#Sherlock John and the “new sherlock” where John attempted to replace Sherlock

[thatscarletflycatcher]

I might be interested in that “Sherlock writers/producers power trip” stuff 👀

Calling it a power trip was a bit dramatic of me XD but I do think the creators of Sherlock had a... weird relationship with the character of John Watson. He gets two different and incongruous characterizations, and I don't understand the rationale behind it.

The most clear example of this for me is how this changes between the Unaired Pilot and A Study in Pink. The Watson of the UP is self assured, practical, intelligent, competent, moral (if somewhat grim and with a veneer of darkness lurking beneath the surface) and mature. The Watson of ASIP is insecure, impractical, rather dumb, extremely loyal to a person he just met for no reason, a failure of a petticoat chaser, and essentially an adrenaline junkie. And these are two versions of the same story.

On the UP, the first meeting between Sherlock and Watson is marked by Watson's curiosity and earnest admiration about Sherlock's deductions; the same scene in ASIP shows us Watson being taken aback by Sherlock's behavior. When they are at the scene of the crime and Sherlock asks Watson if he's aware that he's speaking his appreciative remarks out loud, UP Watson just calmly asks if that bothers Sherlock; ASIP!Watson hurries to apologize. And in general he hesitates, apologizes and feels out of place much more across the latter version.

In the UP, what "cures" Watson's limp is that he notices that something has gone wrong with Sherlock's attempt at dealing with the cabbie, and he jumps to go help/save him. Watson is a doctor, his vocation in life is centered around helping and saving people; his psychological symptoms are caused by a sense of purposelessness, as he's been discharged after being wounded, and lives on a military pension. Now that he has met Sherlock and realized the ways in which Sherlock is self-destructive, he has found new purpose. ASIP, by replacing this for a foot-chase, replaces this element of characterization (intelligence, moral fiber, decisiveness) with... John is just an adrenaline junkie -and doubles down upon this through Mycroft words, and by removing from the ending scene the lines where Sherlock calls Watson "my doctor", and Watson tells Lestrade off by reminding him that Sherlock must eat if he is to be useful in future. In both versions we have the set-up of the gun Watson keeps in his drawer (that he may come to use to kill himself) and the payoff (that he ends up using to save Sherlock's life); but whereas in the UP it is of a piece with the characterization I mentioned above, in ASIP it feels like a leftover they couldn't remove because it was so deeply baked into the plot.

The framing of Watson's killing of the cabbie is also different between UP and ASIP: in the UP, we only see Watson leaving the restaurant, then the cabbie dying, and "realize" with Sherlock who the shooter was. It is implied that he guessed where the cabbie was taking Sherlock, called the police, made a detour to pick up his gun, and then headed to Baker Street where he chose the vantage point of a house across the street, from which he watched the cabbie and Sherlock, and waited till the last possible moment to shoot, in case bloodshed could be avoided. This shows that he can keep a very cool head under pressure, that he underwent military training and it stuck, and that he is moral and practical, grounded and efficient.

ASIP!Watson picked up his gun after his interview with Mycroft -the implication that he means to use it as protection/defense for Sherlock and himself from... MI5/6. Now that does give some credence to Mycroft's insult that Watson is brave, but bravery is what people say when they mean stupidity. You were in the army, Watson! You should know better! (the Mycroft subplot also includes two painfully awkward attempts at hitting on one of Mycroft's underlings, a woman clearly much younger than him. As I was saying, Watson loses maturity between the UP and ASIP). Watson then only follows Sherlock and the cabbie because of the phone setup that had been previously solved by Sherlock (so no application of intelligence here), does not think of calling the police, and then we watch him desperately searching for the room where Sherlock and the cabbie are, then when he casually lands on the room across that one, he screams Sherlock's name to the top of his lungs, and as he is not heard, he ends up shooting the cabbie as a last desperate effort. No planning here, no cold head, and some very stupid decisions (had the cabbie been armed for real, and he had stumbled into the room or been heard, chances are one or the two would have ended up injured or dead).

I think the contrast between the two versions of this other scene showcases this really well:

ASIP: Sherlock: are you alright? Watson: Yes, of course I'm alright. Sherlock: you just killed a man. Watson: Yes, I... That's true, innit? (pause) but he wasn't a very nice man.

UP: Sherlock: you are alright? Watson: of course I'm alright. Sherlock: you have just killed a man. Watson: I've seen men die before -good men, friends of mine-; 'thought I'd never sleep again. I'll sleep fine tonight.

