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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
"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.
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
Peer prompt: Massage
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
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
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
Giveaway prompt: Macbeth
Sherlock was positive their victim had been wearing a tie, but the offending accessory was nowhere to be found. He had scoured the surrounding area, but to no avail. "Do you think the murderer has it?" John asked, shivering a bit in the chilly breeze coming off the Thames.
"No, I doubt it, there's no reason for him to keep it, unless it could be used as incriminating evidence. Which it might, we won't know until we find it." The detective poked and prodded at one of the many apps on his phone, though John couldn't see the relevance. In fact, he couldn't even see the "unmissable" evidence that there had even BEEN a tie in the first place
"I'm sure it'll turn up eventually," he said without thinking, giving Sherlock a consoling pat on the shoulder. The taller man stiffened in his stance with a sharp intake of breath.
"JOHN," he hissed, "Do you want us to solve this case or not?!?" At the doctor's confused expression, he extrapolated, "You've just doomed us as badly as saying 'break
Giveaway prompt: Dance
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
John had hardly been able to recognize Sherlock when he returned. And not just because he'd been dead for so long, either. His face was gaunt, more-so than usual, he'd actually acquired a bit of a tan, his clothes were those of a casual student, and his loose, dark curls had been sheared off into a close-cropped crew cut. He hardly looked himself, and John wouldn't have realized at all who had approached him, had it not been for those telltale cheekbones.
Which soon earned themselves a good punch.
A Study Of MollyThere were days when Molly expected the corpses to speak back. She'd prattle on about this sale or that rumor, and their cold faces would listen impassively. She'd heard an MD once say that in this profession, they gave voices to the dead. But really, she thought, they're the ones listening to me.
It was okay that the students thought she was mad. It was almost a trade trait, something expected of the nutters that voluntarily chose to slice into the cadavers and victims, find out what made them tick, and what stopped the ticking.
Everyone thought Sherlock was a nutter. Molly had thought, from the beginning, that he must have been something strange, running about, yelling at Lestrade. He never yelled at her. She had noticed, he would shout and fume and scathe at anyone who crossed his path with useless data or unfounded opinions, but he never once lost his temper with her.
She would, however, catch the offhanded blows he tossed over his shoulder in her general direction. She came to exp
Sherlock- Burning BridgesWarning: Post Reinbach spoilers
Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, twirling it under his long fingers. The metal tip worked as a pivot into the wood floor. Though calling the floor wood was like calling the crown jewels 'jewelry'. A special little place in an exotic rainforest had provided the floorboards beneath him.
He checked his pocketwatch. His guest was late. He knew for a fact that this particular person was never late. They were doing this purely to spite him, he was sure. Mycroft considered pulling out his phone to call Anthea, inquiring their subject's location, but then again they could arrive at any moment, and being on his phone would detract from the atmosphere he had built in the room. Lights dim, fireplace lit and casting jumpy orange shadows across the luxuries in the room, Mycroft in the perfect position, at an angle to the fireplace, facing away, so that his face was in half-shadow. The empty armchair across from him would give his visitor the opposite
Sherlock- BelieveCONTAINS POST-REINBACH SPOILERS
What was he doing here?
The grafiti'd skatepark was buzzing with the rebellious youth of London. Hair filled with gel and hairspray and even a few individuals with feathers was dyed all colors imaginable, and a few others that even John Watson had no name for. Clothes were ripped in all the wrong places for any hope of practicality, and a few men had their pants slung so low that the doctor had no idea how they managed to walk.
The army doctor shifted from one leg to the other, before quickly shifting back at the shot of pain up his right leg at the application of pressure. Damn limp. Damn leg. Damn just damn. What was he doing here? It was stupid. He was stupid.
Ten seconds. That's all he was getting to show up. Ten seconds and then John was leaving. He didn't have time for this. At this very moment he could be curled up in the corner of a dark hotel room pretending to be dead. Maybe if he pretended long enough it would happen. A man could only ho
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.
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
Taking the Precaution of a Good Coat---------------------
He nimbly jumped over a fence, leaning on it with his gloved hand. At that moment I wished I was anywhere but on his heels. The jump was light, as if clearing the way of obstacles had been nothing more but a mere formality. It made me regret that I hadn't been standing at the front, camera in hand, to immortalize his stride.
