John winced on behalf of Sherlock as they approached the crime scene; the smell of rot was ripe throughout the lobby, the voices of several panicked guests echoed around the giant aquarium centerpiece where the body had been dumped, and the walls and carpet were covered in clashing textures which would make even a mute sick. John reached out to steady Sherlock's mind, though the well-controlled Sentinal hardly needed it. He was already focusing in on the relevant details and assessing the situation. John was swept up in his excitement for something new and interesting, but what exactly it was, John would have to wait and see.
The guests were beginning to stare at the two-man detective team instead of at the body now, their stress running higher at the sight of the sentinel amongst them. John threw his shields up around himself and Sherlock, willing the mutes to look away.
Surely enough, their gaze began to slide from one gaudy pattern to the other, eventually forgetting what they had b
I Held Your Name Inside My MouthI Held Your Name Inside My Mouth3 years ago in Drama More Like This
Sherlock couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't deduce. He couldn't think.
He sat in the middle of the living room of 221b, breathing hard, shaking, loosing his mind. He'd heard it, the shattering of glass, the thump of a body as it hit the floor. John was dead. He was dead and Moriarty had killed him.
Earlier that morning Sherlock was riding in a taxi back from the Scotland Yard, after jailing one of Moriarty's assassins. The case had been simple, this assassin obviously not being one of the master criminal mind's best, or maybe thats what Moriarty had wanted. It was always a game with him.
He was almost to the flat when his phone beeped with a new message. It was from an unknown number
'Play with mine, I'll play with yours. A gun shoots faster than water pours.'
It made no sense to Sherlock, they never did. This was one of the few empty threats he received from Moriarty weekly so he shrugged it off, focusing instead on formulating an experiment on how many days it took for a
Blood Fury - Part 1Blood Fury - Part 14 years ago in Horror More Like This
I have grown a certain hatred for night time television. It was dull, boring, predictable. I had no idea what I was watching. Some new cooking show. It was elimination night. I had already figured out who was going too eliminated. Simple.
I was curled up on the sofa chair. I rested my head on my knees. John was behind me at the desk, typing his blog. I had distaste for his blog, but it had given me some new clients, which meant more interesting cases. I turned my head to the left ever so slightly, just enough to see him in my peripheral vision. I saw him smile. His dimples appeared. I couldn't see what he was so amused about. Something foolish, no doubt. I turned my head back to the telly.
"What are you writing about now John?" I asked. I was bored. I had nothing better to say. Might as well amuse one's self in pointless trivia.
"The blog," John answered.
"Yes I figured as much. But what about?" I asked.
"Oh, um, just talking to some mates," John replied. I made a 'hmm'
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.
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
Giveaway prompt: DanceGiveaway prompt: Dance4 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: Bail4 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.
Oneword: CrescentOneword: Crescent4 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 5Blood Fury - Part 54 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
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
Giveaway prompt: MidnightGiveaway prompt: Midnight4 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,
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: 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
Blood Fury - Part 3Blood Fury - Part 34 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,
Blood Fury - Part 4Blood Fury - Part 44 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
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
Love, Moriarty - Part 4"Moriarty's got Sherlock and you're helping me find him." John growled tensely, leaning over Lestrade's desk, inches away from him. Lestrade's face went from indignant to shocked.Love, Moriarty - Part 44 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" John glared at Lestrade. "Are you helping or not?" Lestrade nodded, anger darkening his eyes.
"Who took the freak?" Anderson leaned in the doorway. "I'm just assuming, since you two are never separated. It's quite sweet, actually." John stared at Anderson before lunging at him, punching him squarely in the face, then grabbed his coat collar and slammed him against the wall.
"Sherlock has been taken by Moriarty. The man who exploded an old lady for describing his voice and has an obsession with torturing Sherlock has him. Make fun of Sherlock all you want, call him freak all you want, but even idiots like you can't deny he's the best thing that's ever happened to the police." John stepped back, roughly letting go of Anderson's coat, and suppressing
A Post-Reichenbach Excerpt from John's BlogIt's barely been a month now. A whole month without Sherlock Holmes, without any prospect of him coming back. I wondered, in the beginning, how I would get on with life, if I would sleep again And I have slept. Nightmares frequented the few hours of sleep I stole for a while, but they're fading as I learn to cope.A Post-Reichenbach Excerpt from John's Blog4 years ago in Drama More Like This
I do think I'm coping reasonably well now. At the start, being in our- my- apartment was too much; everything was him, he was everywhere. Just seeing the flat was a sensory overload as it filled me with memories of him, and I felt so overwhelmed that I needed to rid myself of it all. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson stopped me from destroying his possessions. It angered me then, but it was a relief now.
