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"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 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
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 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
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
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
It had been a particularly windy day, and Sherlock's hair had still not recovered its usual large curls. The detective had quickly tried to tame the black frizz before their meeting in the executive office of the insurance company, but had had little success. It was fortunate for their bank account, then, that their new employer didn't much care what Sherlock looked like, so long as he was able to prove that the fire had been deliberate insurance fraud.
It was about halfway down their trip from the top floor when the wind knocked out a transformer, and the power to the whole building suddenly died down. John glanced up and around in alarm at the emergency lights, quickly calming as he realized what had happened. He only hoped it wouldn't be long before the power returned, as the longer he spent in the confined space the longer it started to remind him of the hide-holes he'd had to crawl into in search of terrorists.
"Well," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light, "It's a good thing
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.
Texting: Part FourSH: Bored.
JW: I'm eating dinner with Sarah. Hack my computer and update your website or something.
SH: But I have not had any good cases in a while and thus am bored... Hope you don't need your pillow.
JW: What have you done this time?
SH: I'm behind bars. Scotland Yard got a bit jumpy and so when I came on the scene... Bring a cake with a metal file.
JW: Are you serious? How is it you still have your phone? Cake? Not pie with a laser or a crumpet with a lock pick? What flavor would you prefer?
SH: Chocolate, though if you could find a laser I'd prefer that. And I told them I would rather text than have my phone call.
JW: And they let you? I'll bring chocolate but I can't guarantee the laser.
SH: Good. Surprisingly they did. I was joking when I said it too.
JW: Some people can't distinguish sarcasm from seriousness. What about Lestrade? Can't he do anything to get you out of there?
SH: He's not here. Across the city I think.
JW: No one has bothered to let him know? Are Donovan a
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
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
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!"
"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
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.
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
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
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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