ADVENT STORIES FOR
DECEMBER 13

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CLARK/LEX ONE

Title: Candy Canes
Author: Lex&Clark4ever
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Fandom: Smallville
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing with them and will put them back when I’m done.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent . Self-beta’d, so all mistakes are mine.
Feedback: scully2001ca@yahoo.ca

CANDY CANES

The snow was beginning to fall as Lex entered the Talon. Nodding a quick hello to Lana who stood behind the counter, he sat down in a seat near the window to watch for Clark, who would be meeting him here after he finished helping Chloe with the latest edition of The Torch.

He placed his order with Lana, and then went back to looking out the window. The entire street was lit up with Christmas decorations. Lex was surprised at how beautiful the scene was. Since he and Clark had become lovers, he found he had become sentimental about things. His love for Clark had brought to the surface long-hidden emotions.

Lana came over with a cappuccino, and smiled as she handed the cup to him. Lex looked down to see a candy cane lying on the saucer.

“I thought it would be a good idea,” Lana said. “A candy cane for each customer is a nice way of saying ‘happy holidays’.”

Lex nodded as he laid his candy cane on the table and took a sip of his cappuccino. “Yes, it is,” he agreed. Lana smiled and left, heading back towards the counter.

Lex smiled as he saw Clark walking along the street, heading towards the Talon. Clark saw him and waved. Lex waved back, and then wondered if anyone had seen him acting so sappy. Fortunately, everyone was preoccupied. Lex didn’t really care if anyone had seen him. He loved Clark more than anyone else in the world.

The bells that had been hung over the door jingled as Clark came in. He walked over and sat down next to Lex, gently kissing his lips before pulling away. “Hi,” Clark whispered.

“Hi yourself,” Lex murmured in reply. He didn’t want the kiss to end. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lana headed their way. Lex knew that Clark no longer had any feelings for Lana other than friendship, but he still felt a bit jealous just the same.

“Could I get you anything, Clark?” Lana asked. “Just a hot chocolate,” Clark said. He and Lana had finally reached a point where she seemed okay with him being with Lex. She had been pretty upset at first, just as his parents had. Jonathan had been furious to learn that his son was in love with a Luthor. As time passed, Clark’s relationship with Lex had eventually been accepted.

Lana brought over the cup of hot chocolate and placed it on the table. Clark took a sip, then picked his candy cane off the saucer and examined it.

“Lana’s idea to help spread holiday cheer,” Lex said as he unwrapped his candy cane and began to suck on it, pushing it gently in and out of his mouth. He smiled at Clark’s reaction. Clark stopped what he was doing and stared in fascination and a growing arousal. Lex slipped the candy cane out of his mouth and gently licked the tip, swirling his tongue around it.

Clark had immediately gotten hard the second Lex started to suck on the candy cane. Lex’s tongue was so erotic, and he knew from experience that Lex was talented in the ways he used it. He set down the cup of hot chocolate before he dropped it.

Lex smiled. “Tastes good, doesn’t it?” he almost purred. Clark quickly got to his feet and grabbed Lex’s hand, starting to drag him out the door. Lex managed to get some money from his wallet and tossed it on the counter in front of Lana before he and Clark were outside.

Once they were outside, Clark pulled him into the alley next to the Talon. Lex sighed in pleasure as Clark pressed his soft lips against Lex’s, sliding his tongue in and exploring his mouth, trying to reach every part of it. Their tongues moved and slid against each other as their hunger grew.

Lex reluctantly broke the kiss. “Not here,” he whispered. “My car’s not far from here. Let’s take this to the castle.”

Clark slid his mouth to suck briefly on Lex’s throat before replying. “I’d rather take you right here,” he teased.

“As good as that would be,” Lex said, “it’s too cold and there are people around. I don’t think they’d appreciate watching us and your parents would kill me if I got you arrested for public indecency.”

Clark had to admit Lex was right. He followed along behind Lex, holding on to his hand.

They reached Lex’s car and got in. Lex drove for the castle as fast as he could, while Clark leaned against him and gently nuzzled his neck.

When they arrived at the castle, Clark tugged Lex out of the car the moment it stopped. Lex laughed at his lover’s earnest impatience as Clark led him through the castle, up the stairs and into Lex’s bedroom.

Clark slid Lex’s shirt off, stroking the exposed skin. Lex moaned as Clark leaned down and gently began to suck a nipple, his tongue caressing the nub.

Lex reached for Clark’s shirt, unbuttoning it with one hand while stroking the back of Clark’s head with the other. Clark turned his attention to the other nipple and began swirling his tongue around it.

