Oneword: MedicalOneword: Medical3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The two Londoners had unknowingly pinned a Gallifreyan against a brick wall in a dark alley. Having caught him suspiciously breaking into a high-tech facility, Sherlock feared that the tall, gangly man in the tweed jacket had been another member of Moriarty's web. John, not familiar with the technology contained in the stranger's little green-bulbed instrument with extendable claws, had pointed his gun at him for a sense of safety.
"Whatever went wrong," pleaded the man, both hands in the air against the wall, "I can assure you with... um.. about eighty six percent certainty that it wasn't me. Probably."
John wrinkled his nose at Sherlock in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded of the stranger, lowering his gun by a couple inches.
"I'm the Doctor," he claimed, eyes darting back and forth between the darkly-clad man whose cheekbones he could sympathize with, to a shorter blond man who would almost remind him of the Master's last form if not for his kind, tired eyes.
"Yeah right," snort
Giveaway prompt: SpoonGiveaway prompt: Spoon3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John sighed when he saw Sherlock sprawled out over all three of the couch cushions, covered in no less than two blankets, his head propped on the arm rest as he stared, glassy-eyed with boredom at the talk-show program currently prattling away through the night. John hadn't been able to get back to sleep after his most recent nightmare (an afghani child, half his body blown away and bleeding profusely). He had sat in bed for a while, trying to forget the look of horror and pain which had remained burned in the backs of his eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city at night, and the muffled talking of the telly downstairs. After awhile, he had donned his slippers and shuffled down to the sitting room to join Sherlock for some company, to get the afterimage out of his head.
"Budge up," he'd mumbled, just loudly enough to be heard over the inane chatter, as he stood looming over Sherlock's head, arms crossed across his chest for warmth- a tee shirt was not quite warm enough in the cu
Giveaway prompt: KissGiveaway prompt: Kiss3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock glanced at the empty mug that John set on the end table with a muffled little thud, his heart already sinking a bit. The end of John's tea usually signified an oncoming end to his time spent on the couch with Sherlock, in a mindless, telly-induced domestic bliss. Before John could gather himself up to shuffle off into the kitchen, Sherlock caught him gently by the right arm, giving a gentle squeeze to his brachioradialis, which caused John to pause and cover Sherlock's hand with his left one. Ever since Sherlock's return, they'd been sharing these subtle platonic touches, which almost seemed to serve as another form of communication. (Far easier to learn than code phrases like "Vatican cameos," Sherlock admitted to himself) John usually would be the one to bring about the contact; Sherlock would only do so when it was very important. He wondered what was so important now, that made him reach out to prevent John's departure?
John smiled up at Sherlock, the subtle light of the s
The LessonThe Lesson3 years ago in Romance More Like This
"Honestly John, it's really quite simple."
"No, Sherlock! It's not 'quite simple!'"
"Of the two human beings in this room, which one is more able to make a well-informed and intelligent decision on the difficulty of a certain task?"
"I really think there's only one human being in this room: me. But in any case I should cause I'm normal."
Sherlock scoffed. "Ugh. Boring. Now try it again."
"Sherlock, my fingers are tired. I seriously can't play anymore. My fingers are going to start bleeding and I'm going to get an infection."
"Are you insinuating something about the cleanliness of my bow?"
"Actually, maybe I am." John set the violin down on the armchair. "You've come home soaked in blood before."
"Pig's blood." Sherlock murmured.
"As if that makes it alright!" John shouted, throwing his hands up in defeat. "How am I supposed to know what sort of rubbish gets on your bow?" He crossed the room, desperate to get away from the world's most aggravating flatmate, and let himself fall onto the
Oneword: EnticeOneword: Entice3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock didn't mind John's bed. In fact, it was probably more comfortable than his own, if he cared to admit it. The doctor's firm mattress was an excellent support for the back, and the covers were kept remarkably straight and neat. (As was the rest of the room, to John's credit.)
However, there were times when Sherlock felt as though their relationship was a bit unbalanced in certain regards. While the withdrawn detective knew that John would never force or even insinuate starting something without Sherlock's interest and explicit permission, it still left Sherlock ill at ease sometimes... As though he had less control over the situation, because he was a guest in John's space.
It was a conscious effort, then, when he took the time to put his studies aside for a day and tend to more common duties. He threw the windows of his bedroom open to let in the cool, fresh air and evacuate the musty smell that had built up from his last experiment. He skittered about his room, tossing anythin
Sherlock's sonnetSherlock's sonnet3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
If I had known that I could have a friend
More loyal than the royal Queen's brigade,
I would have made my selfishness an end
And for a quick delivery have prayed.
