[After The Incident Of A Scandal In Bohemia]

What should I name them? 🫡 Tangerine and Orange?

JOHN CAN WE KEEP THEM?

(I'm actually fighting my mum so hard over them)

YES YES YES YES YES‼️ HAND YOUR MUM OVER TO ME I’LL CONVINCE HER

If.

and if you'd like to hurt yourself more:

also, im sorry in advance teehee ^_^

I just read your post about Adler reacting to Philip's trial in MW3. It was so amazing and beautiful that you successfully pushed into that brainrot of Dadler. However! It really got me thinking, what wound he do when in MW2 Philip supposedly "died"? Like, maybe he came home after months but Adler didn't knew at first that his son survived that explosion and like everyone thought Graves died. God I could only imagine..

thank you so much i'm glad you enjoyed it!

And i may or may not have already written something...

so i'll just put this here

The devil knocks on my door. A Dadler and Graveson angst oneshot

Ao3 link

Summary:

Russel Adler’s day was going fine; that is, until he heard a knock at his front door.   And in his gut he knew something was wrong.   Or   Adler gets some news about his dearest and only son. 

(CONTENT WARNING! CONTAINS MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF SUICIDE AND DEATH.

DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH EITHER OF THOSE TOPICS)

Adler was leaning relaxingly against the plush leather couch, a cigar held comfortably between his lips, the warm burn of smoke flowing through his lungs before he exhales the curling smoke out of his nose. The burn of the smoke searing his throat became an everlasting comfort ever since Vietnam and has become a key staple in keeping whatever sanity Adler had left intact. 

The mindless drone of the TV faded into the background as Adler’s attention was brought from the show that Phillip had recommended; the name was something along the lines of ‘The Good Scottish Cook-Off’ or something like that.

Adler stood up from the couch, cigar still held between his lips. He took another puff of the cigar, his warm hand wrapping around the cold metal door handle, swinging open the door, the words already on his lips. He’d been getting pestered by the damn Girl Scouts for so long he actually earned himself a nickname, ‘grumpy.’. “Listen, kids—”

The words died on his lips immediately.

On his front porch stood four uniformed men, two of whom were marines; the other two were shadow lieutenants he had previously met a few months ago at Shadow Company's annual Thanksgiving event. 

His hand reaches up to his mouth, removing the cigar, and letting his hand fall to his sides. The four uniformed men all give him sharp, well-practiced salutes, and one of the marines and a lieutenant, shadowed by the name of Vinson, step forward, and the pit in Adler's stomach pitches deeper and deeper.

“Sir, we regret to inform you that your son, Philip Alex Adler, was recently killed in action.”

The words hung in the air after the marine had spoken them. Vinson didn't dare to look at Adler's face, keeping his head down and eyes focused on his shoes. 

The other words spoken after that bleed into an incomprehensible silence as Adler simply stood there staring down the marine with a haunted look in his eyes as the marine continued to speak. 

“A funeral will be held in his honour in the next few weeks, and you will also be given compensation for his passing, sir. Thank you for your service, and God bless.” The marine’s words were simple despite deviating from the normal passing script fed into the brains of the soldiers who had to break the news.

War was one thing: the bloodshed, the screams, the never-ending nightmares, and more importantly, the guilt. It wasn't just the guilt of surviving when so many of your friends and allies passed; it's the guilt of looking in the eyes of young kids—children—and having them idolise you, saying they want to be ‘just like you,’ unknowing of the horrors of war.

 It was the guilt of knowing that if you could say anything to those kids, it would be, “Don’t fucking do it.” 

And that was all that Adler felt, guilt. He had allowed both his lives to bleed together once his ex-wife gave birth to Philip. Telling war stories instead of fairy tales, teaching his son how to shoot instead of how to ride a bike. All he could think of was how he had failed, failed his son, failed to stop him from joining the marines, and now he had failed to keep his son, his sweet boy, alive.

He had failed, and now his son was dead, and it was no one else's fault but Russell Adler's.