Lex finally managed to get Clark’s shirt off and let it drop to the floor. He groaned at the feel of Clark’s mouth. It was driving him insane. He pulled Clark’s head back up and hungrily pressed his lips against his lovers, thrusting his tongue deep inside.

Clark’s hands roamed Lex’s body before reaching for the zipper on his pants. He reached down and unzipped, freeing Lex’s engorged cock. Clark broke the kiss and slid down his lover’s body. He took Lex’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth, sliding up and down the shaft. Clark struggled to ignore his own hardness, wanting to give Lex pleasure.

Lex nearly screamed as Clark sucked him. It felt like white-hot pleasure was coursing through every nerve ending. “Clark…god yes…” He couldn’t stop the moans coming from his throat. His hands gently gripped Clark’s head as he fucked the warm mouth.

Clark swallowed Lex down, taking his cock deep into his throat. He knew Lex was close. The thrusts were becoming erratic.

“Clark!” Lex screamed as he came down Clark’s throat. Clark swallowed everything, loving the taste of Lex’s come. He carefully licked Lex clean and smiled up at him, watching him try to control his ragged breathing.

Lex sank to the floor and pulled Clark into his arms. He kissed Clark, enjoying the taste of himself in Clark’s mouth. Lex licked every trace of himself from Clark’s tongue.

Clark smiled and leaned back. “I love you,” he whispered. Lex slowly kissed him again. “I love you, Clark,” he murmured in reply.

“I wish it was Christmas all the time,” Clark said, gazing at his lover.

“Why’s that?” Lex asked, leaning over to nuzzle Clark’s throat.

“It’s just that…you look so hot sucking on candy canes.” Clark replied, blushing slightly.

Lex rose up until he was leaning over Clark, an evil smile on his face. “So watching me suck on things turns you on? Well, this isn’t a candy cane, but…” He opened the front of Clark’s pants and swallowed the erection deep. Licking along the shaft, he pulled back to watch Clark’s stunned reaction. Smiling to himself, he moaned as Clark’s cock began to thrust into his mouth. Lex held tight to Clark’s hips as the boy screamed and filled his throat with come. He swallowed every drop, and when Clark whimpered, he pulled off.

“You taste better than any candy cane,” Lex said, licking his lips contentedly.

“So do you,” Clark murmured once he could breathe normally again. He pulled his lover down for a long kiss. Christmas and candy canes might only be once a year, but their love, Clark knew, was forever.

END.

CLARK/LEX TWO

Title: One, Waiting on Christmas
Author: mdl
RATING: G
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Fandom: Smallville
Beta: Elegantly done by MeLi
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback: montddlaw@aol.com

ONE, WAITING ON CHRISTMAS

The tree was huge, it squatted at the end of the great hall, sucking space like a bottom heavy dragon. Lionel couldn't really see the tree, but its pine scent lined his nose and throat and its thousands of candles made his face flushed, almost raw. His blindness allowed him to perceive the room as it had been years ago. The last time there had been a tree in the German tradition, when the universe had reacted to his hubris with boring predictability and relieved him of his wife and child.

Lillian delicately sprawled on the scarlet chaise, pale and glowing like some insane version of fire that fed on snow; Lillian sending the two of them out to sled on the hill behind the house. The last joyful thing he ever saw was Lillian. He turned, one hand on Lex's, and saw her cool glow fed by the huge tree behind her. The mercury glass ornaments shone as if they were priceless artifacts and echoed the room's crystal. The light sang harmonies with Lillian's dark opal jewelry and danced with the fire in her hair.

An hour later, when he and Lex returned cold and laughing, she was in the same position; only perfect and dead. The fire Goddess of a moment ago replaced by a cold waxy doll, Lionel's life in a lap disolve. From "It's A Wonderful Life" to "Dark Victory" in the tick of a clock. Leaving Lionel no one to share the joke with.

When Lionel issued his ultimatum and Lex bolted, he'd set Martha and Jonathan Kent the task of finding the Christmas he had boxed a lifetime ago. He'd almost taken an ax to it all, crushed every piece of ancient glass into a mirror for his soul. He'd almost loosed the candle's fire to purify his mind. But Lionel did not give into his rage that day anymore than he would seek her scent in the dusty couch today. He boxed it up a piece at a time and put it away. From him.

The universe conserved though and nothing ever went away. Martha Kent was pleased with him, he could hear it in her voice, feel it in the fond touch of her fingers. Lionel found her belief in his sentimentality amusing, but did nothing to disabuse her. Lionel did not remind her a sleeping wolf was not a dog. He'd unpacked the boxes himself and touched each piece of his past before handing it to one of the Kents to be placed.

