HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCKY BAAARNESSSS KEEP THE SWAG UP LOVE YOUR METAL ARM

Originally posted by falcvns

made a poem, please don’t copy my work, not a fan of plagiarism thank you very much

The Ranger

To the Rangers of the North

He is Chieftain of the Dúnedain

The last beacon of hope

The successor of Numenoreans

Hood over his eyes

Strider, they called him

Smoke bellowed from his pipe

Chapped lips sipped ale

Terrifying, he must look

A tad uncanny too

To the people of Bree

And the thicket of trees

Another name, he owned

One, lesser known

Estel, Elrond called him

The Lord of Rivendell

Thorongil, he was known

Before the journey of the Ring

Elessar, he was called

By the Lady of Lothlórien

Wielder of Andúril

Heir of Isildur

I bow to you, my brother

My captain, my king

Ruin to the Dark Lord

And Eye of Sauron

The King of Gondor

Of the Men of West

Oh, how could I forget

His name at birth

Whom friends yearn to call

And foes fear to say

This is no mere Ranger

For this is, dear companions

Aragorn son of Arathorn

And you owe him your alleigance

Long have the Dúnedain

Wandered without their home

But the age has come where the king

Will once more take up his throne

I kneel before you

And shall remain so

For no words of mine shall suffice

To speak of your bravery and grandeur

Legolas in LOTR:

Legolas in Hobbit:

Happy Birthday Aragorn Son of Arathorn ||. KING OF NOT ONLY GONDOR, KING OF SWAG. MARCHES IN LIKE HE DIDNT JUST ROLL DOWN A CLIFF WRESTLING A WARG.

HE HAS A SWAGGER IN HIS STEP. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU STRIDER, CHIEFTAIN OF THE DUNEDAIN

I BOW TO YOU MY CAPTAIN, MY KING.

Originally posted by wilde-is-the-wind

Originally posted by angogabloggian

gifs not mine

In a land far away from curious eyes, where you could live life the way you want, where no one took notice of day and night, there lived two gruff pirates named Redbeard and Yellowbeard. They scavenged the land and the sea, searching for gold and delectables, never stopping to think what time it was, or whether they should go to sleep and whatnot..

But on that island also lived The East Wind. She had watched Redbeard and Yellowbeard play all day and had loads and loads of fun. But then, The East Wind also wanted to play with them. She blew/ran up to them and said, “Yellowbeard, Yellowbeard, can I also be a pirate and play with you? Pretty please?”

But then Yellowbeard did not want to play with the East Wind. 

“No,” the pirate said firmly, “we do not want to play with you.” 

The East Wind sorrowfully turned away, brushing aside a stray tear. Yes, she was a bit of an intellectual individual. But even sunshines had their blue days. But being an advanced person, this took a greater toll on herself and her mind turned against her and sowed doubts and accusations into her mind.

‘Yellowbeard thinks you’re stupid.’

‘No he doesn’t. He’s my friend.’

‘He didn’t want to play with you. He hates you.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘We don’t want to play with you. We hate you.’

‘No.’ she implored.

Yes.’ her mind said.

‘…yes…they hate me….he hates me…yes…I will make him pay…’

That night was very windy. That’s because the wind blew straight from the East, into the house of a red-haired boy by the name of Redbeard.

 The very next day, Yellowbeard ran to Redbeard’s house to play together.

“Ahoy, mate! Come on…let’s search for pearls and mermaids!”

…

“Redbeard! Where are you?”

No reply.

Yellowbeard was surprised. Redbeard would never ignore him. Where did Redbeard go?? 

Wait. The East Wind would know! They were friends with her too, you know. Yellowbeard ran up to her house and asked-

“East Wind! East Wind! Have you seen Redbeard, my good friend?”

He only heard a faint humming noise. That song….was oddly familiar.

“East Wind? Where’s Yellowbeard?”

“I that am lost,” she sang and put the kettle on, “oh who will find me…deep down below…the old beech tree…”

“…eastwind?”

“Help me succor me, now the east winds blow…sixteen by six brother and under we go….”

Yellowbeard stood there, stunned to move. Below the old beech tree…sixteen by six…under…

“Be not afraid…to walk…in the shade…”

Yellowbeard felt his breath constrict with emotion. The East Wind was giving him a clue. 

She winked at him.

“Save one, save all, come try…

“My footsteps - five by seven. Life is closer to heaven…”

The kettle shrilly cried out, as if experiencing the agony of it all, the nerve-racking pain. Yellowbeard jumped in spite of himself. 

“Look down with a dark gaze from…on high.”
Yellowbeard felt his heart soar and sink at the same time. There was a way. There was a way to rescue Redbeard. But he had to do it quickly. He gathered himself and ran…ran…ran…to the Beech Tree.

“Sixteen by six…”he measured. 

Hmph. 

