It had been a week, and Sherlock was close to giving up. He was no closer to finding the crucial, missing piece of evidence (the victim's neck tie after all) as he had been at the start of the case. The frustration was starting to get to him, his curls becoming frazzled around the edges and his behavior becoming more manic than usual. He swung from polar opposites, depressed and lethargic on the couch to wild and pacing between the kitchen and the restaurant at the end of Baker street. Lestrade had stopped asking him about it after the third attempt had found him with his nose nearly snapped off in a fit of Sherlockian rage.
John couldn't take much more of it. Pride be damned, he thought, as he started searching for help. "Professional finder" on google turned up a surprisingly promising lead- Promising until John read that the Finder was located in Florida. He was about to move on to something else, until he read at the bottom of Sherman's website, "Have case, will travel. Call for de
The drugs."John!"The drugs.3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I heard my name. Sherlock called me. I set down my cup of tea and my paper, and sprinted towards his room. When I opened the door, Sherlock was on the ground, apparently he stumbled out of bed.
"You okay?" I asked.
"HowdIgethere?" He asked.
I couldn't help but notice that he even looked amazing after being drugged, being brought here by the police, which was an awkward ride with cameras flashing, not the press, no, all the police officers that Sherlock had insulted, and yes, those were a lot. Then he had been sleeping for 9 hours, I suppose that's the longest he's ever slept. He never slept much. He was still wearing his black shirt, he looked kinda handsome, always did. I loved his shirts, they were so typically Sherlock. We hadn't bothered to change him into a normal T-shirt.
"Well, I don't suppose you remember much, as you weren't making a lot of sense, oh, I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone." I thought it'd be best if I didn't tell him about the oth
Oneword: DismissedOneword: Dismissed3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Dr. Watson." John looked up from his hands with a miserable yet somehow still blank expression. His supervisor continued. "You're a talented physician. You know that, and I know that. You've been with us for more than two years! But ever since you've resumed your Extracurricular activities, your performance and attendance have taken a serious turn for the worse." The chief surgeon leaned across his desk with an expression which could almost be construed as worry, but not quite. "We simply can't keep a salaried doctor on the payroll if he doesn't show up. You understand." John nodded and stood to leave when he was dismissed. He wondered if Sherlock would mind terribly that he no longer had a day job. Now that they were drawing in enough cases to support both halves of the rent, he supposed, probably not.
Oneword: BeliefOneword: Belief3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John set down his latest novel with a sappy sigh. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. John smiled and summarized, "He wrote her a poem, and she finally realized that he was right for her after all."
Sherlock snorted. "That's ridiculous. What would a young woman have to gain from a few stanzas of writing?" He turned to the next chapter of his textbook.
John stood to put the book back into the pile of library returns. "I dunno, ever since we had that Shakespeare unit back in senior year, It's always been a personal belief that writing poetry is one of the most romantic gestures a person can make." Sherlock didn't look up from his book, but his silence told John that he'd absorbed his words. At least he didn't follow with more ridicule.
The next day when he woke, John found a folded piece of paper hidden between the screen and keyboard of his closed laptop. "My dearest John," it read in Sherlock's loopy, graceful handwriting,
"If I had known that I could have a friend
More loyal than the
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
Peer prompt: Diogenes ClubPeer prompt: Diogenes Club3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mycroft sighed (silently) and crossed his legs, carefully folding his newspaper to the next page. The one other occupant in the room politely ignored him. Mycroft knew the reason for the club's recent drop in attendance rates. Ever since he'd gotten more involved in the lives of his brother (and by extension, his brother's associates), the club had been paid numerous visits by non-members who simply didn't understand. Mycroft had tried explaining things to John upon his second visit to the club.
"It's an establishment for persons with a need for companionable solitude," Mycroft had said over the tips of his fingers, hunched over his desk in his personal office.
"You... DO know that's a contradiction, right?" John had squinted at the government official, one eyebrow quirked in confusion.
"You should be more than familiar with the contradictory nature which resides about many factors of my life." Mycroft knew he wouldn't have to go into detail for his brother's companion to understand.
Peer prompt: MassagePeer prompt: Massage3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock glanced up from his newspaper at John, who had set his laptop aside and seemed to be pinching his own hand. His face slowly fell from an agitated state to a more relaxed one, the wrinkles in his brow decreasing in depth as he leaned back into his armchair with a soft sigh. Finally, he let go of his odd grip and reached for his tea.
"What was that?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit in his chair, folding the paper in half to better keep it out of the way.