Lionel had recreated the last happy moment his son had known. Now all he had to do was wait.

END

HARRY/SNAPE

Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Laguna
Title: The Potions Master's Heart
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series was created by J.K. Rowling. I do not own the series, nor any of the characters created therein.
Synopsis: A shared loss has brought Harry and Severus together.

THE POTIONS MASTER’S HEART

He hasn't looked at Slytherins the same since the day it happened.

The pale boy had never spoken of his love for Potter, but looking back to that day, Harry realizes now that it had always been there. A love strong enough to block the hate he was meant to feel. But it had been so busy blocking what the boy's father had meant for him to do, that it had not not been able to make itself known. Perhaps if he had said something, they could have protected each other? Or was it more likely that it would have driven those who claimed his friendship away, to know that he loved and was loved by the boy who seemed to be his greatest rival.

He would never know the answers to those questions. A cursed Snitch had taken away that chance in an explosion that had been meant to claim his life. In a move that had knocked Harry out for two days, Draco had cast a sleep spell upon Harry, then had claimed the Snitch. But, rather than fly into the center of the pitch, he had flown straight up, his grip as tight as it could be.

Ron had told Harry what had happened next. "He kept going. Nobody could understand what the heck he was doing. Then, there was this explosion, Dumbledore says the Snitch blew up. That someone was trying to kill you. They expected you to win, so they cursed the Snitch."

And, somehow, Harry knew that Draco had known of the lethal curse.

He hasn't looked at Slytherins the same since the day Draco gave his life for him.

Especially not at the man who is now standing beside him, as those who dwell within the Dark Forest listen to the words of love and commitment they share.

 ******

He hasn't looked at Gryffindors the same since that day.

When the young heir to the Malfoy fortune turned away from the darkness, and embraced the light in a dazzling display of courage and self-sacrifice, it had made the Potions Master wonder why such a sacrifice might be made by a Slytherin.

He had stayed by Potter while he slept in the infirmiry. He had gazed upon the boy, wondering what had inspired Draco's final act.

He knows, now, that it was love. He also knows, now, that he loved Draco.

Now he will not risk losing love again. Now, he will accept the love of this Gryffindor.

They shared the pain of the loss of a boy they both realized, too late, they loved.

Now, they are ready to share their life.

END

KIRK/SPOCK

Title: Deep Midwinter
Author: Lyrastar
Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG
Summary: What shall I give him?
Disclaimer: The characters and all things Trek are the property of Paramount/Viacom. I didn't do anything wrong; I was just playing. I haven't finished studying my predators yet.
Note: Part of the utterly awesome Slash Advent Calendar at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback: <lyrastarwatcher@yahoo.com>

DEEP MIDWINTER

Uhura turned to the center seat. "Sir, we are being hailed by the Halcyon, Captain Chris Nickols commanding."

"On speaker, Lieutenant," Kirk responded crisply.

"Hello, Jim," The jovial voice boomed across the bridge. "What's a nice starship like yours doing in a place like this?"

"Nikki!" Jim answered casually. "Thanks for stopping by. Got time for a visit?"

"I'll have to take a rain check, Jim. We're on a tight run."
"Anything I can do for you then? You've pulled me out of quite a pickle here."
A hearty chuckle filled the air. "Don't mention it. Consider it payback for bailing me out of that Astronav final. We have your item on the platform. If you'll meet me inside of transporter range we'll transfer it over and be underway again."

"Nikki, you're a saint! Kirk out."

Gathering Spock behind him, Kirk sprung up the steps to the turbolift. With a backwards glance at communications he added, "Oh, Uhura, call my yeoman. Have her deliver the anti-grav stretcher and supplies to the transporter room for us. She'll know what you mean." The door hissed shut behind him.

"Captain," Spock began as the lift began to drop, "I was unaware we were to take on cargo from the Halcyon."
"Rank hath its privileges, Mr. Spock," quoted Kirk mysteriously. Yielding he clarified, "This is a purely personal transfer."

"Then perhaps you would prefer that I--"

"Not that kind of personal, Spock. It is just...unrelated to official ship's business. In fact, I could use an extra hand."

Spock waited patiently, but Kirk simply turned to face the lift doors. Nothing further was said.

They arrived in the transporter room to find the engineer alone. On top of the anti-grav unit was a pile of what appeared to be colorful papers and small tools.

"Mr. Donner," Kirk clipped, "the Halcyon is in a hurry. Do you have a lock on your target?"

"Yes, sir. Awaiting your orders."

"Then energize and signal the Halcyon when the transport is complete."