The unaired pilot plays more with setting up a "dark side" to Watson; his profession as doctor makes him mainly caring and helpful, but it can also make him clinical and detached at points; I don't think it is a coincidence that Donovan tells Watson to take his distance from Sherlock because "One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there", but by the end of the episode the police is standing around on a crime scene for which the killer was... Watson. This last thing, again, carries over into ASIP because it couldn't be taken out without breaking the plot, but has been removed from the rest of Watson's characterization in the episode. Mind you, I don't think "exploring the dark side of John Watson's personality and maybe turning him into a villain or a conflicted antihero" is a good idea, but it was set up in one, discarded, and not replaced in the other.

I could write another post with the differences in the characterization of Sherlock between the two tellings of the story, but exploring that here would make this answer way much longer than it needs to be. I'll summarize it by saying that UP Sherlock is written to have some complementarities with UP Watson: Sherlock is rather juvenile/childish, too focused on "the game" to take care of himself, assess risks or evaluate how his behavior affects others. He has a hard time understanding the feelings of others, and that coupled with an enjoyment of tricks and disguises and games is what makes him difficult for other people to deal with. Basically, Sherlock is very intelligent in a rather theoretical, detached way, whereas Watson is a grounding presence because he's full of common, practical sense. ASIP Sherlock is... an asshole. It's not that he doesn't understand the emotions of others, he despises them. It's not that he's reckless, it's that he's super cool and dangerous (and suddenly is a master of combat what). He's basically a sort of pop culture übermensch?

The ASIP characterization for both characters dominates series 1 and 2 of Sherlock, and develops through two main dynamics: one is the "Watson as a silly wife in a bad 1950s sitcom", that is particularly intense and weird in The Blind Banker (which, in all fairness, was not written by mofftiss).

The first Sherlock-John scene in TBB is a juxtaposition between Sherlock having a skilled fight at the flat, while Watson is failing miserably at... checking out groceries. The following scene is poor silly woman Watson with her his silly little homemaking problems cannot understand the huge work and problems her husband Sherlock tackles when she's not looking. Watson is worried about having money to pay the necessities, Sherlock cannot be bothered to mind such pedestrian things.

This depiction of Watson as """"feminine"""" (derogatory) pops up here and then. He gets kidnapped three times for just being... careless (again, doctor, yes, but war veteran and human being that has been kidnapped before). It may not sound like A LOT, but when you consider the whole series is just 14 episodes, of which one is a short and another happens exclusively inside Sherlock's head... well...

Magnussen literally calls Watson Sherlock's damsel in distress in His Last Vow. His feelings upon discovering Sherlock is alive in The Empty Hearse are treated as over-reaction by Sherlock, Mary and the narrative. In general the whole Mary arc is filled with this sense that Mary and Sherlock relate to each other and understand each other and cooperate with each other on a level that Watson can't reach, and he's therefore relegated most of the time to a figure to be protected from both truth and evildoers, and then to give Rosie to, because man carrying a baby emasculating or something? (Sherlock's single interaction with Rosie is about his trying to reason with her, but he never touches or holds her, and she virtually disappears as a being once Mary dies).

This concept of Sherlock as idealized pop culture übermensch and Watson as a failure of a man takes the rest of the time a strange tone of aggressiveness, not only in the occasions in which Watson beats up Sherlock (A Scandal in Bohemia, TEH, The Lying Detective), but in smaller ways in Watson's pointed acting like he's not interested in the case or in explanations... and his dating women for apparently no other reason that to try and stick it to Sherlock (which makes it extra out of nowhere when he's not only so deeply affected by Sherlock's death, but that he tells to his grave "I was so alone and I owe you so much". Wait, what? You've spent most of your time being annoyed and feeling threatened by this guy).

Watson's relationships with women is also part of the weirdness of his characterization. He dates several of them one after the other in what seems an effort to show Sherlock that at least in this he's more competent than him; he doesn't seem to really care considering he mixes up their names and neglects them. However, the series also wants to make him also a very awkward and poor flirt with no standards (like trying to get the therapist in The Hounds of Baskerville, starting an emotional affair with a woman who just smiled at him on the bus, gets very mad at a tabloid calling him confirmed bachelor), and that the women that DO actually get into stable relationships with him think him beneath them one way or another (the series makes a pointed joke about how his girlfriend in The Great Game won't have sex with him or make him breakfast, Mary uses him first as a cover and then calls herself the best thing that happened to him as a joke while he's very seriously trying to propose to her). It rounds up again to that subtle "not man enough - feminine" undercurrent.

