?" John asked confused.
"If you would, please." The Doctor grinned again and John was starting to feel exasperated. Somehow, this guy had the same effect on him as Sherlock did. Perhaps Sherlock should share his flat with this guy. The Doctor and the Sleuth, they would suit each other nicely.
John let out a sigh and gave up trying to be the sensible one in the conversation. "Sure," he said, "it's 2010, for now…"
"For now?" The Doctor asked and a worried look crept onto his face. "You don't mean time is ending? Because I've been through that before and I don't think I can handle that right now, what with Amy and Rory on their honeymoon and it would hardly seem fair to ask…"
"I meant," John said to stop the rattling. He hated it when people started to rattle. "I meant that it's Christmas, which means it's almost December the 31st."
<The Doctor nodded. "Still, 2010... I'm way off! I thought I'd fixed her but she must have had a real knock on the head, from having been perpetually exploding for the full stretch of existence."
"What…," John started to say. Then he took a deep breath and added, "never mind." He let himself slump down until he was sitting on the pavement. Moreover, he officially gave up on understanding this conversation.
"Where - or rather when - did you think you were?" Sherlock asked. He was staring at the young man. Still not entirely sure why he felt the need to understand what was going on. Perhaps simply because it was a puzzle and he had spent his life solving puzzles.
"Oh, 2109," the Doctor said. "I wanted to visit an old friend."
"You are claiming to be a time traveller?" Sherlock asked. His voice neutral, but John knew what Sherlock must be thinking of this nutter in front of them. However, when Sherlock spoke again, John started to doubt his own convictions.
"So this box you've just gotten out of, presumably it's capable of close to light speed travel."
The Doctor grinned. "Humans, you never cease to amaze me with your simplicity." Sherlock gritted his teeth. Calling him 'stupid' was probably the worst insult you could use, when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "Time travel doesn't work like that. You could travel three times as fast as light and all that would happen is you'd be home for Christmas a lot faster. For time travel you need a vortex manipulator."
Sherlock gritted his teeth again. "Nothing can travel faster than light and when you get as near to that speed as you can, you will travel through time, not because you suddenly pop-up on the other side of a worm whole, but because time itself would move a lot slower for you than it would for everything not moving at the speed of light. Which is why travel to the past is impossible."
The Doctor chortled. "Travel to the past is not impossible, trust me." he smiled and pushed a hand through his hair. "In fact I've just come back from the 16th century, trying to patch things up with good old Bess… You think divorces are messy, well trust me you haven't seen messy until you've tried to divorce English royalty."
Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Time travel to the past is impossible because of the paradoxes that would unavoidably be created. And…"
"You tell Shakespeare that," the Doctor said, grinning again. He was leaning against his blue box now.
Sherlock gave the Doctor a look so full of contempt, it would've frightened most people.
"I've met him," the Doctor said, a wide smile flashing across his face. "And Agatha Christie, Charles Dickens - twice - and I already told you about Elizabeth. Queen Victoria, Churchill, Liz 10. Oh wait, that's in your future… Vincent… Van Gogh, I mean." The Doctor was counting them all off on his hand and all the while Sherlock felt his frustration growing. Somehow, he felt the need to win this argument, even though the man before him was clearly clinically insane.
"Oh and I've seen Pompeii burn, caused the creation of Torchwood, spoken to some Romans - well they weren't real but I didn't know that at the time."
"And you've done all that travelling in that police box?" Sherlock asked.
"You seem surprised," the Doctor said.
"Standing room only?" Sherlock asked and this was the first time he let his disbelief creep into his voice.
Fan boy, was the conclusion he came to. This was most likely a student and most likely, he had a star trek costume in his closet.
The Doctor smiled widely. "Perhaps it's bigger on the inside." His eyes grew wide for a second. Then he pulled open the door and went back inside the blue box, and then he stuck out his head again. "Listen to this," he said.
"Hello," he shouted into the empty blue box and it echoed. The hello echoed through what seemed like infinite space, though Sherlock could clearly see how small that box was.
"No object can contain within itself a mass greater than itself," Sherlock simply stated.
The Doctor simply smiled and shouted 'hello' into the empty space again. There was that echo again.
John, who had been getting wearier as the conversation had gone on and on, was now engaged again. He jumped to his feet and moved towards the open door of the blue box. His head disappeared behind the door.
Sherlock could hear John's gasp. John straightened himself and took a step back from the blue box. He looked at it from top to bottom, and then ran a quick circle around it. Then touched it, carefully as if expecting it to react to his touch. Then he disappeared into the blue box. The Doctor grinned at Sherlock and then disappeared into the blue box as well.
Sherlock was a little surprised John could even stand being in such a small space with the Doctor. Judging by the box's size, they must now be pushed up against each other.