There was a shimmer of yellow as a grotesque object about the size of a desk materialized on the pad. Donner maintained enough decorum to muffle his gasp.
"Transport complete, sir. Notifying Halcyon."

But Kirk was already moving to the comm unit. "Uhura, patch me through to Captain Nickols."

"Nickols here. Did you get it, Jim?"

"Sure did. And you have outdone yourself, my friend. He will love it!"

"Well, of course. What red-blooded little boy wouldn't? Have a good one, Jim. Nickols out."

"Spock, grab that anti-grav unit and let's get this thing out of here." Jim stepped up to the platform to survey his treasure.

Uncharacteristically, Spock stood stock still in the face of a direct order.

"Perhaps, Captain, if you could elucidate further...."

Jim shot him a childlike grin. "It's a Christmas present, Spock. For my nephew."

Spock collected the anti-grav components and stepped up to the platform. "What it appears to be," he noted dryly as he peered into the maw, "is the transformahyde preserved head of Draco conflagratus. One of noteworthy size, I might add."

"It's a dragon's head," Kirk agreed cheerfully. "Nikki picked it up for me on Berengaria VII. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Spock handed him a set of the anti-gravs and they hoisted the hideous offering effortlessly.

"Oh, wait," Jim stopped. "Don't forget the wrapping paper."

"Here, sir," Donner placed the papers back on the stretcher, happy to contribute anything towards getting the beast farther away from his transporter room.

"May I ask our destination, sir?"

"The cargo bay via any nearby workspace. I want to get it wrapped first. If we make it to Starbase 27 tomorrow I can ship it from there and Peter will have it by Christmas." He maneuvered into a briefing room and set the wrappings on the table.

While Kirk studied the logistics of packaging the thing, Spock commented, "An item such as this hardly seems either appropriate for a young boy or in keeping with the customary spirit of Christmas."

"Ah, Spock," Jim responded impishly, "you just don't understand." He groped for the can of Instapac and began to coat the scales liberally.
"I believe that is precisely what I said," Spock accepted the canister to begin to coat his side likewise. The spray plumped up into a thick, opaque layer, which rapidly hardened into a light protective coating. In minutes they had the head safely transformed into a smooth, boulder-like object, much more amenable to being festively wrapped and packaged.

"Gifts are just symbols, Spock."

"I do understand that, Jim. I am merely expressing reservations about the symbolic connotations of offering a child the severed head of a rare and majestic animal."

Jim grinned. "That's because you aren't a nine-year old little boy.

"Christmas gifts have never been about the object. The first gifts were gold and precious spices--valuable yes, but not beginning to touch the worth of the donors. They were to be an indication that the child they were traveling to see deserved nothing but the very finest that the world could provide."

He grabbed the paper and began to drape it over the offering. "Put your thumb right here for a minute." Jim turned around to fumble for the sealer and ribbon.

"So by extension," Spock asked politely, holding the edge of the paper still, "shall we then expect your mother to be sending you an eviscerated Ursus maritimus? Or perhaps the mummified hindquarters of Panthera leo?"

Jim looked up sharply searching for any hint of sarcasm in the expression. Seeing absolutely none, he chuckled anyway. "To a child, a dragon from an exotic world is the best the universe has to offer. Kids take a little longer to make the leap between the concrete and the abstract.

"To the rest of us, the real gift of Christmas is what lies underneath."

Spock looked dubiously at the monstrous paper-covered parcel.

"Not underneath the wrappings, Spock," Jim blustered. He closed the envelope and slapped it onto the front of the package.

"Under here," he emphasized, thumping his own chest. "The real gift of Christmas is the human heart. It was all that was ever asked of us, and in the end, all we truly have to give.

"You can't tell it from the outside, but the poorest, the smallest, the quietest have every bit as much to give as the grandest among us. Maybe even more. The wonder lies in discovering what hides within. And the miracle is that when we give all that we have, our hearts, our souls, ourselves-- we give up nothing, nothing at all, but instead we gain back manifold."

Job complete, he sat back on his haunches. Spock extended a hand down. He accepted easily. In one smooth motion he was pulled to his feet to stand toe to toe with his first officer.
"Material presents are for kids, Spock." He smiled that full, radiant smile that could move mountains. Or Vulcans.

"All I want, all I have ever wanted, is the heart and soul of those who go with me. Now," he asked intensely, "do you understand?"

The only audible response was a rustle of fabric. An oblivious shin brushed the side of the package. The card fluttered down to the floor; neither noticed.

"To Peter," was all it said.