His feet absorbed the landing, sinking slightly into the wet grass. He continued with his dash, bringing one knee forward, when the coat caught on the fence. I was short of breath and, if my thoughts could have found their way to my lips quickly enough to warn my companion, my dry throat would undoubtedly have protested and deformed my remark to a pathetic whisper.
His coat was stretched, retained by one of the uprights of the fence, and Sherlock rocketed back, a brief burst of air escaping his parted lips. He collapsed suddenly, his elbow and back absorbing most of the shock. Moist soil had already
Shopping with Sherlock And John"No John, the toilet roll is down this isle!". The monthly shop with Sherlock-a time when many arguments occur. This time, it was were the toilet roll was. John breathed a sigh of exasperation and looked at Sherlock who was at this present time shouting at the top of his voice like a 12 year old. The trolley which he was made to push was half full of many things that Sherlock had just chucked in. He didn't dare to look. "No Sherlock, it's over here". He almost shouted. By now Sherlock had attracted the attention of many people. An elderly man was looking very confused at the two of them.
"That's nonsense John. If you look at the ground it is slightly lower than the rest of the store as well as having many scuff marks from peoples shoes meaning that it is the most popular isle. Because it is only a few days until easter many forgetful people will be rushing around to purchase easter eggs for their friends and children meaning this is the seasonal goods isle. The seasonal goods isle is a
What He Doesn't SeeWhat He Doesn't See
"I'm popping out for a bit." John announced from the hallway. "Should be gone for a few hours, if you need me I'll be at-"
"-at Sarah's. Yes, I know." Sherlock supplied without looking away from his computer.
John stood stunned in the doorway. "How can you possibly know that?"
"Easy, you've just come from upstairs but you haven't entered the room. Instead, you are hovering near the coat rack with a hand covering your right pocket as you check for your house keys. Clearly, you're on your way out. It's too late for the clinics to be open so it's not work related. Plus, you put on cologne which you rarely do unless you want to be noticed but you usually overdo it when you met someone new. The fact that I can barely smell you means that you put on just enough to attract attention, but not too much so that you'll stand out. There are a few droplets of cologne on your left ear just below the lobe where there hasn't been enough time for it to sink into your skin, as
Watson's WarriorsIt's been a long time since I've walked down this road. Twelve years, I think. Not that I've been counting.
I don't fit in here at all. A few scraggly teens look at me warily, as if they're afraid I'm going to call the cops, but I don't. What I'm going to do here isn't exactly legal either. Of course they have no way of knowing that, some time ago, I was a lot like them, not a mundane grown-up with a suit and briefcase. I had almost forgotten that, too, until Sherlock Holmes.
When I began to follow his cases, I was amazed. I couldn't believe it. Then I caught sight of him one day, followed him to a crime scene, heard his deductions break down from impossible knowledge to, "How didn't I see that?" There was no way anyone could fake that. And no matter what the media says, I won't change my mind.
When detectives started getting fired, scandals started flaring up, and I started seeing the messages of faith across the city, the part of me that never grew up began to call for attention. The
Pulse: a Jim MoriartyxMolly Hooper ficMolly and Jim were sitting together on her couch that night after work. Molly had actually considered going to bed soon after she got home, until she got a text from Jim. He didn't mind that she was tired and wanted to stay in; in fact he loved the idea and even brought over some pillows and DVDs. They were on the fourth, or perhaps fifth, episode of Britain's Got Talent (Jim brought a whole mess of DVDs like this and let Molly choose), and it was terribly late, but Molly was so glad she didn't go to bed.
They were exceedingly comfortable, leaning against each other and sharing a big plastic bowl of popcorn that rested on top of their legs. The show really wasn't that funny, but Jim laughed anyway, usually with a mouth full of popcorn muffling the sound, which made Molly laugh at him in return.
After a while Jim got up, taking the now empty bowl. He shot a quick, sweet smile to her as he went to deposit it in the kitchen.
Sherlock pulled the sheet back from the cadaver, reaching for a fresh pair of gloves before gingerly lifting a roll of pale, cold fat. "How recent was the surgery?" He murmured softly to Molly, spreading the flesh to inspect the scar, "looks like about four months, based on the healing pattern?"
Molly nodded, but remembered that Sherlock (probably) wouldn't see her behind him, so added, "Yes, the stomach was stapled in late April, though was poorly maintained."
"Excellent," Sherlock grinned as he made a small incision along the scar, "This is as close of a match to my case as I could hope for. You've been most resourceful."
Molly blushed a bit at the compliment, turning toward her work computer. "You're welcome."
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More