Adler watched as the marines sharply saluted him before turning on their heels and leaving. The shadow lieutenants went to follow, but Adler lifted a hand, stopping them dead in their tracks. “Wait—” Adler cracked his throat dry, and his shirt collar suddenly felt far too tight. 

Adler cleared his throat. “Wait, come in, let’s talk,” Adler said, opening the door further, giving the lieutenants enough room to enter. The soldiers exchanged a brief glance before stepping past the threshold of the Adler residence.

Adler sat in his worn brown leather armchair opposite the matching leather couch that the lieutenants now sat upon. That couch was Phillips' favourite spot to sit when they would watch movies; the thought stung and burnt more painfully than any wound Adler had gained from his years of service.

Before the lieutenants could open their mouths to speak, Adler cut them off. “How did it happen?” he demanded, his voice not giving way to his grief. The other lieutenant, Osmond, spoke; his voice was quiet and soft. “Sir—” The second the first syllable left the man's mouth, Adler lifted a hand that now held a firmly crushed cigar.

“No, listen to me. Tell me how it happened, or I will report you for not giving information to a clandestine special officer. Do I make myself clear, soldier?” Adler demanded his voice be barred on threatening.

Osmond’s eyes fell to the floor once again. Vinson placed a comforting hand on his comrade’s shoulder before locking eyes with Adler, his voice trembling slightly as he recounted what happened. 

“It was a tank explosion, sir, Commander Garves-Phillip. Was inside at the time we tried to get him out...but...it was no use. I'm sorry, sir. We couldn’t save your son.” Vinson's words filled the quiet space, and Adler let out a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping down from their usual tense perch.

Adler haphazardly placed the squished cigar in an ashtray placed on the glass coffee table. Adler holds his head in his hands for a moment, running his hands across his scalp, nails digging into his skull, before he runs them over his face, catching the small droplets threatening to fall from his eyes. He lets out another heavy sigh before sitting up straight again, clearing his throat. 

“Do you boys have a…replacement lined up for his position?” Adler questions, lifting his head again to look at the shadow lieutenants, who both shake their heads.

Adler hums, eyes tracing over the side table on his left, eyes racing over the videotapes and files that decorated the small table. Adler reached over, plucking a company card from the pile and handing it to Osmond. 

“His name’s Case, an old colleague of mine; he’s a good man. If you're still looking for a commander and want someone out of the system, he’s the man you want.” Adler informs his voice, straining with each word, his throat too dry and his shirt too tight. 

The pair look down at the company card and then back up at Adler, their faces flickering with unseen emotions. Vinson nods once, “Thank you, sir.” He replied quietly, revving a sharp nod from Adler, followed by a dismissive hand gesture.

Yeah, well, don’t let an old man like me keep you from your duties. My son made it a well-oiled machine; I hope you lot will keep it that way.” He dismissed, head turning to look out of the window at the large garden that he had helped Phillip plant when his son was just a boy; the oak tree they had both planted now stood tall amongst the other shrubbery. 

The only sign that the lieutenants had left was the sound of shuffling and the front door opening and closing. 

Now Adler was left alone in his quiet estate with no one to wait for. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Adler's hands wrapped around the grip of his trustworthy pistol that had been through it all with him from Vietnam to the end of the Cold War and the start and end of the Gulf War.

He had used this pistol to kill Bell, and thinking back on it, the communist bastard was probably laughing in his grave right about now. Ironic.

The cold muzzle of the gun pressed against the underside of Adler's chin, thin streams of tears following down his face, dipping into the crevasses of his scar.

“I’ll see you soon, kiddo.”

And with that, Russel T. Adler took his last breath and pulled down on the trigger. 

A gunshot echoed through the Adler estate, and in the deepest pits of the underworld, father and son reunited. 

Everytime Graves goes to Price or Nik to complain about Soap being mean to him. Soap reminds them the "HE SHOT AH FCKING TANK AT ME!!??"

If that doesn't work he goes to, or Ghost who will then follow Graves around while glaring at him a whole day.

Or Laswell who then spoils him, and Gaz, while telling Price and Nik that she can't believe they're treating the sergeants like that, after everything they've gone through. Laswell is extremely disappointed. This will make both of the men feel upset, because no one wants Laswell to be disappointed in them.