~fin

SPIKE/XANDER

Title: All That’s Best of Dark and Bright
Author: Kelandris the Mad
RATING: R, if that, due to references to death and pain
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Disclaimer. No profit is made and no disrespect is intended to Nicholas Brendan, James Marsters, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy or UPN. Really, I am a small and insignificant slasher who deserves not to be sued for this small outpouring of fannish devotion.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback: kelandris@drakmail.net
Author’s Notes: Spoilers here, spoilers there, and no holiday stuph in sight. Just this odd little prose piece about the relationship that is, that was, and that will be.

“All That’s Best of Dark and Bright”
by Kelandris the Mad

He is the light in shadow, and that used to make me laugh. Wraps himself in darkness, tries to convince the world that evil stalks the night, and then bleaches out his hair to match his soul. He sneers and stalks and postures, and it’s not in me to deny that he’s done truly terrible things. There is evil in him. He knows it. I do not deny it’s there.

But he is not of the shadow and the drifting dark. Light radiates from him in how he cares, in how he holds me, in how he loves me. The others see what they want to see, what they expect to see, and they never bother looking deeper. For them, he is not a gift to be given; he is a weapon of which to be wary.

There are times I try to tell him. That’s the only time I see shadow creep across his face, creep into his eyes. He doesn’t believe me. How could he, with the past he remembers as blood-soaked and tattered? I see him for his compassion--caring for Drusilla, caring for Angel, after the curse (though he denies it). Caring for me, caring for all of us. (Though he denies it.) He sees himself through his actions--killing two Slayers, brutally laying waste to a particular upper-crust neighborhood in Britain where a certain poor clark had been invited to a certain party. Killing for pleasure, killing for gain. Killing for sport.

I know about that. I know about prowling the night, looking for victims to kill. That mine have always been demons doesn’t mean I’m not killing things that have intelligence, that have language, that have society and culture and whatever passes for art in the underworld. It eases the bloodlust, the desire for vengeance, a little, until the urge rises again and I have to go out with a stake, with a sword, with friends or without, and look for victims.

I can’t stay away from him. I don’t want to live without him. I love him.

He doesn’t understand.

***

There is a darkness in him that is deeper and richer than his eyes. It lights a fire in me every time I look upon his shuttered face. He wears a mask so often; the times he takes it off to reveal himself almost shock me. He’s worn it since childhood. It was his only refuge from the blows.

If I thought it would help I would hire men to take his father apart in sections. Mail each section off, dripping and foul, to the farthest destinations I could imagine. If I thought it would help, I would do it myself, with my bare hands, ripping and shredding and tearing through muscle and bone.

If not for the chip. If not for the chip.

It wasn’t Buffy who brought me the courage to keep on living, after I’d been captured. It wasn’t Giles. I’d almost hoped it would be, because my beautiful, fractured boy had protested my interest in the Gem of Amara. It was what had prompted our break-up after all--him to Anya by way of a strip club, me to Harmony by way of a scouting trip out of town. Seems one of the Mayor’s boys hadn’t been too clear on the ‘kill them, don’t turn them’ concept. Unluckily for me, she decided I was the dream of her unlife. Should have known. Never trust the blondes.

Him, though. His eyes glitter when he thinks I’m not looking, and sometimes he shivers with the memories he can’t quite suppress. But his version of childhood tempered him like fine steel; he won’t break, he won’t shatter, he’ll just bend…then snap back and slice the throat that’s bent him. It’s happened before. Once, I was there to see it. I was glad to see it.

But there is light in him, a little, mostly in the mask but growing. It’s why I won’t turn him. I don’t want that flaring spark to be extinguished when his darker self rises, clamoring for vengeance and blood. As much as I’d like to indulge him…I can’t. And we argue over it. We fight. We tear great bloody holes in each other before one of us comes ‘round to lick the wounds, and start it all over again.

I can’t stay away from him. But I won’t turn him. I love him.

He doesn’t understand.

END
***************
Kelandris the Mad
meet in her aspect and her eyes (byron)

JIM/BLAIR

Title: It’s Been Awhile
Author: Stormwolf Dawn
RATING: R
Pairing: Jim/Blair,
Fandom, The Sentinel
Summary: Jim can’t remember, and Blair wishes he could forget.
Disclaimer. The Sentinel belongs to Pet Fly and Paramount
Note: This story is loosely based on the lyrics to the song It’s Been Awhile by Staind.
Feedback Email address: Stormwolf_dawn@yahoo.com

IT’S BEEN A WHILE

Outside the window the rain fell softly as Jim Ellison watched the water slide down the pane following the paths made or making their owns paths in trickles of light and color that bent the picture beyond. It was a zone waiting to happen, but Jim did not care. Instead, he continued to watch the waterfall, and listen to the rain pattering against the glass, and ground.

