Deducing AttractionDeducing AttractionDeducing Attraction3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A Sherlock fanfiction
Normally he'd be bored by now
There hadn't been a proper case in weeks and it seemed that all the citizens of London had decided to be on their best behaviour just to spite him. Not even Moriarty had the decency to come out and play anymore and yet Here he was, lying on the couch staring at the ceiling of 221B Bakerstreet. His hands clasped together under his chin in his 'thinking-pose' as John seemed to call it. He wasn't the least bit bored, how odd.
Well actually it was quite logical really, considering he'd had something to occupy his mind. What was odd however, was the object of his thoughts; John Watson. How could the good doctor be so fascinating when Sherlock had been able to deduce his life-story in the first five minutes of meeting him?
How could it be that he always managed to surprise him by the sheer amount of loyalty and bravery in him, when he already knew John Watson possessed all these qualities and more? Why
SurprisesSurprisesSurprises2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A Sherlock fanfiction
Sherlock was not a man who was easy to surprise. His very nature was the cause of that. If his sharp eyes hadn't already picked up on any secret you might hold, his quick mind would surely deduce it within minutes, probably seconds. There had been times Sherlock had been surprised, but he could count those occasions on one hand. It was John Watson who would force Sherlock to start counting on his other hand as well.
John was very protective of him, that he knew. He'd known that since their first case together, when he shot the cabbie. That had been the first time John Watson had surprised him; a doctor not hesitating when taking the life of another man. Sherlock had deduced already that John had been in the army and had obviously killed before. But to be confronted with such ruthlessness, and all in order to protect him... It had been quite mind-blowing.
John was a paradox. A doctor and a soldier. Protective but addicted to danger. Caring but
BBC SH - Somehow Here AgainAuthor's Warning Do not read if you have not watched The Reichenbach Fall.BBC SH - Somehow Here Again2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The audience was alive with noise. The intermission had just ended and everyone was shuffling back in from various toilet/cigarette breaks. Feet were trodden on, apologies mumbled and bottoms wedged into those ridiculously tiny theatre seats.
Still, it's not often a university group is given the run of a West End theatre for the night. There wasn't enough of them to fill all of it, but the stalls were completely filled even if the dress circle wasn't. The students who had come to watch rather than participate in the charity show grinned gleefully at each other, enjoying the comfortable warm fug of lots of people in a confined space and the fluffy brained feeling of alcohol. It was impossible not to love the magic tingling electricity of sheer potential found in all theatres.
The lights dimmed, the curtain rose.
A brief murmur echoed through the audience.
It was that unusual purple-haired girl, that
May I Have This Revenge?"May I have this revenge?"May I Have This Revenge?3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A Sherlock fanfiction
Mentions of Mystrade and hints of Sherlock/John
Summary: Mycroft and Lestrade decide to get back at Sherlock for annoying them by sending John a link to a certain video
Sherlock liked days like these. Which was surprising really, considering how horrifyingly domestic the scene was. Well, as domestic as it could get in the life of one Sherlock Holmes; the one and only consulting detective.
He was comfortable cuddled up in the corner of the couch that he had claimed to be 'his spot', fiddling with his phone, sending the occasional text to piss off either Mycroft or Lestrade (or both if he was right on their recent developed interest in each other, which of course, he was) with crap telly as comfortably annoying background noise.
John was in his own spot, leaning back lazily against the back of his chair, while typing away on his laptop. Probably adding the final touches to his latest blog. Ah yes, there it was. That decidedly final t
SH - Echoes of EvensongFor a very long time John Watson had feared sleep.SH - Echoes of Evensong2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
So often he would wake in a cold sweat with the echoes of nightmares screaming in his ears, or lurch awake in a panic as his body confused simple rest with returning to the coma from which he had barely escaped.
He took to drinking lots of coffee, forcing himself to remain awake for as long as possible until he balanced on the brink of exhaustion before crashing over into unconsciousness. It was not as restful as sleep but it kept him sane and it kept the nightmares away.
It took several months after he had moved into 221B Baker Street to change that.
Three o'clock in the morning and he was padding down the stairs, eyes half lidded, steps shuffling and irregular.
He needed a cup of tea.
A light was on in the kitchen.
Sherlock's skinny frame was swamped in John's oversized towelling dressing gown. His own one had been badly stained in an experiment and so John had loaned him his.
He was stirring a cup of tea.
One of two.
Wordlessly he t
SH - TheInscrutableHolmes ficIt was not often that Sherlock did a double take at a crime scene.SH - TheInscrutableHolmes fic2 years ago in Humor More Like This
This however, was the exception that proved the rule.