Selfish

Graves centric, PriceGravesNik

TW: angst

(my friend called me an emotional masochist for this lol)

___

It felt like everyone was against him. He couldn't blame them with the shit he pulled, but Graves felt like he earned a tiny bit of leeway by this point. Hasn't he proven himself to the others by now? Nik and Price keep telling him they're proud about how much he's changed but judging by how everyone else treats him... he doesn't feel like he's changed at all.

Soap was always fucking him over, getting Nik and Price to turn their backs to Graves (normally only for a few seconds but it still hurt). If Soap didn't succeed in getting Nik and Price on his side, he turned to Ghost. And Ghost never passed up on a opportunity to fuck over Graves. He never physically hurt him, but that man was a master in verbal abuse and had a glare that could kill a god.

It didn't take much for Gaz to get on the Graves hate train and it happened very suddenly. Graves had three against him and felt like he couldn't turn to Nik or Price about it. He was afraid if he said anything that they would realize that everyone was right. That Graves wasn't worth it, that they could do so much better, that him trying to change was laughable and he will never be more than what Shepherd had him do.

He will always be that person, no matter what. It was only a matter of time until they realized it. Graves could hear the clock ticking, there was a constant countdown in his head. Every time Soap said something to them, every time Ghost said something to Graves and berated him, every time Gaz went along with whatever was being said about Graves--

It felt like the countdown sped up, like it would drastically jump to lower numbers.

Graves felt on edge the entire time. Felt like everyone was looking at him, waiting. It was too much. It made his head spin, his heart race, made him lose his breath. Graves kept thinking about what Shepherd told him, that he was nothing more than a walking plague, infecting those around them all while wearing a grin.

He hadn't spoken or seen Shepherd in a long time now but those words were becoming more prominent in Graves' head. He was starting to think he was right. He was a walking plague and he was infecting Nik and Price because they stood too close to him. He was hurting them. Hurting their relationship with everyone. They were taking a leap of faith with him, trusting him to prove to everyone that he has changed and was trying to do good.

It was only a matter of time before that faith and trust blew up in their faces.

Graves couldn't talk to them about it, to anyone. He didn't need to, he knew already. This was a mess waiting to happen, and Graves wasn't sure if he could handle watching it. He was clinging onto the blindly given love and affection from Nik and Price. Their addictive trust, their warm hugs, sweet kisses--

He was being selfish by sticking around as long as he has.

Graves knew he had to leave after overhearing what Laswell told them. He knew Nik and Price cared about her and valued her opinion. They were very close friends, practically family. Graves had always tried to avoid her, he knew she didn't like him and will probably never go beyond tolerating him for Nik and Price's sake.

"You're throwing away your relationship with the boys over him."

Graves heard the venom in her voice, it made him feel sick. He didn't mean to eavesdrop and had stumbled by at the wrong time.

"Kate-"

"No, John. I don't want to hear it. You both have been acting like lovesick teenagers, caring more about a temporary fling than the more important relationships in your lives! Every day I get calls from Soap. Texts from Ghost. Guess what they're both saying?"

Graves leaned heavily on the wall, heart pounding and ache spreading through his chest.

"You're prioritizing a relationship that is going to end in flames. People are going to get hurt and I want you to guess who those people are."

He couldn't stick around. He just started walking. The silence from Nik and Price was loud, suffocating. It said everything that Graves had been telling himself was going to happen: They were finally opening their eyes. The countdown had reached the end and Graves needed to leave. He couldn't bear facing Nik and Price telling him to fuck off, it hurt to think about it. But he knew that they were done with him. After that talk from Laswell? Keeping him around afterwards would be stupid.

Graves could feel everyone's eyes on him. It was too much. He couldn't look up, he didn't want to meet anyone's gaze. He just focused on the floor and walked, trying to keep the ache in his chest from being too much. But that was hard when everything was too much. People talking, their gazes, their very presence made him feel on edge, under attack. Graves needed to leave, needed to disappear.

Graves accidentally ran into someone.

"Fuck- Graves?"

He wanted to scream at Gaz's voice. He couldn't look at him as it became harder to breathe.