Sitting in a comfortable chair wearing only a blue robe hanging open over a pair of dark blue silk pajamas, and a pair of slippers on his feet to ward away the cold, Jim rocked silently as he stared out the window using sentinel sight to see the wonders he had never appreciated.

Thunder rumbled, and he winced as the sound hit his ears, then regaining control he forced the dial down, not wanting a repeat. But he continued to look out the window, his sight dialed down so when lightening flashed it did not burn. So intent on his quiet study, he ignored the sound of the door behind him clicking open after a rattle of keys signified someone’s entrance into his lonely domain.

A nurse walked in. A male nurse dressed in burgundy scrubs carrying a pill tray. The nurse, a big black man with braided hair, set a tiny paper cup of pills on the small dresser beside the twin size bed.

“You need to take your pills, Mr. Ellison. Doc wasn’t too happy when you flushed the last ones,” the nurse said as he filled a cup with water from a nearby plastic pitcher.

Jim said nothing, refusing to acknowledge the nurse’s presence, as he refused the pills silently.

The nurse shook his head mumbling something about force meds, and walked out the door locking it behind him which made Jim wince.

He disliked being locked in the small room, and he disliked the pills but there was little he could do about it. All his choices had been taken from him. Jim wished he could remember why.

He had stopped coming around, which had worried Jim at first. But the sentinel decided that whatever it was he couldn’t remember must have hurt Blair.

Simon still came, sometimes. Jim was sure that if something happened to Blair, Simon would tell him. The last time Simon had been to visit, Jim had asked if he could go home now. Simon’s look of sadness had been Jim’s answer.

The doctors tried to help Jim remember, to face whatever it was he had done, when they weren’t trying to dope him into senselessness. Jim refused to take the medications, flushing them down the toilet in the small bathroom connected to his locked room. That made the doctors angry. Just let them try and force-medicate me, Jim thought. His training and abilities was why they assigned some of the bigger male nurses to him. So far they had not tried their strength against Jim, because other than the medications Jim had been rather cooperative. Mostly because that was what Blair wanted. After all Blair had power of attorney of his sentinel, and it was Blair who had put him into this place of locked doors.

A rattle of keys signaled another entrance into the room. A small breeze of air wafted to Jim’s nostrils, and the familiar scent had him turning to look at Blair who walked into the room with the nurse. The nurse looked at Jim then nodded to Blair. “Twenty minutes,” was all the nurse said. He then exited, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Where have you been?” Jim asked.

“I’m sorry, Jim. I just…its just so hard,” Blair said.

So hard to see Jim locked up in the place that Blair had put him in.

“Can I go home now?” Jim asked. He always asked that question. And the answer was always the same.

“No, I’m sorry,” Blair answered, tears glistening in his eyes. His eyes always watered when the question was asked.

“Okay,” Jim said rather sullenly.

Blair sat down on the end of the bed, and scrubbed the tears from his eyes.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. How have you been doing?” Blair asked.

“Alright. I still don’t remember.”

“So the doctors say,” Blair said.

“What is it I should remember, Blair?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you. You need to remember yourself.”

Jim nodded. He had asked that question before. No one would answer. He wished he could remember then maybe he could go home.

“The doctors say you aren’t taking your pills,” Blair said.

“They make me sick. I don’t like them. They make me sick, and make me feel funny. I don’t want to take them. I don’t care if I’m supposed to,” Jim answered.

“I’ll tell the doctor’s that,” Blair said.

Much good it would do, Jim thought, but he did not voice that.

They sat in quiet contemplation for a few minutes; Blair unsure of what to say, Jim unsure of what Blair wanted him to say. Eventually the door unlocked, and the nurse entered. Blair’s time was up.

“I love you,” Blair said.

Blair then stood and walked over to Jim, who flinched back as if afraid. Though he never remembered flinching after Blair had left. Memories were like butterflies and Jim had no net to catch them with. He had lost his net sometime ago.

In the hallways of the West View Psychiatric Hospital, Blair walked absently wiping the tears from his face. It had been a year, but Jim never realized the passage of time. To him it only felt like days, Blair knew that from the reports he was getting. But for Blair, the year seemed to pass agonizingly slow; every day without Jim was like living with cold seeping in until he thought he would freeze to death from loneliness and pain.

And it’s my fault, Blair thought to himself.

He thought back a year ago to the day when Jim Ellison had told Blair Sandburg that he was in love with him.