Helloooo helloo hello…

Sherlock heard the echo again. It was the Doctor's voice.

Helloooooooo helloooooo hellooo helloo hello…

Then John's voice.

John jumped out of the blue box. "Sherlock, it's…" and he started to laugh. "It really is…" and he started to laugh even more, until he had to put his hands on his knees to keep from falling over.
The Doctor got out of the blue box as well. "You don't believe in time travel and you don't believe in an object being bigger on the inside than the outside?" The Doctor asked Sherlock.
"It is not a question of belief. There simply are certain rules that govern our universe," Sherlock said to the Doctor. Then he turned to John. "You were the one so set on me knowing about them."
John was still laughing. "I was wrong Sherlock."
"And if I can proof to you one of these impossible things, will you at least consider the other?" The Doctor asked Sherlock.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Alright, but you might find me a hard person to convince."
The Doctor sniggered. "I'm sure you are," he said. He pulled open the door of the blue box and held it open for Sherlock.
Hesitantly, but certain he was right, Sherlock walked through the open door. As soon as he entered the infinite space of the Tardis, he knew he had lost the argument.
I was tempted into writing this 'Doctor Who/ Sherlock Crossover Christmas Special' after a comment on my Sherlock in the Tardis photomanipulation... So here you go :D

And Merry Christmas to all humans, Timelords and Sherlocks in whatever age you might find yourself :D

Edit: Thank you for all the lovely comments and demands for a sequel! I know it took me almost two years, but I did write another Wholock fan fiction! It isn't a direct sequel, but hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway: Stranger than Fiction
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Mrs. Hudson frowned as her daytime telly was drowned out by a strange wooshing sound coming from outside her window, unlike anything anything she'd ever heard before. Rising carefully from the couch (her hip was particularly bad today), she shuffled over to the front window to see if she could spy the source of the noise. A long pause, then the noise seemed to reverse itself just as the front door swung open quickly, admitting her boys from 221B. She hadn't seen them this happy and excited since the last big serial murderer case! "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Space and time, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock gripped her excitedly around the shoulders as John shed his jacket, shutting the front door behind himself. "We've just been with the Doctor!"

Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard Sherlock mention any other doctor other than John, but this sounded important. "Doctor who, dear?"

Sherlock was about to try to explain, but John placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Don't worry about it," he smiled, "just a new friend we've met. Perhaps next time he comes by you'll get to meet him too." And with that, the two troublemakers clambered upstairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson wondering if this third fellow would be needing a room as well. Perhaps she could finally find a tenant for 221C!
This prompt (specifically with Wholock in mind) comes from the giveaway that I'm doing on Tumblr. Want some free stickers? Go and prompt me there!


Preview art is by :iconpomegranate-pen:
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                                                    'There's no kindness in your eyes,
                                         the way you look at me it's just not right'

                                                                                      - Hilary Duff.

As I look over at you across the table, I can’t help but feel doubt creeping in from all sides. From the outside, our relationship is wonderful. You tell me that you love me every single day, you buy me flowers every week and you look after me better than I can look after myself. You even brought me to my favourite restaurant this evening as a surprise treat. I couldn’t ask for any more. You are everything I could possibly hope for. But yet, something is not right. A dark voice in the back of my mind keeps whispering: ‘Don’t be so blind’. I can’t help but feel that the interior of our relationship is not as perfect as the polished exterior. Something rotten is festering there, slowly decaying its way outwards.

A pink tulip sits on the table between us; my favourite flower. I know that you asked for that flower especially. As I breathe in its sweet aroma and scrutinise its delicate shape, I notice a dark brown spot on the underside of one of the petals. Almost imperceptible amongst the overwhelming beauty. That dark brown spot shows the beginning of the end for this tulip; the early stages of decay beginning to set in. I can’t help but feel as though this tulip reflects our relationship. Faultless and beautiful at first glance, but upon closer inspection and hidden away beneath the veneer it is flawed, damaged and temporary.