"What was what?" John tilted his head and Sherlock inclined his nose down in the direction of John's hands, mimicking the motion on his own. "Oh," John smiled softly, almost surprised Sherlock didn't know this one either, "Just a trick my therapist taught me." John scooted forward in his chair and reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand, using it as a visual (and tactile) aid, "There's a pressure point just here, between the metacarpals, at the top of the thenar crease-"
Sherlock looked on in curiosity as John began to gently massage
Oneword: BrunchOneword: Brunch3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock awoke to the sound of his phone, alerting him to a text with the sound of a gunshot. It startled him out of his shallow sleep, and he rolled over to inspect it suspiciously. John must have altered it in the same way that Irene had, only adding his own flair to make it more... alarming.
"Make yourself decent and come downstairs," the text read.
The sliver of light forcing its way between the tightly-drawn blinds sought after Sherlock's eyes, shining bright yellow into them with the light of a sun which had nearly reached its apex. Sherlock sighed and rolled his legs out of bed, reluctantly giving up the notion of gaining any more sleep for the next few days. With a quick fuss with his bedhead, a noncommittal brush of the teeth, a robe and slippers, the tired insomniac trudged his way down to 221A. He was greeted by the scents of freshly-baked scones and something to do with eggs.
"Ah, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called happily as he poked his head in the door. She was just setting t
BlanketIt had been days since Sherlock had slept, but John didn't really worry. Of course he worried a little bit–with the protectiveness he felt for Sherlock and his doctor's instinct how could he not? But he knew that eventually Sherlock's body would shut down, (despite Sherlock's protests), and force him to rest. And so when John came home that night after a slow day at the clinic, the sight of Sherlock slumped in his usual armchair did not surprise him in the least, and it brought a smile to the tired doctor's weary face and a certain contentedness to his heart. He imagined it was how a parent must feel after watching their child struggle for days on end and then at long last find peace.Blanket3 years ago in Romance More Like This
He saw Sherlock's bare feet and noticed that he wasn't wearing his coat and scarf either. So he went to his room, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and came back into the study. He knew he didn't have to worry about waking Sherlock up, so he took as much force as necessary to properly wrap the blanke
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
DrawingSpoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.Drawing3 years ago in Drama More Like This
Molly found Sherlock asleep, sprawled out on the tattered couch. "About time," she said to herself. He hadn't slept in three days, and she had been starting to worry if he was going to have hallucinations any time soon.
But no, there he was, thin chest rising up and down slowly, curls limp and straggly over his pale forehead. His ribs were clearly visible through the thin blue of his shirt, and her heart ached for him.
One of his hands beautiful hands, violinist's hands was hanging over the edge of the couch, fingers tapered gently. The crescents of his nails were still perfectly clean. After all this, he still hated having dirt under his fingernails. It was a surprisingly girlish trait of Sherlock's that had surprised Molly.
A lot of things about Sherlock had surprised her recently.
On the floor, underneath his hand, was a sheet of paper. The way his hand was angled and the paper had fallen, he'd been holding it as he went t
Oneword: SwingOneword: Swing3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John shifts in his sleep, turning over onto his left to let his right cool down. His dreams are erratic, that night, but not the horrifying, haunting images of war that usually occupy his REM. Tonight, they are bizarre and jumbled.
He and Sherlock are running through London, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until their feet are no longer touching the buildings, and John is just following right behind as he always does, not daring to look down at the city below them. They just barely miss the London Eye as Sherlock's great belstaff coat spreads open in the wind, keeping them aloft.
John is brewing tea and trying to spread jam on three slices of toast at once, and Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, shouting at him, how he's doing it wrong.
Suddenly, Sherlock backs away with a look of depressed horror in John's general direction, "I never wanted to be a sociopath," he starts, ripping off his suit jacket to reveal beneath it, not his tight purple shirt but plaid flannel- "I wanted to b
Oneword: GourmetOneword: Gourmet3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John and Sherlock trudged home from the Yard, their shoes still soaking wet and making a mess of Mrs. Hudson's floor. They'd just returned from a case in a large pond on a private property, where the body had been submerged in swamp-like conditions for two days. It wasn't pretty, to say the least. The algae and snails covering it almost made it unrecognizable, and Sherlock hadn't had much to go on, but he'd still managed to provide some helpful insight based on some impressions left in the moss and other vegetation.
John knew what was coming next. After the case with the butterfly scales and the honey, now of course Sherlock would want to study the consumption rates of snails.
It was going to be a long, smelly week.
Once Sherlock's experimentation was over, the snails promptly disappeared, their mossy aquarium disposed up next to the morning's rubbish. John returned to find this sudden change, accompanied by another- Sherlock in the kitchen, actually cooking. He had several pots going
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
Boo-Boo "No! Sherlock, get a plaster!" John whined in horrified astonishment as the younger, curly-haired nuisance of a boy scratched gently at a congealed scab on his right calf. "It'll bleed!"Boo-Boo3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"I know, I want it to," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly as the scab fell to the carpet of the nursery floor. "It interests me, see?"