I’m straight, was Blair’s answer, and was his lie that eventually drove Jim to an unspeakable act. An act he didn’t remember. The loneliness that Blair had suffered for a year, which felt like a cold winter with no fire, Jim had endured for two weeks as Blair out of fear pushed his sentinel away from him, slowly each day. Until finally, Blair had come home to the loft which had no longer felt like a home to Jim Ellison, only to find his sentinel lying on the floor, blood pooled around his head from the gunshot that had been fired from Jim’s weapon by Jim’s own hand.

He had survived, somehow. The doctors speculated that the dehydration, and malnutrition Jim had been suffering from had caused his hand to shake, and the bullet had creased his head leaving the scar that Jim never even saw when he looked into his reflection in the window. The attempt he had made to end his life was something Jim did not remember ever doing, nor did he remember ever telling Blair that he loved him.

So each time that Blair came to see Jim with the scar from his right temple to the back of his head, Blair told his sentinel that he loved him, something he should have done a long time ago.

END

MISCELLANEOUS (Holmes/Watson)

Title: Not All Rooms Are Empty
Author: Farfallina (Farfalla, back when she was still in high school)
Contact: blueberrysnail @ yahoo.com
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes mysteries (I'm putting up a small Holmes/Watson site for my slashy poetry and this one story... http://mydearwatson.cosmicduckling.com , but it won't be up until New Year's Day.)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R?
Part: 1/1
Beta: Sawa Moondroplette
Disclaimer: I'm not really sure who these characters belong to, but they were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. They are most definitely not my property, and I'm not making any money from this. Also note, this story was written when I was seventeen and didn't even know what slash was. My then-girlfriend and I had a brief period of intense fascination with Holmes, Watson, and whatever relationship they might have had. I actually had a whole list of Laura Goodwin-style "sardines" (my nickname for slashy canon tidbits) for the Sleuthsome Twosome... God only knows what disk that got saved to and forgotten, LOL.
Summary: At one point in the adventures, Holmes fakes his own death and disappears. The action in this story takes place mostly during the mystery called "The Empty Room", in which Holmes suddenly returns.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent

NOT ALL ROOMS ARE EMPTY

Watson could never pinpoint exactly when it had started; that is, started to come to the light. He remembered the beginning of the long separation, when the business of his practice kept him from realizing that it wasn't just a few days he would be spending in dearth of his dear friend. Then he remembered the vague, empty feeling that had followed, where he had wanted to come home and share a story and a drink with someone, only to find no someone there. He tried to make closer friends with some of his more amiable colleagues, but he found them not at all what he was looking for. There was no one, simply no one, like Holmes.

Then the dreams started. He didn't remember the first few when he woke up; he just went about his day with a deliciously free feeling around him, without knowing why. Then he would open his eyes in the morning with vague images of a face and lips swarming in his mind, which he would quickly file away to be dealt with in an imaginary place called "later". After one afternoon nap, he let his thoughts carry him farther than he really thought they ought to and lay there dreaming but fully awake for several minutes after he had become conscious. He was not quite lucid enough yet to stop himself from imagining those remembered lips upon his, his arms encircling a familiar tall frame. When he finally got up from his position of repose on the sofa and went to supper, he did not think of the thought until just before dessert. Then he remembered and wrinkled his brow in shame. *My God!*

Back in bed that night after a late-night case, he once again found his mind flying up ever so high away to that faraway friend. This time he was lucid enough to realize what he was doing, just what it was that he was imagining. Night won over policy and soon the dreams filled the room.

It might have been the next morning or a few days after (after similar nights) when he read in the paper of the concert violinist Sigerson's reported demise. He had been instructed to follow that fictitious man's career if he wanted to know the whereabouts of his friend and had been scanning the papers regularly. The news hit him like a dizzying blow to the head.

The first thing that occurred to him was that this was a message from some heavenly power that his sinful thoughts had killed the object of their affection. Guilt and shame threatened to destroy him until an emergency case took his mind off the matter briefly. But the life was saved, and Watson took this as a sign that all was not lost. He gave himself the small hope that Holmes's spirit was somewhere around him in the flat and would be with him.

A kind of minor idolization transpired after this loss. Watson let his newly known love consume his heart, but he was in love with a ghost. People who knew him during this time saw him as intense and spiritual. Patients wondered if he doubled as a clergyman. Any time anyone mentioned Holmes to him or even in his presence, his eyes flashed, he became eloquent and poetic. He heard the violin in his sleep, and whispered in the night out to a presence he could almost feel....


It was an ordinary day when Watson tripped over the old man with the books and later let him into his study. The day was transformed, however, when Watson turned around to face the face from his dreams, the dearest person in the world to him, whom he had thought dead and gone and lost.... now found.... He collapsed into a white world.