Before we met I thought it left to chance
That I would play the game of life alone
Abandoned had I all thoughts of romance
Until we made our partnership our home
But how, my doctor, shall we now progress?
No longer do I wish to tempt my fate-
Uncertainty my impulse does oppress,
What if my own decisions come too late?
If I'm the brain to your unfailing heart,
Then please, I beg you, tell me where to start.
Must Be MadTitle: Must Be MadMust Be Mad3 years ago in Romance More Like This
Rating: Mild T (13+)
Summary: There are some things none of us understand. Things like falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Warnings: Slash. May trigger intense periods of crying over the cruelty of the BBC.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, the series finale would certainly not have involved John Watson's heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.
Notes: This is kind of part of a series of fics (Must Be Mad, More Than I Am, Lovers of the Lost, and Of Course, Of Course.) They can be read as a series, or as stand-alone stories
Oneword: ShorthandOneword: Shorthand3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Before Sherlock died, the two flatmates rarely touched. John was withdrawn and still used to the homophobic atmosphere of the military. Sherlock was just as withdrawn, more concerned with clues and details than with people, even those most prominent in his life. Why put forth the effort?
After Sherlock died, that all changed. Small touches were exchanged between the two, a shorthand system of communication which they learned instinctively as they went along. A punch to the cheek was easy; "You're an ass." A gentle palm on the knee; "I'm sorry, forgive me, I need you." A slow tracing along the cheekbone; "You're actually real and not-dead."
Time progressed, and the language between them grew as more vocabulary was added. A tug on the elbow; "Don't leave me." A quick squeeze of the thumb; "I'll be back." A chin on the shoulder; "Keep watch over me." An arm around the waist; "I will, now and forever." A gentle grip at a tense shoulder; "Ignore him, he means you harm, I'm with y
John's limerickJohn's limerick3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Nobody could call me objective
Regarding my favorite detective
I'll gladly take aim
To save his good name
Of his heart I am overly protective
72. Insomnia - JohnlockJohn lay awake in bed, an all too familiar violin screeching downstairs. Of course, it wasn't actually screeching, but at three in the morning it might as well be. Now if it had been in the afternoon or sometime that wasn't in the middle of the night, the violin would be quite pleasant.72. Insomnia - Johnlock3 years ago in Romance More Like This
He squeezed his eyes shut and held his pillow up against his ears. The action was futile, he knew from doing so several times before. Upon realizing that it still wouldn't work he let go of the pillow and opened his eyes with a sigh. He kicked off the blankets and stood up, walking over to the door of his room. He opened it up just enough to poke his head out and yelled, "Would you keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep!" He tried his best to sound threatening and angry but it only came out as tired and groggy and not intimidating at all. The sound of the violin paused for a moment and John thought that he finally got through to him. Unfortunately he didn't and the screeching continued. John sigh
Giveaway prompt: TerrifiedGiveaway prompt: Terrified3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock stood quietly in John's doorframe, the silhouette of the doctor's body illuminated only by the orange city lights glowing in from the window. Sherlock became increasingly concerned as the world-weary veteran tossed and turned in his sleep, muffled "No"s and "help"s occasionally escaping his lips as he thrashed about in the sheets. Sherlock could see the deep wrinkles in the sheet where John's fingers gripped it so tightly it seemed it might tear. Soon, the poor doctor was trembling and panting in his sleep, seemingly terrified by whatever his mind was haunting him with.
Sherlock could take it no longer, making the decision that John's comfort was far more important than his eight hours of sleep. He crossed the few feet between the door and the bed, and crawled in to curl his lanky limbs around John, wincing only a little as he was struck with an unconscious fist. A few moments of gentle stroking at his ribs, and a firm grip around the pelvis with his leg, and John's fitful nig
Glass and BandagesGlass and Bandages3 years ago in Romance More Like This
"Ow! John, that hurt!" Sherlock yelled and whined at John.
So this is what it had come to, Sherlock thought bitterly. The world's only consulting detective, and one of its most brilliant inhabitants, reduced to a whinging, screaming child, just because of a few injuries. Specifically, glass in his feet. He felt so pathetic and weak.
