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Not a NightmareOne could be deceived into calling the Moriarty twins children. This wasn't an intentional impression on their part, as they had no way of controlling the features that made them seem innocent and cute, but it was a useful one. How could a quiet pair like that be capable of the mischief that plagued their school? They were looked over entirely, despite the fact that their thirteenth birthday (uncelebrated, except by their exchanging of small gifts to each other) had passed just over a week ago, and that they hadn't been innocent since age five.
Now, however, Jim's bare feet padded on thick carpet as he ran to his little sister's room. He couldn't stand the yelling anymore, sound waves crashing against his ears violently, making him toss and turn and try to cushion them with a well-positioned pillow. Koren's room was farther from the staircase, and this ritual of hiding from his father's shouting matches had been in place for four years.
He pushed gently on her door. "Koren?"
Cold TurkeySherlock let out a long, slow breath, opening his eyes slightly. "John?"
The other man turned, slightly startled. He'd been sure his flatmate was asleep, given that he hadn't moved or made a sound in the past three hours. Sherlock was flopped on the sofa, feet at one end and head at the other, with one arm parallel to his side and the other curling around his ribcage. "Mm?"
"Pass me my..." Sherlock's sentence broke off as he waved a hand in the general direction of a box of nicotine patches. It had been strange at first, but John had long ago gotten used to the fact that, though his flatmate's vocabulary was more extensive than his by far, the detective's brain tended to forget to supply the words necessary to convey his thoughts to others. This typically happened with everyday objects, only once at a crime scene, and it wasn't too difficult for John to interpret or help Sherlock find the right word. John thought that this occasional lapse in speech might be because by the time Sherloc
PatientI was seriously contemplating killing my flatmate.
When I woke up this morning, I found Sherlock curled up asleep on the couch: red flag one. He tends to be an annoyingly early riser. I shook him awake, hoping that he wouldn't go into attack mode once he'd been startled into consciousness (It's happened. He'd raked my arm with his nails before he realized what was going on.). His eyes didn't snap open as they had in the past, but fluttered, as if he was battling for the energy.
"Wha-?" he croaked, then winced.
"Sherlock," I said gently, "It's nearly ten."
He groaned and flipped onto his stomach, burying his face in the cushion.
"Are you feeling all right?"
"I'b fide," he mumbled into the sofa.
"Really? Because you seem to be suffering from the majority of the symptoms of a cold."
His shoulders shook with a sneeze that he couldn't quite suppress.
"Make that all."
"Go away, John. There's dothing wrong with-" achoo! "Be."
I rolled my eyes and set about making some tea. "I hope you
Necessary (or, Sherlock Falls)He was right- it is like flying.
I can't help the way my legs flail, but the pavement isn't approaching as quickly as I thought it would.
My eyes have closed instinctively. I force them open, try to locate John.
I wonder how he'll take it. I won't flatter myself to say he'll be heartbroken. I've helped him heal, and now he'll move on.
We were brought together by mutual need. His need for adrenaline, my need for...fine, I'll admit it. A companion.
Then we just stuck together, like we weren't sure what else to do.
Why isn't the ground here yet?
I remember the moment I realised that he was my friend. And that I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve someone who really cared for my wellbeing, someone who really wanted to be around me, and I didn't need someone like that.
Until he was in danger, and suddenly I did.
I do need him. I don't deserve his friendship, sometimes I don't even want it, but I need it.
Falling, falling. Will I be falling forever? Maybe my thoughts are f
Ridiculous221b. I need your help, now. -SH
Sherlock, no. I'm on a date! -JW
This is more important. -SH
What is it? -JW
I've deleted forks. -SH
This afternoon while researching for the Whitfield case I apparently deleted the deceptively simple but necessary motor skills required in handling a fork.
draft: How the
draft: I'm not
So eat something with your hands! -JW
John this is important. Aren't you always saying I need to eat? -SH
And now I'm trying and you won't assist me. -SH
What a shame, guess I'll just have to go hungry. -SH
John sighed, pocketing his phone just as Katherine returned from the bathroom. She smiled at him. "Miss me?"
He tried not to make eye contact. "Erm, not exactly...there's a bit of an emergency at the flat."
She raised her eyebrows.
"I, um, I have to go...help Sherlock. He accidentally...well." He grimaced. "Look, I'm really sorry. I know you were looking forward- I mean, you could just come with me. To the flat. Get...take-out or something?"
On the Care of Sherlock HolmesThis office was too nice. Too expensive. Lestrade forced his fingers to stay firmly on the armrests and not tapped as he waited for the office's owner to enter. No one had told him who it was- he'd just been told to come here. To his boss's boss's boss's office. No, this definitely could not be good.
The door clicked open and closed, and the detective forced himself not to turn and stare.The man came around to sit in the seat behind the shiny desk and steepled his fingers. "Detective Inspector, how delightful to meet you," he said coldly.
"I'm sorry, who the- who are you?" Lestrade caught himself, but the damage was done.
The man smiled, even more icily than he'd spoken. He was not used to anything less than absolute respect- that had been quite interesting. "Mycroft Holmes. I understand your office recently...confiscated some...illegal substances from my brother?"
"Not my divi-"
"No, you're a homicide inspector, aren't you? Nonetheless."
Lestrade's eyes flicked down to his hand
TrivialWhat. Is. Wrong?