Then there's Watson's general incompetence. On my first draft of this answer I had written a list, episode by episode, of all the times Watson is being sent on wild goose chases, makes mistakes that no one with his background should, stumbles upon clues by sheer dumb luck, is generally useless, and his ideas are treated as extremely dumb, but it was very long and boring. So here are the ones I found to be the most notorious examples:

In TBB, he does not comment that left-handed people do in fact learn to shoot with their right hand (he is himself a left handed person who does that as established in ASIP); on that same episode he daftly stands by with a paint can and gets caught by the police and can't say anything to defend himself despite the high unlikeness of his being.... a street artist (his worrying about the charges is, again, framed as silly.)

He leaves the witness they need and who is in danger, alone, so he can go "help Sherlock" (which meant just... running out of the scene so she could get killed).

Watson's date is better than him at the brawl that happens at the circus somehow. He cannot tell a delivery guy from a ninja and gets kidnapped. He's scared witless because an old lady is pointing a gun at him (HE'S AN AFGHANISTAN VETERAN).

In TGG, Watson has kept the gun with which he killed the cabbie (against UP, and also, you know, incriminating evidence). Watson, a doctor whose CV specifies surgery, is jumpscared and upset by a head in the fridge.

In ASIB, he doesn't even know how to punch properly. The guy who is an ace with a gun in ASIP, is reduced and held at gunpoint like nothing here, and contributes nothing while badass Sherlock and Irene kick the goons asses. Falls for a dumb seduction trick because he's an idiot. Cannot tell apart real shock from Mrs Hudson just pretending.

In The Sign of the Three, Sherlock realizes Mary is pregnant before Watson, WHO IS A DOCTOR does.

These characterizations I have been talking about are very dominant through series 1 and 2, but then something curious happens on s3: without any warning or connection, the series starts acting like the characterizations of the UP have been the show's characterizations all along.

It begins with Sherlock's characterization; he's back and itching to see Watson, not realizing that he would have moved on in two years. Mycroft tries to warn him to break the news softly to him, but Sherlock doesn't understand; all he can think about is what a lark it will be to show up out of nowhere! There's no real meanness in it, just childish joy. This goes on through TsotT, with his anxieties about his speech, his difficulty to prepare and deliver it and following through the ceremonies, his surprise and emotion at being chosen as best man and called Watson's best friend, his promise to keep Mary safe and his efforts to save Watson in s4, and even his realization about Eurus' emotional needs in the series finale.

Not that the original ASIP characterization doesn't show up here and there again and again, through things like Sherlock's edgy comments about religion, his complete distraction and lack of attention at Rosie's baptism, his mysoginy and use of Jeaninne in HLV, etc.

Same happens with Watson. The narrative keeps doing its mockery thing, and will lay VERY THICK the whole "Watson is just an adrenaline junkie" with Mary's secret and how Watson married her because he's attracted to danger and that makes it all his fault somehow... it will also show Watson being bored by his job at the surgery. BUT the main storyline of the Sherlock-Watson relationship only makes sense through the UP characterization. It is, in fact, spelled out loud in TsotT: Sherlock solves puzzles, Watson saves lives. The back-cases of the episode show Watson being intelligent, competent, and helpful, specially as a doctor. Sherlock believes that he's been saved by Watson through their friendship. The case at the end is solved through both Watson's saving of lives and Sherlock's solving of puzzles (we are even shown that Watson has another friend! who is also a recluse!). Watson is at peace in his relationship with Harriet. We are even shown that Watson is secretly drinking more alcohol during his bachelor bender, to not disappoint Sherlock's calculations about his alcohol tolerance, and so "ruin" his fun and the work he put on it.

This goes on through HLV as well; Watson gets some PTSD flashbacks, then manages firmly and competently the "rescue" of Isaiah Whitley, and even shows some of that colder and a tad cruel side that was hinted in the UP. He has authority enough to make Mycroft leave when he tells him to. He's in on the plan to reveal Mary's past as a spy, and even later on is the one to suggest Sherlock puts a tracker on her before she drugs him and leaves, which shows both practicality and foresight. He even jokes with Lestrade about Sherlock being like a baby!

Even though The Abominable Bride only happens in Sherlock's mind and therefore doesn't really count towards Watson's characterization, it is worth noticing that in it Watson is so much more involved in monitoring and containing Sherlock's drug problem than he has proven to be till that point (sure, Watson got Molly to test him in HLV, but nothing came of it, and the treatment of the matter in TLD is even worse).

The only way to make some sense of The Six Thatchers and TLD, Watson-wise, is to play along with this idea of Watson as supremely practical, competent, and mature. His being rather checked out about Mary (he spends the whole morning (9 hours) of what seems to be one of his free days just proving with a balloon that Sherlock doesn't need him, while his wife is dealing with a very young baby, for example), and his emotional affair are to be understood not as part and parcel of the character we've seen through series 1 and 2, but as a moment of weakness of the character they say he is in s3.