Holmes dashed up to catch him before he fell too far. In that closeness the detective knew everything (as a great deducer would) and was finally at peace with his own thoughts of the past several years. Smiling a very small smile, he carried the unconscious Watson over to the sofa.

Watson awoke gently to a cold washcloth over his forehead and his mouth vaguely tasting of brandy. Holmes was bending over him and the nearness nearly sent him into another ecstatic faint, but Holmes had seen his eyes flicker open. "I'm sorry about that, old friend...."

"Holmes... you're back.... you're not dead...." Watson felt weak with happiness and shock, but frantically clutched at the other man's upper arms with a firm grip. It was then when he noticed that Holmes was closer than he had thought. "You're real..."

"Real as you are!" Holmes removed the washcloth from Watson's forehead. And then the great man did something unexpected and tenderly brushed a few hairs, wet from the cloth, out of Watson's face...

Something electric shot through Watson and he let out a small unintentional cry. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but stopped. What words to use? His hand reached up shyly for the side of Holmes's neck. Now it was up to Holmes whether or not Watson was going to heaven or just going crazy.

But Holmes understood and let the hand push his face closer and closer slowly. In a moment where time and the world did not exist, the detective quietly kissed the corner of his friend's mouth. Then he stood up and began helping a stunned but tractable Watson to his feet.

Within a few minutes their friendship was back to where it had been before Holmes had left and they were chatting as in the old days. Watson was too happy to have him back to even wonder about the strange, silent kiss from before. *Maybe I dreamed it when I fainted.*

After a lovely supper and an interesting concert of string music, they retired to their rooms to sleep. Watson was not tired, but he went to bed anyway because he never knew when Holmes would summon him out of bed to help him solve some crazy case.

It was Holmes's voice that awoke him, but he was not standing at the foot of the bed or in the doorway. Those voice was too close for that. With a vacuum of thought, Watson realized that Holmes was beside him in the bed. "Holmes?"

"Good evening," replied the detective calmly.

"Is there a case?" Watson was in disbelief.

"Only an emotional one," said Holmes. "Quite a queer one, actually." He chuckled silently at his own joke, but Watson made no sound.

"What do you want me to do?" said Watson. "Am I to help you on this case?"

"You, my dear friend, are the culprit!"

"None more than you..." Watson turned his head to face Holmes. They were awfully close...

"Must I do everything?"

With a swift movement Holmes pounced on Watson and encircled him with his arms. "Oh God!" Watson cried through a smile before being happily stifled by Holmes's kiss. They kissed three times before they met open-mouthed.

They were lost in this kiss for what seemed like eternity. Watson, always the doctor, was astonished that someone's mouth could taste so good. It was amazing how deftly the dance of their tongues was choreographed. Watson ran his fingers down Holmes's back. Then he pulled his head away and said, "Let's go to another place in the flat. I've dreamed about this so many times in this very bed, I'm afraid I'm going to wake up and find you gone again!"

"My bed, then." Holmes sprang out of the bed and gallantly helped Watson up. They hurried to the other room and Watson held onto Holmes's arm tightly like a life-support. Once inside the bedroom, they began to kiss again with their arms around each other. Eventually they collapsed onto the bed, and Holmes ran his fingers through Watson's hair.

"How did you know?" Watson whispered, in between kisses.

"Quite simple, really," said Holmes. He was leaving a trail of kisses across the other man's face. "I caught you when you fainted earlier. I had to hold you pretty close to keep you from falling. That's when-- there are physical clues when a man is thinking of certain things, you know!"

"How embarrassing!" Watson blushed in spite of himself.

"Not particularly," said Holmes. "In this case it would be the pot calling the kettle black."

And Watson took notice. It was an interesting feeling, really, a closeness oddly mirroring the pressure of their lips. Unconsciously he reached down and ran his fingers across the projection, feeling it swell at his touch. Holmes let out a strong sigh and caressed the back of Watson's neck. Watson grew bolder and made his grasp more firm. "I have wanted to love you like this for so long..." he breathed as he stroked. Somehow or another Holmes had managed to get out of his trousers and was reaching for Watson's. Soon he started to reciprocate the actions of his "dear friend".

An amazing moment transpired, together, and they clung to each other and covered each other's faces with kisses before laying, exhausted, in a tangled mass of love... "John," said Holmes in a faintly audible but golden voice.

"Sherlock." The given names were alien to their former selves, but their former selves were gone. "I love you... I think I always have."

"I have suspected for quite some time... you took so much care to detoxify my system."

"What happens next? Where do we go from here?"

"We will continue to live as we always have," said Holmes. "Call it a marriage, if you will."

A sleepy kiss, and then they fell into a peaceful slumber...

END