His eyes scan the café's other patrons. The male ballet dancer (straight-backed, pointed toes) dating the violinist (chafed neck, pinky automatically raised from tabletop), the woman with a motorcycle (outer calves tanned), the secretary (hours of staring at a computer screen mean she blinks less often than most), the left-handed teenaged writer (neon orange nails on the left hand are messy, shiny patch on the left pinky's middle knuckle), the woman having...
He can't stop the trivial information flooding in, he can't focus on anything that matters. The overpriced coffee tastes like acid (not really- he knows what acid tastes like, it's the reason he's so scrupulous in labelling the contents of his kitchen), and he's caught himself three times in the half-hour trying to remember what colour John Watson's eyes are.
It's been three months since...
Guilt does not suit him well. Guilt is for criminals and killers, those who hurt people.
HaircutHe runs his hand through close-cropped hair yet again, trying to get himself used to the strange lightness. The cut is crooked, he knows. He did it himself in Molly Hooper's bathroom. The cream-coloured sink is filled with severed dark curls.
His long, pale hand returns to the small area of counter around the sink's bowl, resting on the opposite side of its twin. His lean shoulders and chest curl in with the weight supported by the heels of his hands. The man braces himself, then straightens his bent neck and looks in the grimy mirror. Sharp, quiet breath. Under the harsh, cheap lighting, his cheekbones are even more dramatic- his face is thinner. Pale grey irises, eyes red from lack of sleep and ringed with purple circles. His hair is too short and it feels like some sort of barrier protecting him from the world is gone. Against every instinct, he's coaxed a messy stubble onto the lower half of his face. He is nearly unrecognisable.
There's some cold, raw feeling in his throat. He doe
Sherlock: That is Illogical.."Morning," John Watson said. He typed a few keys into his laptop then looked up. There was a banging in the kitchen, then the slam of a mug on a table. "I said, MORNING!" John repeated.
"Well good morning to you as well, John." An irritable Sherlock emerged into the light, a steaming cup of tea gripped in his pale fingers. He sat in the velvety armchair beside his partner.
"You won't be able to guess what I've found just now." John's voice was somewhat grim. Sherlock took a sip from his tea, and John noticed that he had that distant look; the one when he was thinking.
"And what's that?" Sherlock leaned back in the armchair. John noted scents of earl grey.
"Comments.. on the blog. For instance, 'I think my ovaries just exploded'."
Sherlock coughed on his tea a bit, then looked at John questioningly. "What did you post?" Before John could answer, Sherlock set the mug down and lunged for the laptop. Sherlock's eyes scanned the digital text, looking more and more bemused.
His own body.I push desperately through the wall of people that is stopping me from reaching Sherlock.
Words spill out from my mouth and attempt to sway the owners of the hands holding me back.
Doctor. Friend. I am so much more than that.
I spot a gap in the chain of hospital workers and lower myself to the ground. I grab Sherlock's wrist, searching for the evidence I so desperately need.
I know any minute now he'll leap up, wipe that blood off his face and ask how it was. The Fall. 'Did it look real?', he'd ask. And I'll jump up and hug him and tell him I need him and would be lost without him.
Any. Moment. Now.
But his pulse is missing. That doesn't matter. It's all part of his plan. Of course it is. It's all for show.
Except unintelligent hospital workers spring forward and tug his body onto a stretcher.
Don't they know? This is just one of Sherlock's experi-
One of the workers gives a short shake of his head, then looks at me.
I've seen that look.
Seen it on the battlefield. Seen it on stranger
Word Prompt, NamesWords
AN; So I've given up on numbering these things since basically they are just prompts and they are getting longer and longer, like little ficlets but they are fun so I hope you enjoy them too
Next, Deduction. Also, I have written 90 % of the next chapter of Equation, for those that care but its on another computer 3,000 miles away right now LOL, I'll have it posted probably by Sunday.
Sherlock BBC belongs to Moffat and Gatiss, I am only humbled by their genius. No money made.
An unusual name for an extremely unusual man.
People's reaction to the name was varied. Incredulous, sceptical, 'Really? Sherl-ock?'
Many, many times it was said with hostility and scorn.
John Watson pronounced Sherlock's name like no one else he knew.
He finished it with a funny little *click* at the end.
It was like a door opening, a key turning, a puzzle being unlocked.
Sherlock loved it.
And there was more.
Kiss Mycroft, He's Wasted"Sherlock, we need to get your brother drunk."
Sherlock and John looked up from the Cluedo board, recently removed from the far wall, to see a frazzled, frowning Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway of 221B.
"What?" John looked flabbergasted and amused, grinning when his eyes met Sherlock's.
Greg flopped down onto the couch with a sigh. "He showed up at the Yard again and started telling me how to improve my surveillance for the Braxton case. In front of the Detective Superintendent, who then asked me why I had brought my boyfriend to work. Donovan and Anderson had a field day, everyone was laughing at me "
"Surely you're above caring what people think?" Sherlock was focused on the Cluedo board, only a small grin betraying his glee.
"Well, yeah, but I don't tell him how to do his job, whatever it is. He needs to just get off my back and- I swear, I haven't seen him do anything fun-"
"Mycroft, having fun? While you're clearly dazzled by whatever
DYINGIf-Sherlock-was-a-movie trailers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viyq9y4hJkI http://www.youtube.com/watch?featurelayer_embedded&v=XNSz3-kuZrY OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS THESE ARE AMAZING I CAN'T HOW DO THEY DO THEM???
Edit:Now that I'm off my Marshmallow-Peep high, let me explain what I meant: These videos are awesome. And I would like to share them with you. You're welcome. xD
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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