The Geo skills the Iceman taught him was paying off. 

He quickly grabbed a spare shovel from the ground (the one he and Redbeard had been playing with; he tried to stop the nostalgic tears) and dug like mad, the dirt staining his fingernails and his sweat dripping down his temple. Salty tears trailing down his cheeks as he let out an unearthly sob. Crouched over the now enlarging hole he choked back a sob and continued toiling, toiling for his friend’s life.

Day became night and night became day again. The ray of the crack of dawn shone in his face and he dropped back to the ground, drained of all energy, that pestering weakness in his elbows, the callouses on his hands, heaving in and out. He had been digging for…how long? He didn’t know. 

God. There was nothing. Empty. He’d been digging all day and night but there was nothing. Yellowbeard wasn’t there. An uneasy emptiness filled him and his emotions threatened to break and his body wanted to curl up and cry for the rest of his life. But his conscience had better things to do. 

He practically broke into The East Wind’s house, swaying like a drunken sailor.

“EAST WIND?! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

At the sound of him screaming, she patiently slithered down the stairs. Seeing her so serene and unaffected, his emotions took control of him, and he sank to the floor, cheeks flushed and eyes red.

“Please,” he begged, “where is he?”

“I that am lost-”

“No,” he cried out, “I went to the beech tree. I marked the spot from the tree, sixteen by six. I dug and dug and dug and dug and found nothing. Please, where is he? What have you done to him?”

“The song is the answer.” she giggled in a singy-songy voice, and slithered away, leaving Yellowbeard utterly devastated. He rose to his feet, painstakingly and retired to his house, rubbing at his eyes.

I wonder how I’ll get you to see the sadness emanating from him.

The pain, oh the pain. It struck his heart and broke it. 

His first friend.

His one and only friend.

He glanced at his reflection on a pond and collapsed to the floor in a heap, sobbing his heart out. Tremors racked his frail body, unearthly cries of hurt.

For when he always saw his reflection, he would see his best friend Redbeard alongside him.

And now, he didn’t.

I don’t own any if the characters mentioned or BBC Sherlock except Ann Ryder who’s purely my own creation.

Summary: This fanfic is about (drumrolls please) Ann Ryder, the childhood friend of Sherlock, the MI6 agent, the woman who put up with Anderson and Donovan in forensics (all hail her!!), and Mycroft’s acquaintance. This is just the beginning of Study in Pink (I’ll try writing the next part in the meantime; hope you don’t mind if it’s a bit too procrastinated, am terribly lazy).

Backstory: Ann Ryder, or Annabeth Harlow Ryder is an orphan who was adopted by Mr and Mrs Ryder at the age of 4. The Ryders were close friends and neighbours of the Holmes’ so Ann grew up with them. Sometime in her high school years Mr and Mrs Ryder died from a car crash and in frustration, anger, fear, denial, (guilt somehow?) she runs away. Sherlock tracks her down in university (or she does, dunno for sure) and they reconcile again. Ann Ryder moves into 221d, the flat above Sherlock’s. Ann is physically and MENTALLY strong and capable so Mycroft recruits her for the British Secret Services. She trains as an MI6 agent AND becomes a forensic investigator, while Sherlock becomes a consulting detective yada yada. Sorry the backstory is too long.

Warnings: A character ALMOST (mind you, almost) says the f-word, nothing to worry about dear readers…and there is a mention of a misunderstanding (Dr Evans really needs to change his glasses). Sherlock being compared to Smaug. Mention of a near strangle hold. a guy thinks 2 people are kissing but they are not, yada yada, hmph that’s about it according to me, there are no general warnings, hehe enjoy!

Why was I there? No idea. Sherlock dragged me along because according to him I had nothing better to do. And there I was at the morgue of St. Barts, standing beside Dr Molly Hooper. There was nothing particularly bad about her, not even her jokes about cadavers. I was the only one who actually got it and laughed. Sherlock zipped the bag open, his curls dangling over his forehead, eyebrows creased in concentration.

“How fresh?”

To a normal mind, it might seem as if he’s asking about the freshly baked pastries from Speedy’s (which I might have had a bite of if he hadn’t grabbed it and poured hydrochloric acid earlier; he likes pouring acid on everything he sees). He’s enquiring about the cadaver, a.k.a corpse. Molly swooped into the conversation, her cheerful attitude glowing.

“Just in. 67, natural causes. Used to work here, donated his body. I knew him, he was nice.”

“67 natural causes?” I turned to Molly. Didn’t know one could die from that many natural causes.

“No, I m-mean-”

“For the love of God Ann, there was a comma in-between.” Sherlock said exasperatedly.

“Remind me again Sherlock, why’d I agree to come here with you?” I rolled my eyes in annoyance.

“You had nothing better to do.”

“Right.” I gritted my teeth.

“We’ll start with the riding crop.”