Blood, red and thin, seeped from the un-healed wound in his leg. It had been cut in the first place only four days ago after Anderson had gone on a rampage with an ankylosaurus figurine. In all fairness he had been provoked by Sherlock's attempts to shut him up by placing a Mr Men band-aid over his lips. Mr Happy's smile was ripped in two. Sherlock smudged the blood over his white skin, rolling up his trousers over his knees in order to get a better look. John chewed his lip worriedly.
"Are you sad, Sherlock?" he asked his friend anxiously. He remembered hearing something about people who cut themse
Giveaway prompt: DanceGiveaway prompt: Dance3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It was lucky for John that he had been raised with relatively good grammar, as he discovered one day when Sherlock had frustratedly rejected a client with a particularly bad case of cockney slang. "Why'd you do that?" he called from the kitchen, already brewing a pot to soothe the two of them.
"Do what?" Sherlock called back, snatching his violin from its case to pluck at it in agitation.
"Go all grammar-nazi whenever someone... I dunno, uses incorrect tenses?" A warm sizzle from the burner had already set John's associative reflexes to calming.
Sherlock paused with the violin poised at his chin, contemplating the question. "Just how Mummy raised us, I suppose," he admitted, "She had us go through the whole regimen of how the upper-class, educated young Englishman should behave. Etiquette, dance, hosting, grammar and the likes."
"Hold up," John poked his head out of the kitchen, one eyebrow quirked, "Did you say dance?" Sherlock only nodded, his expression grim. "You don't mean ballroo
Giveaway prompt: BailGiveaway prompt: Bail3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Yeah. Okay. That's fine, I'll be there in a bit." John sighed as he ended his phone call and grabbed his jacket.
"Who was that?" Sherlock set down his culture tray and leaned against the doorframe into the kitchen, watching John prepare to leave.
"A correctional officer," John grumbled, "Harry's got herself another DUI and needs me to bail her out. I only hope it doesn't overdraw my account."
Sherlock stalked into his bedroom, returning with his chequebook in hand. He signed the topmost cheque and handed it to John. "Use this if you need to," he told him with a pat on the shoulder, "My account should still be bloated from the insurance payoff." John smiled and slipped the blank cheque into his jacket pocket, and headed out to catch a cab to the Yard.
It was only after John left that Sherlock realized what had been nagging him in the back of his mind. Neither of them had remembered that Harry was trying to make up with Clara, and was out of town for the next two weeks.
Blood Fury - Part 5Blood Fury - Part 53 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
John was at work. I was at the flat. I stared into the mirror, and my reflection stared back. Ever since I had changed I never recognised that man in the mirror. A familiar stranger, so to speak. He didn't look human. But people are so naive; they refuse to see what's right in front of them. We have tried to show them the truth, but they just won't believe it. Because we're not in the 'natural order', because we're not meant to exist, they discriminate us. That was the past. I could only imagine what would happen if we revealed ourselves in these days, with the media and all.
It had been a day since Isla's death. The killer was smart. He knew to get rid of as much evidence as possible. And it was a vampire; they're never easy to catch. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. I had no idea what I was going to do. All I knew that if it was a vampire, it needed to be destroyed immediately. My kind shouldn't exist. We're bloodthirsty killers. I barely make it on a daily basis
Freaky and his little Johnny - Prologue (ITA)Freaky and his little Johnny - Prologue (ITA)3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Anche quella sera pioveva.
Grosse nuvole si erano addensate due giorni prima, verso mezzogiorno, e da allora lo scroscio d’acqua non aveva smesso di battere sulle case.
Le strade erano tristi e vuote, nessuno aveva voglia di uscire con quel tempaccio, erano tutti rinchiusi in casa o in un pub, per rallegrarsi e scaldarsi in compagnia.
Bé, non proprio tutti.
Nelle cantine di una delle case più antiche della città un’ombra si muoveva lentamente, sola e infreddolita, facendo tintinnare lievemente le catene che la tenevano legata.
Dopo molti giri a vuoto della cantina, l’ombra finalmente si sedette in un angolo, quello più lontano dalla finestrella sbarrata che dava sulla strada.
Odiava quella finestrella.
Gli dava una visione del mondo esterno che, seppur ristretta, lo faceva stare male, perché lui, di un maschio si trattava, rinchiuso in quella cantina, non sarebbe mai potuto uscire.
E in più quando pioveva, spesso faceva entrar
Oneword: CrescentOneword: Crescent3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock awoke to the smell of something delicious. Butter, at the very least, and perhaps something chocolate? The oven was filling the flat with an enticing aroma which had Sherlock instantly out of bed and into the kitchen (thankfully remembering to put on a robe first). John had just removed a tray from the oven, lined with sixteen perfectly-browned crescent rolls, drizzled with melted chocolate. The very steam rising from their crisp surface seemed divine.