Sherlock blinked at the body on the floor. " . . . You are quite certain that she's dead?"
"I should bloody well hope so; we've used the liver temperature probe on her." Lestrade said, from where he was lurking near the door.
"She's definitely dead, Sherlock." John cut in. "Living people have more skull left than that."
"I suppose so." Sherlock mused, "it's just I've never come across such a . . . well, her face. She looks . . ."
"Pissed off?" Lestrade suggested.
"Incredibly so." Sherlock agreed. "The last time I saw a child with such an expression it was Mycroft and my pet snake had just eaten his hamster."
"Not a child, Sherlock. Her driving license says she's 19."
"Seriously?" John cut in, disbelieving. "She's bloody tiny! I've eaten bigger things than her!"
"Barely five feet tall if I'm any judge." Sherlock guessed.
"5'1"." Lestrade corrected.
"But look at
SH - The Russian Ballerina 4Sherlock Holmes was rapidly coming to realise something. It is difficult and uncomfortable to ride pillion on a dirt-bike, even at the best of times.SH - The Russian Ballerina 43 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Especially when it is being controlled by a teenager whose general scatter-brained air and drug habits were common-knowledge to all who knew him.
And, as said teenager was traversing London's darkened, rain-slicked streets with a reckless disregard for the state of his bike or his passenger's spine, in a desperate attempt to prevent the death of Sherlock's niece, this could hardly be considered as the best of times . . .
The brakes howled as Banjo's dirt bike skidded to a halt at a curb, the battered Ford Fiesta following them screeching to a stop and missing them by all of six inches.
As the occupants of the Fiesta scrambled out, Sherlock tore the helmet from his head and gasped as the cool air hit him.
"She must be clos-" He began but he froze as a sound sliced through the air.
A gunshot like a distant crack of thunder.
Then a desperate
Not Quite a Deduction Part 2"Not Quite a Deduction"Not Quite a Deduction Part 22 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A Sherlock fanfiction
There was something decidedly unpleasant about waking up surrounded by dust. Lungs would ache and eyes would itch with the particles floating around in the air. The complete darkness he was wrapped in didn't exactly add any comfort either.
John groaned as he took in his surroundings, or lack thereof. He couldn't really see anything, so he carefully tried to move his limbs a bit. Ah, yeah, there you have it. Right leg trapped under what felt like the whole damn building. Never before had he been so grateful for a numb feeling.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and looked around a bit, trying to move as little as possible in the process. No need to put any more strain on his already traumatized leg.
The building was thoroughly blown to smithereens. The leftover rubble creating a harsh environment. The only exception were the soft strands of hair of the blonde girl.
The girl!! Rapid memories flashed thro
SH - StradivariusEarlier that day . . .SH - Stradivarius2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
A room in London, the daylight seeping underneath the curtains which were firmly closed.
A purple-haired girl sat cross-legged on the end of her uncle's bed, staring at him uneasily over steepled fingers.
The man was deeply, deeply asleep. But it was far from peaceful. His face was tormented and his breath burst from him in small, distressed gasps as his body shifted restlessly against the mattress.
"What am I going to do with you, Uncle Sherlock?" She sighed.
Cold flannels on his forehead to lessen his fever only woke him up. Cuddling into him in his sleep merely made him moan and wriggle away from her restricting grip. Stroking his forehead only seemed to worsen the fever dreams, not relieve them.
So Ophelia sat there, eyes pinched with worry, watching her uncle sleep as though by viewing his suffering she could share some of it and take the brunt of it for him.
"N-N . . ." Sherlock whispered in his sleep, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow, c
SH - Fever DreamsWhy was the world so cold?SH - Fever Dreams3 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He looked around. Quicksilver eyes cataloguing everything.
Damp walls, mouldy. Sewer or alleyway. If that was the night sky above, the stars had been taken away.
The world completely swathed in shadow.
And the blood.
So much blood.
A purple-haired figure ahead of him.
Standing over a body.
Tawny hair doused in slick red and tired blue eyes that had always had so much intelligence and emotion behind them, now vacant. Hollow.
The phone still held in lifeless fingers, Sherlock's name on the readout.
She turned and looked at him.
Her eyes always had been unnervingly similar to his own.
But her mouth had never been that wide, that cruel. Teeth had never been so . . . threatening.
The question was only in his head, but she answered it anyway.
"Because," she said, in a terribly, sickly calm tone. "He told me it was more fun this way."
That unnatural smile only grew.
He could hear his name being called, somewhere in the distance.
A deceptively unt