He grinned.

The next few minutes was just Sherlock slashing and lashing at the body. I tapped Molly on the shoulder.

“Didn’t you say you…knew the man when he was alive?”

“Yes. I did.”

“And here you are, giggling like this was a magic show.”

She looked at me in a weird way. Then burst out laughing. That…was weird. No one laughed at my jokes. Either the jokes were lame, or the people were.

“You…got it.” I said, slightly shocked.

“Sorry?”

“No…you actually understand my joke?”

“Yeah yeah I do.”

“Well, that’s a first. Usually no one gets my jokes.”

“You’re talking to the wrong people then.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

“Ann Ryder. Forensic Scientist.”

“Molly Hooper. Pathologist.”

I held out my hand. She shook it, smiling.

“Try lipstick or ask him if he’d like to have coffee with you. I know that won’t exactly captivate Sherlock Holmes, but that’s the best advice I have for you.”

She looked at me quite surprised.

“How did you- ”

“I’ve known him for 30 years. Being with such people usually rubs off.”

“30 years?”

“Around that much, yes. Now go.”
———————————————

“So. Bad day, was it?”

Sherlock ignored her joke. I peered at the corpse.

What?

I am a forensic scientist AND an intelligence field agent.

“You should have gone harder on the torso, Sherlock. Can’t see much bruises there.” Sherlock nodded and proceeded to say in his usual maniacally fast way.

“I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. Text me.”

I caught Molly’s eye and mouthed ‘Go for it’.

“Listen, I was wondering, maybe later when you’re finished-”

“Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

I elbowed him harshly in the ribs. He spun around and swatted my shoulder with the notepad.

“I just…refreshed it a bit.” Molly said, a little surprised at our petty exchange.

“Sorry, you were saying?” Sherlock said, still eyeing me in annoyance and a why-did-I-bring-this-freak-with-me-here look.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee?”

“Black, two sugars, please I’ll be upstairs.”

He headed away, as I mentally cringed and slapped my hand to my head.

“…okay.”

“Should’ve known he’d say that. He’s terrible at socializing. So am I. Awfully sorry.”

I snatched up my mini kit and marched out, leaving Molly to stare at me oddly.

“Why would you say that?” I said, marching stride per stride with Sherlock.

“What do you mean? She asked me if I wanted coffee.”

“With her.” With that, I crossed his path and stood in front of him.

“I know you’re bad at socializing. But for once in your life, stop insul-……..you know what? Forget it.”

I pursed my lips and resumed walking alongside him. Sherlock jogged a bit to catch up with me and stuffed the notepad into my arms.

“Oh Ann, I envy you so much.”

“Shut up. I know exactly what you’re about to say next.”

“Your mind is so placid, straightforward-”

“What are you talking about? I’m the only person who at least manages to catch up with your thinking!”

“By the skin of one’s teeth. Your mind is barely used-”

“Oh for god’s sake…”

I roughly caught the scruff of Sherlock’s collar with my cold hands and pushed him against the wall, my elbow on his neck, in a threatening near-strangle hold. The tips of our noses were touching, my icy glare refusing to leave his face.

“Look here, consulting detective.” I sneered. I bet he could feel the rage radiating from my breath.

Yeah, yeah, he’s Bilbo and I’m Smaug.

He eyed me warily, having been in this position before.

How many times?

Once?

No.

More like a dozen times.

…

More than a dozen times.

Coming back to me strangling Sherlock.

“You know damn well who I am. You know damn well the stuff I endure. So don’t you dare try to rub it in by saying I’m average. I’m. Not. Your. Typical. 32. Year. Old!”

I said the last 3 words in a hissing whisper, so as to be threatening and discreet.

What?

No one other than Sherlock knew about my secret other life.

If looks could kill, we would have been cremated 2 minutes ago.

It took a gagging gasp to shatter our cold glares. We both craned our necks to the left. A pale, middle aged man in a lab coat, similar to Molly’s, was gaping at us, his glasses on the tip of his nose and his wrinkly hands trembling with a coffee mug with 'Thank you Dr Evans’. I should probably mention, a patch of brown liquid had stained his shirt.

“The m-morgue is n-not a p-place for-”

He looked as if his knees were about to give out. Was that man mentally stable? Certainly not. Then I realised why he was so shocked.

“Dr Evans, it’s not what you think-”

“How the f-”, he spluttered, “How the hell did you know my name??”

“Your coffee mug. It’s obvious really.” Sherlock interjected.

“I think you should change your glasses, we weren’t doing what you think we’re doing. You should really change glasses.” I called out as Sherlock dragged me out of there.

“Pathetic fellow.” Sherlock muttered. He glanced sideways at me whilst walking, as if to ascertain if I was still angry.

“What? I’m not backing off. I meant it.”

“Alright alright, I’ll try my best not to insult you.”