You smile at me from across the table and I am almost convinced by the affection and happiness it radiates. Almost. But there is a glint in your eye that juxtaposes your warmth. A glint that has been so well hidden for so long, that I only just perceive it. A glint which is saturated with sadness and hidden thoughts. I am too scared to confront you about this, too scared of finding out the truth, and so I just smile back reassuringly and take a sip of wine. But behind my smile, my mind is running riot, asking unanswerable questions: ‘Am I your one and only desire?’ ‘Am I the reason you breathe?’ ‘Or am I the reason you cry?’  


                          'There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface,
                                                                              consuming, confusing'

                                                                                          - Linkin Park.

I start packing my books into cardboard boxes, wiping away the tears that continue to insist on falling. The Time Machine, The Hound of The Baskervilles, The Hobbit...all books that you bought me because you knew how much I loved reading. A wave of anger suddenly washes over me, and I start tearing pages out of the books in fury. In anger. In desperation. As a tear slowly falls and itches at my face, I violently wipe it away, scratching myself with my fingernail in the process.

I feel like you don’t want me around, like you don’t care about me. Up until now, I have bottled it all up inside me. But I can hold it in no longer. By the time you get back from work, I will be gone. You won’t even notice I’m gone. You won’t even care. You told me that you loved me and kissed me on the cheek as you rushed off to work this morning, but I know that you’re just playing a part. An Oscar winning role in the play Happy Families. Well I refuse to be your acting partner any longer. It hurts too much.

I love you with all my heart but at the same time, I think I hate you. I breathe you and I can’t live without you, but I can’t take anymore. You have made me happier than I have ever been, yet I couldn’t be any more miserable. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.

I gather up my suitcase and the rest of my things. As I walk out of your door, I don’t look back. I take a deep breath in, weighted with emotion and decisiveness, and as I slam the door, all I can hear is the sound. The noise echoes in my mind over and over. All I can hear is the sound.


                                                 ‘Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend,
                                 you have been the one, you have been the one for me’

                                                                                     - James Blunt.

I knock at the door that I once slammed so violently. The sound that still haunts my dreams at night. You open the door and look almost surprised to see me. Upon seeing your face again, a face that has dominated my every thought for months on end, I find it impossible to say anything. I just stare at you. Paralysed. Unable to do anything but stop and stare. You leave me speechless. I can’t believe I am seeing you again in the flesh. My mind can’t process it.

You wait for me to say something. Your look of surprise turns to one of concern. I suddenly notice that I am violently shaking all over. My emotions are getting the better of me. I’m shaking in shock, shaking in anticipation, shaking in anger. Tears cascade down my face and finally the words spit out of my mouth, full of venom and loathing. Even I am surprised at the malevolence I inject into them.

‘I loved you and you broke me. You ruined my life. I hate you! I can see my blood all over your hands. You turned me into Does it make you feel more like a man to know that you have done this to me? Look what you have done!’

I begin to shake even more violently, unable to control or contain it. My teeth are clenched tightly together and my left eye starts to twitch. I see the fear in your eyes. You look down at my right hand and suddenly notice the pistol. Your beautiful eyes widen in shock. You open your mouth to try and say something, to try and stop me, but it’s no use. Nothing can stop me. I shakily raise the pistol to your head, determined. Tears fall from my eyes yet a grin overwhelms my mouth. Without a second thought I pull the trigger.

And all I hear is the sound.
This is a short story I have written for ~Rainyyuu. It’s based on the song 'Always' by the band Saliva. (So sorry for the delay in posting something new!).

Upon listening to the song, I sensed a lot of anger and resentment, and that is what I tried to capture in this piece. Notice how I used the words ‘anger’ and ‘violently’ several times throughout the piece to reiterate these feelings that the narrator feels.

To explain the piece in case any of you are left confused: The unnamed narrator is a very paranoid character who questions everything her partner does. She doesn’t believe he is being honest with her even though there is no evidence to suggest otherwise. In the first part of the story she believes he is hiding something from her, yet ironically she is concealing her own thoughts from him, suggesting she is the one with something to hide. As the story progresses she becomes less rational, less eloquent, less together. You can see she becomes more desperate and emotional. She is clearly a character with deep-seated mental health issues. The reader hasn’t seen the partner do anything wrong at all in the story and that is precisely the point. It is all in her head. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong, but in her mind and from her perspective, he is absolutely guilty. Guilty of deception, guilty of apparently playing a part. The ending is intentionally abrupt, like the sudden gunshot.