John eyed him at these words, slight amusement etched into his raised eyebrow and subtle grin as he pulled another shard of glass from his friend's right foot (luckily, his left one had gone unscathed). He had been doing this for nearly an hour, and it hadn't been a pleasant affair for either one of them, he could tell you that much. Let's just say that picking glass out of his friend's dirty and bloody foot was not exactly his idea of a satisfying Saturday morning. And as if doing this wasn't unpleasant enough, every time he had removed a piece, it had always either resulted in Sherlock clenching his teeth, fists, or jaw, crying out in pain, yelli
BathwaterJohn's neck was hot and damp and something rocked against his chin, spilling past his lips. Confused he took an experimental swallow and immediately choked. His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise, and he began to cough violently, gasping for air. The water slapped over the rim of the bath, splashing onto the bathroom floor. John blinked, puzzled: how on earth had he gotten there?Bathwater3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He looked down at himself. His torso and arms were bare and prickly, and there was a bruise on his abdomen, just below his ribcage but just above his stomach, that flowered sorely. To his relief he was wearing trousers, denim jeans that had turned black and heavy from the water and thus made it difficult to move his legs. His feet were naked. He at last winced at the heat of the bath water.
Sherlock came in, crumbs on his mouth and the remnants of a toast slice in his hand. He looked closely at his friend, then at the sodden tiles and back again. He smiled with relief.
"Oh, good, you didn't drown then," he
Oneword: SavageOneword: Savage3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John glanced up from his blog and was startled to see the savage expression with which Sherlock was staring at him. "Sherlock?" he called across the coffee table gently, bringing the detective out of his focused trance, "Was something wrong?"
Sherlock quirked a brow, debating how honest to be with John. "Oh, I was just wondering how hard I could bite your neck before you cried out." The doctor sat for a second, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as his cheeks slowly flushed a bit brighter.
Sherlock and Green Eggs and Ham?It was St. Patrick's day, and everything was green. Green flags, green decorations, green shirts saying "kiss me I'm Irish", and a thousand other things, including food. Sherlock and John went out to eat as they always did, except that it was breakfast, which was unusual for them. But they did anyway because somehow making toast and coffee seemed like too much work today.Sherlock and Green Eggs and Ham?3 years ago in Romance More Like This
Sherlock fiddled with the green, shamrock speckled scarf John insisted him to wear as he sat waiting for their food. They both got eggs and ham, but knowing the festive Irish restaurant they were in something would be green on those plates. The coffee they got was green and the mugs were decorated with bright four-leaf clovers.
The waitress finally came around with their food and when she set the plates down in front of them, they looked down at their plates, shocked. There, on their plates was exactly what they ordered: two sunny-side up eggs and a slice of ham. But they were green, a bright green that made them look
A Pleasant Surprise - BBC SherlockIt had been a month since Sherlock Holmes died. A month since John Watson saw his best friend jump off that roof. John didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.A Pleasant Surprise - BBC Sherlock3 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
After all, it was Sherlock. He wouldn't kill himself. That's what he told himself, but his eyes told him otherwise as he stood in front of Sherlock's grave. He didn't show any signs of being suicidal, wasn't depressed, nothing. He was the same as he always was. Nothing changed about him.
John found himself clinging to the silly hope that Sherlock was alive. That it was all some sick joke because he was bored and he would walk in 221B Baker Street like nothing happened. It seemed like something he would do, at least. Maybe when John came home Sherlock would be lying on the couch, saying he was bored and shooting holes in the walls. He found himself smiling fondly at the memory as he left the graveyard. Maybe he'll go out for a pint or two.
Later that night he was stumbling into his flat, clearly drunk. To his surprise h
Oneword: SliverOneword: Sliver3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock had frozen in mid-stride as they paraded through one of the less busy streets of London, returning home after their repeat visit to the Art Gallery. He had been muttering softly as they walked, gesturing from hand to hand as he worked out the course of events they'd been following for the good part of a day. John kept a good meter or two of distance between himself and Sherlock, not wanting to give anything away with any facial expressions. He knew it was probably a hopeless cause, but why make it any easier on the genius? At least they were getting some sun. John gently nudged his elbow against each pole that passed between them, not paying as much attention as he might ordinarily.
When Sherlock suddenly stopped and spun on his heel, hurrying off back the way they'd just come, John was caught by surprise and reached out to grab the telephone pole he was about to nudge, using his momentum to swing around it and hurry after his partner. A sharp, hissing intake as John's palm dr
Oneword: RainyOneword: Rainy3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mycroft stepped out of the car and headed in to the meeting he'd been looking forward to all week long, giving a little whistle as he twirled his umbrella in one hand. Only when he was alone, or sometimes with Anthea, did he ever let loose and show a bit of the emotions brewing under the thick layer of ice he held as his well-known facade. Those who were closest to him could sometimes read below it, if they were observant enough to pay mind to his umbrella. The grip he had on it could occasionally belie his state of being; a tight grip at the crook of the curve was worry or impatience, a loose trail along the handle with the fingertips was relaxation or accomplishment.