"Phillip?"

He bolted. Ran as fast as he could. He couldn't find a door, an exit into the outside world. He found a window instead and climbed out it. He took off after hitting the ground, not caring anymore. He had to leave. Had to run before Nik and Price found him and got rid of him in a more forceful manner. Graves just ran, managing to get off base. He was surprised how far and long he managed to run with how fucked up his lungs were after the tank accident. No, not accident. Soap tried to kill him but failed. Graves was wishing he didn't fail.

Finally, he couldn't run anymore. He collapsed to the ground, breathing hard. His lungs were screaming and he felt even more panicked by his inability to catch his breath. Graves was told to not push himself too hard, that his lungs couldn't handle it anymore. Nik and Price usually watched him, kept an eye on him and made sure he didn't overwork himself. Well, no one was here looking out for him and now he was on the ground, wheezing with black edging into his vision.

He was kneeling on the ground, trying to breathe. He felt himself tip and fall onto his side, staring ahead of him. Sound became muffled, everything started to slow down. He heard something attempt to push against the barrier. He felt someone grab him but he couldn't understand what was being said. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe--

Graves felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, unable to focus on anything, not even a thought. He felt himself be moved, a pressure going up and down his back. Graves felt air slip into his lungs, little by little. After some time he could feel himself breathe better, hear better. He had his eyes shut because the sun was too much. He didn't know where he was or who was with him, but they were trying to keep him alive.

"-to be okay. Breath in... and out..."

Graves slowly followed their instructions, still unable to determine who it was. It couldn't be anyone that knew him, they would've left him to die. Graves felt himself tilt and the person leans against him, a hand going up and down his back, matching his breathing. Sound was returning and Graves could hear the person, a man, speaking calmly in his ear. Though there was a panic behind the calmness, his voice was soothing.

The sound of a vehicle pulling up, rushing footsteps--

"Fuck, what happened to him?"

Soap.

Graves feels panic wash over him again, trying to move away. The man holds him, cursing before he tries to get Graves to stand.

"We have to get him to medical!"

Graves was hauled into the vehicle, the person who saved him holding him while Soap drove (he assumes Soap was driving, unless there was a third, silent, person there at the wheel). Graves felt exhaustion hit him like a truck and he just leans heavily on the man holding him upright. Graves couldn't bother to react to the voices that were maybe talking to him. Didn't react when some grabbed him, held his face. He felt himself get picked up and get carried somewhere. And that's when he finally lost consciousness.

And while he was having difficulty holding onto a coherent thought, he did manage to have one thought that he could actually understand.

I hope I don't wake up.

And just like that, everything stopped being too much.

[New York time skip]

William: Sherly, what does IDK, ILY, & TTYL mean?

Sherlock: I don’t know, I love you, talk to you later.

William: Okay, I love you too, I’ll just ask Billy.

Sherlock: ...darling that's not-

Look at my cat ya all. She's so beautiful. Her name is Santra. Been giggling at her for the past two hours, she thinks I'm going crazy.

Did you guys read Soap's journal?

While I reading COD wiki, i found out that OG Soap had journal

And he is a fuckin artist

And he really hates army dogs lol

He spent 3pages for talking about dogs

And the first one, he even said "consider me a cat man now"

What the hell kind of name is Ghost?

- Says the man named Soap

Og mw2 Spoiler below

For Ghost, Roach

Drawing of Price

How many times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own?

[Holmes Residency, childhood timeline]

11yo Sherlock, bursting in a room: Brother! What do you call it when you're straight but with vegetables?

18yo Mycroft:

18yo Mycroft: Vegetarian...?

11yo Sherlock: Ooo right! *runs out again*

18yo Mycroft, staring blankly: How does his brain work and why do I understand it...

Sherlock: So basically I am your late birthday gift.

Mycroft, pretending to be unimpressed: Can you live one day without your god complex Sherly?

Sherlock, grinning: And was the shared arrogance your return gift for me?

Mycroft: I knew we should have put you up for adoption 😐

Sighing

sending “I hope you get that job” vibes to the people out here tryna get jobs