Here is a link to the song that the story is based on:
Always – Saliva:…

Here are the links to the other songs referenced:
Stranger – Hilary Duff:…
Crawling – Linkin Park:…
Goodbye My Lover – James Blunt:…

Please do leave comments and let me know what you think of the story! :) :heart:
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The Writer lay quietly in his bed. Rest was hard to come by. Vivid images filled his mind, ideas which blinked and twirled in the darkness before fading away, never to be seen again. As always, in the beginning he could control them, but they spiraled out of his grasp and took on lives of their own. He no longer had any say. They simply went where they intended and created their own paths. Slowly he drifted off amidst the stories being told around him. The images slowed, sleep was coming. Soon he was unconscious.

A sharp kick to the stomach woke him up. He grunted and clutched his gut.

“Come on, come on, get up. It is time.”

The Writer looked up to see Muse standing over him. “Don’t make me kick you again! I said it’s time to write.”

“What? I don’t want to write now! Its 3 in the morning!”

“As if you have any say. You know how this works slave. I won’t let you sleep until you obey me. Now get up!” Muse raised his foot again, ready to kick.

“Alright alright alright!” The Writer said. “But we both know I’ll regret it in class tomorrow. I’m already falling behind because I keep falling asleep.”

“Oh you never pay attention in class anyway. You just listen to what I tell you. And you should remember I am the creative part of your brain. If you ignore me now and go to sleep, I will give you THE. WORSE. NIGHTMARES. you have EVER. HAD. Then I will totally blank out on your next essay for school. Now, hurry up and get typing."

“Alright, what am I writing exactly? Poetry or prose?”

“Uhhhh…. I don’t really know.”

“WHAT!?!!? You woke me up for this? You don’t even have an idea, do you?” the Writer asked, clearly enraged.

“Of course I do! It’s just… not really set. Start writing and I will see. I’m not sure if it is a poem or a story. I kind of have a few ideas I want to get out, and some neat phrases.”

“Oh for the love of… And you really won’t let me sleep until I come up with something?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it works. Suck it up slave. OH! I made a cool new character. Look!”

Character 1 strode in the room. He was dimly lit and hard to make out. Parts of him flickered in and out of existence, fragments changed constantly. But he had a general shape, and some points listed along the side. A crusader for… (to be determined later), who is never the less afraid off…. (to be determined later). He is strong and extremely clever, but suffers from past experiances that make him very neurotic. Specifically, he often…. (To be determined later).

“That’s it? Basically a stock character you didn’t even bother to flesh out, and you clearly were just thinking of Sherlock. He doesn’t even have a name! Oh, and you misspelled ‘experiences,’ asshat.” The Writer said, clearly unimpressed.

“Well… yeah… But we can come up with more details later! Anyway, I’m part of you, so really you came up with it, and just insulted yourself. And don’t argue with me or I’ll make you write a chapter novel, slave.”

“NO! I don’t have time for that now! Ok fine, let’s see what he can do. What do I write?” The Writer brought his hands to the keyboard.

The Muse thought for a moment. “Ok, start with ‘……’”

“What? You didn’t say anything.”

“Ummm… Ok, this may take a minute.”

The Writer sighed and rested his hands on his desk.

“OH! I Got it! ‘The sky was dark and grey..’”

“So it was a dark and stormy night? Cliché.”

“Fine. Try…

He struggled for breath. Waves rushed over him, chocking him with their salty spray. He swam for dear life. He could see the island and struggled to reach it, but the current dragged him back and back, away from salvation. The island seemed to mock him with its proximity, a goal that was so close and yet unattainable. Tears washed down his face, and he thought of his loved one. Her eyes, bright and shining like pearls, her hair glowing like the sun
A cascade of golden curls
A smile that brought joy to all
Her love so deep
He was certain he would fall…

“Wow wow wait. We got WAAYYY off track there. Is this a story or a poem?” The Writer asked.

“Uhhh… Both? Neither? I don’t know. We will make both. First write to story then the poem.”

“Oh so now I have to write even more!?! Will I ever get to sleep?”

“Probably not. Or you know what? Just don’t eat. You can sleep during lunch break. Now, it seems we have a new character.”

Character Two appeared beside Character One. She was a bit shorter than him, but still tall. Like her lover, her image was distorted, and her face was blank. Only her golden, curly hair was clearly visible. A line was drawn between the two, signifying their love.