Mycroft had taken to carrying an umbrella with him when he was a small boy, dressed in the smart spats that Mummy had tucked him into. He'd been ever so eager to keep her pleased, and the umbrella was an easy precaution to keep his clothes (and appearance) prim and proper. Not every day in England may have been rainy, bu
Oneword: Festival - the sequelOneword: Festival - the sequel3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock sighed as the festival started to dwindle down, the attractions slowly shutting down one by one as the night grew later and later. Finally, the Ferris wheel came to a slow halt with the last two attendees at the bottom. The operator of the ride had been kind enough to let Sherlock remain on the ride, since it was not one of the ones in high demand, and his companion clearly needed the rest.
It had been a pleasant enough pause in his busy schedule, left to his own mental devices as John kept warm against his side, head draped over his shoulder with the softest of snores. Eventually as the temperature had dropped, Sherlock had carefully and protectively wrapped an arm around the doctor to pull him closer, centralizing their weight to keep the little car from rocking in the accelerating night wind.
With the gentlest of nudges, Sherlock had awoken John at the festival worker's request to leave at closing time. Despite all efforts, the veteran had still awoken with a start, glancin
Sherlock- ReunionATTENTION: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 2. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE REINBACH FALL. Or, you know, do. If you don't care about spoilers.Sherlock- Reunion3 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Sherlock Holmes was
John couldn't finish the sentence.
His hand curled and uncurled, the nervous tick that used to ail him returning. It had been doing that almost without stop since that day. The day that replayed in his memory over and over, each time bringing an overwhelming wave of emotion, mixing from disbelief to horror to pain that stabbed him in a place no bullet could ever puncture. Sherlock's arms pinwheeling, his iconic coat tails billowing like wings oh if only they had been wings to stop his fall. The pavement hadn't done a very nice job of it.
Sherlock Holmes was
John was limping again. Psychosomatic, his therapist said. Like Sherlock had said. The shock from the loss was bringing it back just like the tremor in his hand. Not that the therapist had been able to do anything about it. John didn't know
Oneword: JacketOneword: Jacket3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John rose from his crouching position at the edge of the rooftop, his leg starting to ache a bit from the cold and his general sense of unease. Exhaling a thick fog into the frigid autumn air, he turned again to Sherlock with a sigh.
"Remind me again what we're doing up here?" His body let out a little shiver as the chill seeped into him. They'd already been up there for ten minutes, staring at the intersection below.
Sherlock adjusted his coat as it blew in the tailwind. "We're keeping watch for the murderer. He'll strike next at that inn across the street."
John stifled his protests about how they could have done this just as easily from the warm cafe below them, and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket. He wished he'd had a chance to check the weather report before they'd left, as the temperature seemed to be steadily dropping into the 10s. A sidelong glance at Sherlock, warm in his scarf and Belstaff beauty, (like all things) did not go unnoticed.
Soft Lips are OpenSoft Lips are Open3 years ago in Romance More Like This
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see John's small figure passed out in his chair, his mouth hanging open ever slightly and a small whistle leaving his mouth every time he took a breath. Sherlock sighed, nothing to do now. He continued to watch John, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes would constantly flutter. A dream. He was having a dream. Sherlock hoped it was a good one, not one of those nightmares that would wake John, screaming to the point that the sound could be heard downstairs in the kitchen where Sherlock would be experimenting with whatever creature he could find in the fridge.
Sherlock stared at John as he shifted slightly in his chair and his mouth hung open little more. Sherlock smirked, only John could look utterly adorable while looking like a
Oneword: CameraOneword: Camera3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John had found the large camera in the stairwell, left forgotten in all the excitement over Moriarty's great hostage puzzle. He'd brought it up into his room after the whole affair had calmed down, always sure that such a nice camera must be good for something other than a disguise Sherlock didn't really need it, of course, given his memory. John pondered the prospect of amateur photography over his morning tea.
Sherlock was still down in his bedroom, likely sleeping off the exhaustion accumulated over the past week. John grinned and snuck down with the camera to stand in Sherlock's doorway. The taller man was completely spawled out across the whole bed, the lone sheet just barely keeping him decent. John zoomed the focus in on Sherlock's sleeping face, calmer than it would ever appear while awake, and clicked the shutter.