“And I’ll try my best not to strangle you.”

…

A few moments of silence passed between us like the serene breeze after a particularly frenzy storm.

“What did he mean? Why was he so shocked?”

I looked at him, a sly smirk grazing my lips.

“Haven’t you figured?”

His eyebrows scrunched up, thinking. Then he got it.

“Oh that bastard. He thought we-”

“Yep. Shut up.”

I caught his eye and that was the last straw. I burst out snickering.

“Oh…oh god…” I wheezed. Sherlock chuckled. That was enough. Even chuckling was rare for Master Stoic.

“Right now we look like lunatics.”

“We are.” Sherlock said.

I chuckled and shook my head.

“We sure are.”

“This way.”

ft. Ann Ryder in BBC Sherlock

Ann Ryder is a forensic scientist, friend of Sherlock’s, long lost sister of John Watson [she keeps her old surname; apparently it suits her better] and friend of Greg Lestrade. Happens after the Final Problem.

(I own none of the characters mentioned nor the BBC Sherlock series except the character Ann Ryder, whom I created)

“Doughnuts, sir.”

“From?”

“Dunno.”

Greg Lestrade shot up in his chair, as Sergeant Sally Donovan warily stared at him. Who’d send him doughnuts? Jim Moriarty? That secret Holmes sister? Was it booby trapped?

“Bring it in.”

The first thought that crossed his mind was that. The second was how he’d know if it was a bloody trap. Or who he’d ask.

Sherlock?

Nah. Busy with the case of the Chesapeake Ripper.

John?

Busy with Rosie.

Hold on.

Ann.

She’s a bloody intelligence officer (took her ages to confide in him)and part of the  forensics department. She’d be free today, there was no big issue her department was investigating.

Gee, the DI of Scotland Yard was asking a forensic investigator if a pink doughnut box was booby trapped. But hell yes, he wanted to get hold of the doughnuts(after assuring himself it wasn’t poisoned with cyanide).

He picked up his phone and quickly shot Ann a text-

Help needed.

It took Ann three minutes to answer:

What is it?
AR

I think my doughnut box is booby trapped.

She shot back another text-

…what?
AR

Look, I’m just going to call you. It’s too ridiculous to explain over text.

Geez, how fast did her fingers work?

Sure thing. I’m free.
AR

Greg pressed his phone to his ear as the call rang and went through.

“Heyy…”

“Hey Greg. What about the booby trapped box?”

“Uhh…”

Greg scratched the back of his head, eyes on the pink box.

“Well, do go on. Describe it.”

“It’s a cuboid, it is made of cardboard…no electronic parts stuck to it, do…do you think it’s booby trapped?”

“Smell it. And throw it if you smell anything else odd. Like bitter almonds.”

“Gosh.” He could have just done that. And here he was asking a forensic investigator if his donuts were booby trapped. He leaned in and smelt it.

“Mhmmm…that’s heeeaaavenly…”

“Should I…assume that’s the smell of doughnuts or something else? Like bitter almonds.”

“No no no, definitely smells like donuts.”

“When in doubt, Greg Lestrade, always follow your nose.”

“Right, thanks Gandalf.”

A chuckle was heard from the other end.

“You know you also could have just checked the address.”

“God, am I that stupid?”

“Maybe.”

Greg put the call on speaker, and lifted the box, looking at it from under.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. 221 Baker- hang on. Sherlock did this?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t think so. He’d find better ways to gift you.”

“Your brother? John?”

“He’s on the couch watching Doctor Who.”

“Rosie?”

“What? Are you out of your mind?! Why the hell would a 10 month year old send you a ‘pink doughnut box’??”

“No no I meant….what is she doing?”

“Oh. Asleep. Took us 3 hours.”

“Then who could have- wait…how did you know the box was pink?”

“…”

“Ann? Are you still there?”

“Err..enjoy the doughnuts, Greg. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Wait…how did you kno-”

The call hung up.

“Drama queen,” he muttered, a slight smile grazing his lips, at Ann’s dramaticness or the sweet box of doughnuts awaiting him, we don’t know.

He put his phone aside and set to open the box. The smile on his face dropped and rose 3 octaves higher as he saw the contents.

For what he saw were 13 scrumptious, vibrantly coloured doughnuts, glazed with every flavour you could think of, chocolate, cherry, plain glazed, choco with sprinkles, gosh, Ann was an angel. The look of it brought water to his mouth. 

Now the queer thing was that these 13 mouth-watering doughnuts were in the shape of letters, effectively spelling out, to the surprise of Greg, ‘NOT MY DIVISION’.

_____________________________

“Sir, there’s been a break in-”

“Not my division.”

Sally stared awestruck in jealousy as Greg devoured an entire chocolate sprinkled doughnut in the shape of an Y.

“Come on, spare me one.”

“Nope.”