Sometimes, I can hardly believe it's been a month.
For a while, Mrs. Hudson visited me frequently, but that is gradually slowing. Lestrade has also been around a bit, but he doesn't stick around either. Guess I'm not really great company right now. The only person who hangs ar
Shwatsonlock- MoreJohn Watson found himself in his usual place, reading the paper- like always-, sipping coffee with no sugar- as he was accustomed to do-, but something felt like the day would be far from normal. Of course, living with Sherlock Holmes meant that normalcy was in itself strange and rare. These suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock staggered through the door, his face grazed badly, clothes torn and limping slightly. Upon seeing the consulting detective collapse onto the couch, John leapt to his feet, dropping the paper he'd been reading.Shwatsonlock- More4 years ago in Romance More Like This
"Calm down, John. It was nothing."
Sherlock sat up, but the pressure of the arm of the couch against his side made him wince and cry out in pain, which caused John to snap into action. He retrieved his medical kit and immediately knelt before Sherlock and began cleansing the wounds on his face. Every time he winced, John felt a stab of pain too.
After a little time had passed, Sherlock broke the silence.
Oneword: ProfessionalOneword: Professional3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
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
Thinking of HimHere's the thing about living with Sherlock Holmes:Thinking of Him4 years ago in Drama More Like This
There's never a dull moment.
Even when you're not chasing down homicidal maniacs or searching for wisps of clues only he can see, there's the flat to contend with.
Mrs Hudson and I used to joke about Sherlock's organisational system. We called it, "This goes there, even you should be able to see that". Except we couldn't. To me, it looked like random piles of papers, files, CDs, cassettes, and any other piece of junk related to a case. To him it was a careful index of everything he'd done.
That's not even to mention the kitchen. Or research laboratory- it really got more use as the latter. Body parts. Body parts! In the fridge, freezer, on the table, lying about. It's good those hadn't occupied the flat yet when I first saw it, or I would have assumed Sherlock was some sort of axe murderer. But his scientific interests weren't confined to anatomy or biology- more often than not, 221b was permeated by strange chemical smells, or "John-
Giveaway prompt: ElementaryGiveaway prompt: Elementary4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John supposed he should have been less surprised when Moriarty resurfaced. After all, if Sherlock had been able to so convincingly fake his own death, then it stood to reason that the feat was not out of Moriarty's range of capabilities. In the days that followed, Sherlock had been running on a wild goose chase, hunting down every last clue which could possibly bring him closer. After all, his time apart from John, ensuring his safety from those few snipers still loyal to Moriarty, would all be for naught if the mastermind had managed to build up his web again.
Sherlock was pacing anxiously through the flat, flipping through a chemistry textbook, muttering softly to himself. He paused here and there on pages which might provide an answer to the riddle Moriarty had left them, "ElemeNtary or primAry, it's not for Sale."
He had already exhausted the pages on Nitrogen, Argon, and Sulfur, but had not found anything satisfactory. John wondered if there was a connection 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
Love, Moriarty - Part 3The doorbell was ringing. Sherlock thought that was weird, it was one in the morning. He couldn't say much though, he was the one sitting in an armchair talking to a skull. He usually didn't talk to the skull anymore, but John was asleep, and if he woke him up one more time John would be extremely mad again. Sherlock got up, debating in his head on whether or not to answer the door. The ringing persisted, and Sherlock realized that if Ms. Hudson woke up, she'd stay up. When Ms. Hudson stayed up, she berated him on whatever he was working on, interrupting his stay in his mind palace. Sherlock, discovering this, dived towards the door and opened it to stop the ringing.Love, Moriarty - Part 34 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"Hello Sherlock!" Moriarty's smiling face greeted Sherlock as he opened the door. In a second, Moriarty had grabbed Sherlock's arm, pushing up his shirt sleeve and plunging a needle into his vein.
"What-?" Sherlock gasped, trying to pull his arm away, feeling his mind slowing down.
"Nuh-uh, Sherlock. Can't run away now.