The Muse studied her. “Ok, so we have a beautiful woman, with a strong sense of morality…”

“Wait, why are they always beautiful?”

“Honestly? I think unfulfilled desires on your part.”

“Haha, very funny. Ok, beautiful, we will say a handsome woman. You say strong morality, but what kind of morality? Are we going to show conflict between, say, a legal….”


“What? Who said that?”

“I did” Character 2 said. “I want to be cute, not handsome. And make me shorter! Shorter people are cuter.”

“HEY! I haven’t even made you yet! Why can you talk? And since when do YOU tell ME what to do?” the Writer asked.

“Well I agree. I prefer cute women to handsome ones.” Character One said.

“You prefer what I say you prefer! I’m the Writer! What the heck is this?”

The Writer felt sharp smack on the back of his head. He looked to see Muse beside him, holding a belt. “Shut up and get writing slave. She is cute.”

“Fine fine fine. But why does she have to be cute?"”

"Once again, I am going to go with repressed desires on your part, slave. Now get crackin'."

Character Two’s figure began to solidify. She now only came up to the chest of Character One. Her face was clearer. It was youthful, but still mature, and pretty. Her eyes were large and light blue, resembling clear pools of water. They gazed around the room with childlike wonder. Her voice softened.

“Cute enough, or do I need to give you a puppy?” The Writer asked, and she nodded. “Alright. Character One, it is now up to you. I guess this is a love story, so I want you to say ‘……’. I said say ‘…….!” What the heck?!?!”

“I’m not saying that,” Character One said.

“What? Why not?”

“We both know it’s not in character. WAAAY outside my personality, and just not something I’d say.”

“You didn’t even have a personality yet!”

“Well now I do, and I’m not saying it. Come up with something better.”

“Fine. MUSE! Help me out.”

Muse shrugged his shoulders. “I’m out of ideas. Just keep writing stuff, and we will tell you if its wrong.”

“OH FOR THE LOVE OF!... And you won’t let me sleep until this is done, eh?”

“Nope. Not a wink.” Muse and both the characters each took out belts, ready to hit The Writer at the first sign of nodding off.

“Ohhh I hate you all. Why don’t you just…”

The door opened. John, The Writer’s flatmate, walked in. He glared at The Writer with intense anger, then began to shout “HEY! DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!? I’m trying to sleep, and you’re having some kind of party…” He looked around, noticing the room was empty except for The Writer. Muse and the Characters had all vanished as he entered. His anger slowly turned to fear. “Why the hell are you talking to yourself? Are you ok? Have you been sleep walking?”

“Uhh… yeah, let’s go with that. I was sleep walking. And talking. And...uhhh.... sleep... typing? Yeah. Sleep typing.” The Writer replied.

“Ok…. Well, get some rest… good night.” John walked out slowly, still watching The Writer, and closed the door. The Writer heard him walk down the hall and lock his own door.

The Writer sighed. “Well, thanks a lot guys. You managed to convince him I am insane. Guys?” He looked around. The room was still empty.

“Well I guess that's over.” The Writer sighed, and instantly fell asleep on his desk.
A glimpse into the creative process, and I imagine similar to any other art form. At least, this is how it kinda works for me. The voices tell me what to write, ok? That's normal, isn't it?
Basically, sometimes you don't write things a certain way because you want to, but because you have to.
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I used to write of darkness.

Of a place so hollow and apathetic,

And my insignificant place inside it.

But silence was deafening,

along with solitude savage.

I suffocated on thoughts of oblivion.

And I floated there.




my realm of


It wasn’t until I closed my eyes,
That I dreamed of COLOR.

C r e a t i o n   f l o o d e d   m y   l u n g s,
                             And  jump  started  my  blood  flow.

I was given all the universe

                                     .........Of which to shape into something  b e a u t i f u l..........

S o   I   g a v e   l i f e.

                               I   t o o k   c o n t r o l.

                                                        A n d     I     w o v e     l e g e n d s.

                                     I   c h o s e   t h e   u n a s s u m e d,
                                                    I watched them grow,  
                                                                       a n d   c h a n g e,  
                                                                                      A N D    C O N Q U E R.

         I hitched  a  ride  on  that  life-changing  journey.
                                               And while I saved this world
                                                              m y   p h y s i c a l   b o d y   m e n d e d.
                              I found my  s a l v a t i o n  through  c r e a t i o n.                                                                                                                          A n d   I   n e v e r   t u r n e d   b a c k.