It's not just the only way to understand not only his intense guilt, but the way the narrative tries to present the infidelity as "well, it is what it is, we are all human" down to Sherlock telling Watson that even Watson is human. That's not what Watson actually is, though, through most of the series. He's a callous, violent, horny idiot, which the narrative calls human, and that's the resolution of the opening scene of TLD about things being wrong and being able of calling them wrong. They are just what they are and we are all human.

The finale is all about Sherlock and Eurus, and so Watson's development ends here.

And the thing is, that I would have liked to see much more of the potential the characterizations in UP showed. That would have been an interesting dynamic. I think the casting of Martin Freeman for Watson was great, and that he elevates whatever he's in (yes, even The Hobbit movies), but was ultimately wasted, and for what?

Maybe it is that the BBC demanded those changes to bring in a lighter tone and comedic relief. Maybe they really wanted a sort of loose remix of House M.D. (which is what the Sherlock-Watson dynamic is most of the time in this show) instead of the Sherlock Holmes adaptation Mofftiss wanted to make. Maybe only after the show became wildly popular they were allowed to do what they wanted that way. But it was too little, too late, and mixed in with a steep decline of the quality of the writing of everything else.

Even within the limits of that generous reading of what happened, it is still stories they wrote and signed, where what could have been a compelling character with many interesting things to explore, from an actually accurate portrayal of PTSD (and not the "actually it is civilian life that is giving him PTSD because he's an adrenaline junkie, surprise!), and a war injury and physical disability being taken seriously, to his grounding role in Sherlock's life, a development of his deductive abilities, a more equal and complex relationship with Mary... we got an idiot whose function in the plot most of the time was narrative punchbag and high contrast to Sherlock's übermensch.

And that's such a pity.

[deeisace]

Michael Dibdin's "The Last Sherlock Holmes Story", first published 1978, in paperback 1989, reprinted with corrections 1990, reset 1999 - this copy will of course be post-1999, given that inclusion, but not by a great deal, because the original price was £5.99 (cries), and in the back there's an order sheet for Dibdin's other books that includes both a contact email and fax number for the publishers.

Anyway, typed up sort of as a warm-up to typing up some more of my grandma's work tomorrow (because reading paperback type is a sight easier than Millie's biro scrawl, at times), and put under the cut to not block the entirety of everyone's dashes, the foreword reads as follows -

On the 16th of February 1926, John Herbert Watson, M.D. - better known to millions as the 'Dr Watson' of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories - died of injuries sustained in a fall at his home near Lyndhurst in Hampshire. He was seventy-three. When his will came to be read it was found that in a codicil he had provided for a box of papers to be left on deposit with his bankers for a period of not less than fifty years, at the end of which time it was to be opened and the contents made public.

The world in which Watson grew up had already been swept away by the Great War, in which he himself played a small but honourable role. Soon the brash unstable world that replaced it was in turn weighed in the balances and found wanting. From its smouldering ashes, after forty years of labour pains, the twentieth century was finally born. The new age grew to adolescence and then to manhood. It overran the earth, changing whatever it touched out of all recognition. This infant prodigy was celebrating its thirtieth birthday when, in the summer of 1976, a dented metal dispatch-box was duly brought up - like treasure from some fabled wreck - out of the vaults where it had laid silently for half a century. No one had any idea what it contained. The consensus of opinion was that the papers represented the unpublished notes of those cases on which Watson had collaborated with Sherlock Holmes, and which for various reasons had not been made public. Interest therefore ran high in the sombre panelled office where the manager of the bank, in the presence of Watson's great-nephew, raised the battered lid bearing the words 'John H. Watson, M.D., Late Army Medical Department'. The box was found to contain, together with various items of purely personal interest, a wax-sealed package of 164 typed foolscap pages, signed, and dated October 1922.