"Ah, you're up," John smiled as Sherlock poked his head into the kitchen, already fixated on the sweets, "I was just fixing breakfast." He indicated a freshly-cleared table, covered with a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon. "I figured since you'd finished your last study, you could spare the kitchen table for at least one decent meal."
Sherlock only mumbled incoherently, largely ignoring the spread of healthier items as he leaned over John at the stove, resting his chin on a head of sandy hair as he inhaled the prescious su
Blood Fury - Part 4Blood Fury - Part 43 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It felt like forever before Sherlock returned from the tree. Seeing the dead woman reminded me of the war. The gruesome injuries and deaths. But none of them compare to her. Whoever killed her was sick and insane. I hoped they could catch him. Soon.
I looked up when I heard footsteps. Sherlock was walking towards me. Lestrade had veered off to talk to some other policemen. I recognized Donovan and Anderson. They scoffed when Sherlock appeared. He sat next to me on a park bench. We were away from the Isla woman. Police cars surrounded us. I held my half-empty mug of tea tightly in my hands. It had gone cold.
"You okay?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, fine now," I answered.
"Gruesome," Sherlock said.
"Yes, yes. It is, yes," I replied, "You seemed okay."
"It did affect me somewhat, but I've seen worse," Sherlock said.
"Worse than that? I don't think I want to know," I replied.
"You don't," Sherlock said. I looked at him. He was looking at something off in the distance in front of him. H
Blood Fury - Part 3Blood Fury - Part 33 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I was grateful to get out of the cab. Being so close to John. It was unbearable. Every time we got in a cab together. Every goddam time. I didn't know what I wanted more. Him or his blood. I prayed for the former. Prayed like hell.
I knew exactly where we were. It was the park. My usual hunting ground. It looked even worse in the daytime. I pretended like I had never been there before. It was easy, just look at everything. John was looking around too. Lestrade had joined us where the cab stopped. His car was parked on the curve of the street. The street where I met Isla. Police were scattered along the street, talking to each other or anyone who could assist them. We walked past them all. We went to the place where I had met Isla.
"This is where she was last seen in public," Lestrade said. I scanned the place. It looked the same as the previous night. Just a little dirtier.
"Where was the body found?" I asked.
"Follow me," Lestrade answered. He walked off into the forest,
Oneword: PetitionOneword: Petition3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John dragged himself out of bed for yet another dull day at the surgery. He limped through his morning routine, having to stop himself again from pouring two cups of tea out of habit. Just as he was leaving, a flyer fell to the ground as he opened the front door. "Come join the cause," it said, "Protect personal gun rights before it's too late!" The pamphlet listed a time and a place, and John mentally consulted his schedule as he hailed a taxi. Ordinarily, he would be concerned with the possibility of being on a case, but not any more. This would be a good opportunity to meet someone new, he told himself, trying to convince the conflicting little instincts in his head which questioned whether he really WANTED to meet anyone new.
The fog had actually lifted by the time John left the clinic, and the sun was making an attempt at warming Trafalgar Square as he approached the large crowd which had gathered there. As he worked himself into the midst, one of the already-involved activists ap
A kitten and a bulldogJohn Watson enters the living-room on 221b with the intention to clean it at last. To be honest this thought has came to him not because of his amazing flatmate or his improbable experiment. No, he has decided that just because no one has done the cleaning literally for ages. And Mrs. Hudson refuses helping them, trying to avoid visiting John's or Sherlock's rooms. Just for her own sake.A kitten and a bulldog3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
So the former doctor with the duster in his right hand walks across the living-room, making his way to the window.
"John. Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock Holmes lazily opens his one eye, lying on his armchair upside down.
"Because I can not actually breathe in this damn flat."
The detective yawns, muttering something like "breathing is boring." John shakes his head and carefully moves the reams and countless amounts of notes, newspapers and photos from different crime scenes.
Suddenly he hears quiet noise. John turns his head and looks at Sherlock. "You sneezed."
Sherlock glance at him with his eyebr
Giveaway prompt: MidnightGiveaway prompt: Midnight3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John awoke in the small bed-and-breakfast, his heart still pounding at the sounds of gunfire that his brain had conjured up. A quick glance at his watch (illuminated by the solid moonbeam from the window) told him that it was just a few minutes past midnight. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and his coat was missing from the rack near the door.
John frowned and stuffed his feet into his shoes unceremoniously, wrapping his jacket around his pajamas before heading out into the hall to search for Sherlock. A quick glance around told him that the mysterious detective must have made it all the way outside, so with a shudder of anticipation at the chill, John steeled himself and followed. He found with a pleasant surprise that it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared, and glanced back only once in longing at the thought of a warm bed before setting out.
He didn't have far to go. Just over the hill, at the side of the small pond, was the silhouette of a tall, lanky figure with a mess of curls,