I used to write of darkness.
B u t   d a r k n e s s   w a s   o n l y   t h e   b l i n d f o l d.
Just a true story.

I wasn't going to submit this one, but a friend convinced me otherwise. So I guess I'm not expecting this to be my best work or whatever, but maybe some words of inspiration to anyone out there feeling like I once was.

Yup. Comments are appreciated, and make me feel less stupid about my poetry :iconorzplz:
Yeah... walking away now..... yuppp
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The morning comes to an end
the rays of the sun wrap around all
the air is warm and full of emotions

The journey has been long
not always one of the best
we have seen many shadows
but this has taught us so much

How to be more mature
how to be more childish
how to be more human

We have learned to seize the moment
and even some unusual recipe
we have learned to believe
we have learned to distrust

We grew up together in that light
that now shines high
we enjoyed every frame
in the first and in the last moment
we laughed and cried
in the last hour of the morning

The journey has been long
and has now reached its last stroke
but we can never forget
that it was the eleventh hour
which brought the sun to its highest point.
I'm actually a bit emotional about the Eleventh's farewell, so I wrote this... thingy... I wrote it in Italian and than translated it, so I'm sorry if I've made some big mistakes. I hope my feelings will get to you anyway.

I know that everyone of you has a personal favourite. I'm always the one who says that The Doctor is The Doctor whatever his face is. But today I want to say goodby to a face who meant so much for me.
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Those are my genuine thoughts.
This isn't just about my stupid ego.

I'd just like you to tell me,
That I make your blood boil
By my gaze's heat.
That I make your heart hatch
Like a crimson rose.
That your brain overheats
Picturing my body curves.

I'd just like you to show me,
From the air I breath out
How your lungs have healed.
From the sunshine of my smile
The toughness of your bones.
From the embracement of your arms
That I'll be safe from everything.

I'd just like you to make me dream awake,
By your voice's melody.
But it tore me inside
Not to know
If you have ever felt this way.

Thus I'll keep tracking you down
Following your shadow everytime
Hidden in the dark street corner
Until you finally dare looking at me.
Tu regretteras alors de m'avoir ignorée.
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River finally has the Doctor exactly where she wants him... Sort of...  

"Move over, sweetie," River said, bumping him with her hip.

"I can't move over, I'll fall out of the bed," the Doctor protested. "And stop hogging all the covers!" He jerked irritably at the comforter and she rolled closer into him.

She wiggled against him, giggling.

"River, stop it!" he said, fending off her hands and spitting her hair out of his mouth where it brushed his face.

"I'm just reaching for your sonic screwdriver."

"'s! Not where I keep my sonic screwdriver!" he said with a squeak.

"Yes, it is, sweetie." She patted him on the bum and pulled the sonic screwdriver out from under him.

"How'd that get down there?" he asked.

"You weren't paying attention," she said suggestively.

"Well, if you wouldn't keep distracting me..."

"Sh... Someone's coming." She laid a finger to his lips and they froze, trapped together, wrapped up tight in the quilt, ears straining in fear they would be caught.

A sound like high heels tapped down the corridor and away.

"Right. That's it!" The Doctor's arms were trapped down, strapped around River. He started flailing at the blanket. She muffled a laugh in his chest.

"It's not funny, River! Next time the Autons decide to use a furniture store as a headquarters, we're staking them out from the dining room section."

River game him a thoroughly naughty grin. "Works for me."
River's got the Doctor right where she wants him... Sort of...

Doctor Who, 11th Doctor, River Song, Romance, Fluff, Humor, PG

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"No..." whispered John in horror, his bags of shopping falling to the floor as he froze in the doorway. "Oh God, please, no..." The ghastly creature before him in the darkened front room of 221B Baker Street turned and snarled menacingly, pinkish-red saliva dripping from the gaping maw that was once a delicate Cupid's bow. Its face, rather gaunt even in life, now seemed little more than a skull with pale skin stretched tautly over it; its ears had lengthened to tapered tips; its ebony curls, that had always been such a breathtaking conundrum of disheveled and casually suave, were matted here and there with grime and blood; its eyes, so full of playful mischief and dazzling intellect when John had last seen them, glowed like blue ice within the sunken sockets and showed not even the slightest hint of recognition. Of humanity. The doctor's heart clenched.

The nightmare crouched low, the tattered black Belstaff it still wore over a perfectly-tailored suit nearly brushing along the carpet. Wicked claws attached to thin, gnarled fingers gleamed red in the dim light of the evening, even as their owner poised them to rip the flesh from the army doctor's bones. John's eyes darted over to the top drawer of his desk, where his gun still laid untouched for two years but for cleaning. He hurriedly tried to remember if he'd left it loaded last time; God, he hoped so. If it wasn't... well, at least his heartache would stop...

Tensing, the tall figure growled again, but made no move to approach as its prey cautiously edged further into the room. It sniffed the air curiously as the air shifted, bringing with it the scent of something... no, someone almost familiar that could not be placed, making the ghoul's brow furrow in irritation and confusion. Grumbling, it inhaled again, this time certain the enticing scent belonged to its intended target, mingled with the delicious tangs of sweat and fear. Padding silently forward on bare and dirty feet, it halted a mere 3-or-so metres from the meal it craved when its prey suddenly lunged to the left to withdraw what was clearly a weapon. The monster hissed and backed away slightly, eyes narrowing with distrust and a faint sense of hurt; why did the victim defending himself from his attacker feel so unaccountably wrong?

The taller humanoid was being held at gunpoint at point-blank range, the danger was nowhere near over, the gun was perfectly steady, and John Watson was absolutely filled with self-loathing in acknowledgement. He knew the creature wouldn't be intimidated for long, Lord knows the man it used to be never was, but even with his life on the line, simply pulling the trigger on what was once his best and closest friend would be the hardest thing he'd ever done. Or would ever do, for that matter; after this, it was all over, for both of them this time. John blinked rapidly as tears pricked his eyes, locking them on the solid and feral blues of the ghoul, his ghoul, for the final time.

"Goodbye, Sherlock" he rasped through the catch in his throat, the badly-suppressed tears running down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, my love... Goodbye..."

And for just a second, for just a flicker of a moment as the gun went off and the first of two bullets flew through the air, the ghoul's eyes, Sherlock's eyes, were clear.
The art belongs to :iconmimisikokryptonite:, which can be found on its own here: [link]

I blame them and their Reichenangst for this.
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I saw you today

yes I did

you looked even more pathetic than what you used to

as you cling to your boyfriend

showing him off like he is some kind of trophy

you have nothing better to brag about

other than the ''hunk'' you call your ''love'' your ''baby'' or any kind of foolish name you come up with

or so you think ,but you hide the fact that he only wants to fuck you

and then move on to the next one

your just another piece of meat to him

do you know that?

no you wouldn't

you're too naïve and small minded to look through all the sweet words he rubs over your raging hormones


I saw you today

I know you saw me too

do you remember it ?

do you remember all the times you fucked with me

do you remember each single letter of all the names you called me

want me to spell it out for you?


I can go on ,but we shouldn't get nasty now


I saw you today

you were wearing that smile

the same smile you took from your closet of skeletons

you wear so many of them

I know they are fake

do you know they are fake ?

or do you still drown in the lies you tell

you tell them as if your reading from a book

a book you wrote about yourself

but it's like a fiction novel you buy from the bad part of the bookstore

the part where nobody even bothers to go because the books are so rotten

you can smell their sickly dead scent even down the narrow alleys of your street

just like you


I saw you today

I feel nothing

I'm dead inside

you're like a ghost to me now

I never attended the personal funeral I had for you

so I'm just going to blink twice

and say


just try to write what I feel

Note: I see some amazing authors , poets and writers here on Deviantart .I don't think of myself as a poet or a writer, my work is not high standard ,but I still need another way to express myself well I try.
Thank you to everyone who placed this poem in your favs and all those who left the most beautiful comments, it really brings me up and makes me want to work harder

I wrote this poem after I saw one of my high school bullies in the shopping mall, I felt like I need to write something. so many people get bullied each day ,at school at work even online. and no one cares or does anything to stop it ,but you can stop it you can stand up for yourself you have that strength in you, you just need to find it and use it

and I hope that every bully out there who reads this will know that your actions and word causes way more damage and hurt , yes it might be fun and a laugh ,but your actions can ruin a life , so many kids commit suicide because of bullying, when you bully someone ,you forget it the next day but the person you bullied WILL NEVER FORGET .Why take out your frustrations on an innocent person , why do you need to prove yourself by scaring someone for life

THINK ABOUT YOUR ACTIONS BECAUSE word are more powerful than you think

we all need to stand up! something must be done about bullying it us a serious thing
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