One thing was immediately evident: the document left by Dr Watson was not a collection of notes but one continuous narrative. After some discussion it was decided that the best course would be to read this aloud to the assembled company, so that its import could be judged. Thus it came about that what one of the stunned audience later termed 'a criminological time-bomb' made its public debut in the punctilious tones of an elderly man of finance. The force of the explosion was in no way diminished thereby. Within a few days of that momentous reading, rumours began to circulate about the exact nature of the revelations contained in 'the Watson papers'. At about the same time, a powerful and energetic lobby was formed by various parties united only in their determination that the papers should never be published. Their methods were both cunning and resourceful, ranging from personal persuasion to attempted arson. One of our better-known Holmesians submitted a long letter in which he successively disclosed what he called the 'well-documented fact' that Watson was 'practically a delusional psychotic from 1919 onwards', pleaded that 'a veil of discretion be drawn over his pathetic ravings', protested that publication 'would be as preposterous as the BBC interviewing some maniac who claims to be Napoleon', and finally threatened us with 'the very real possibility of prolonged and costly litigation if this lunatic libel ever sees the light of day'. Fortunately not all the correspondence we received was this strident. We particularly cherish a letter from one S. Holmes of Sussex, who vehemently denied reports of his death while extolling the virtues of a 'miracle diet' based on royal jelly, his monograph on which he was prepared to let us publish at a mutually acceptable fee!

There can be no question that the contents of this book will prove extremely controversial. Many people will be deeply shocked by the nature of Watson's statement. Many will no doubt prefer to reject it rather than surrender the beliefs of a lifetime. Others will at least regret that two of the great mysteries of crime are finally solved, and will seek to discredit the solution. It is true that Watson's claims can no longer be substantiated. But every one of his references to a known event has been checked by our research team against the facts - many of which were not publicly available in 1922 - and we can certify that no obvious anomalies exist. The detractors may say what they like, but they cannot deny that the present version fits the evidence. That it is true is at the very least possible. We believe that on mature consideration many readers will come to share our conviction that it is in fact extremely probable.

The preparation of the typescript for the press has not been onerous. Editorial intervention has been restricted to the slight correction of a few solecisms, the division of the original into chapters, and the provision of some indispensable footnotes. Apart from these gentle ministrations the work has been left to speak for itself - as, despite the author's protests, it so very effectively does.

- The Editors

---

The first chapter begins with half a page in ACD style writing, and is quickly interrupted by Watson complaining that he cannot write the same way Doyle does, and his writing will be dismissed as "ill-told tales" - but he goes on -

"But then it is none of my business to convince anyone. I leave that to men of letters. I am a doctor and a soldier; all I can do is make my report.

But at once I run up against a problem which A.C.D. never dreamed of - I cannot know who is reading this. These words will not see print before 1972, at the earliest. What manner of men will walk the earth at that fabulous date? Will any of this matter to you? Perhaps no one then will even have heard of Jack the Ripper, or of Sherlock Holmes either. How can I know? Nevertheless, I must go on, and if I say too much or too little for your understanding, you will no doubt pardon an old man living out his days in a barbarous age - an age of darkness. For my part, I will try not to take too much for granted."

It's not ACD, but it wr a quid like

He's given Watson's middle name as Herbert, which I am completely ignoring, and it seems like the story itself is s'mat to do wi Jack the Ripper, by the blurb

[shadyscroller2]

all our years apart (lead us to the one today)

ao3

Posted January 2, 2022 

#First Kiss, #Christmas Fluff, #New Years, #New Year's Eve, #Fluff and Angst, #Angst with a Happy Ending, #Pining Sherlock Holmes, #Pining John Watson, #Jealous Sherlock, #Snow, #Awesome Molly Hooper, #Molly Hooper Appreciation, #Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, #Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, #Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, #Romance

2009

It wasn't that the flat was dingy and small, or that the cot was uncomfortable and hard. Memories of similar living conditions flashed through John's mind, most of it from just months ago, his army uniform cut and pressed, a gun in his hand and gauze in the other. The sound of gunfire echoed in his ears, with John's brain fighting it, attempting to give him reality instead.

John wiped his face hard and looked around at his flat, the sounds fading in his head, slowly being replaced with the deafening silence of the small room before him.

It wasn't the flat. No.

What bit him hard was the loneliness.

John looked over in the corner, where his cane leaned against the wall, waiting to be used. The only sound in the entire flat now was the sound of cheering and excited counting down of the seconds until midnight. The telly was blaring the noise, glaring the light into John's eyes and flooding the room.

After a long moment, John turned it off.

There was no point. John should just get rid of his television - nothing happens in the world anyway.

Nothing happens to him.

/

Somewhere else, Sherlock was running through a back alley in London, clutching a superficial gunshot wound to his side. He pulled his hand away. It wasn't too damp at all. The bullet the criminal shot must have just grazed him.

Good news for brainwork not to die tonight, then.

Snow had already started falling, white flakes falling from the pitch-black night sky above him. Sherlock glanced up, squinting his eyes into the sprinkling snow.

"Sherlock, are you still there?"

Sherlock looked down, his eyes following where the sound was coming from. His mobile phone blinked with Lestrade's name, the call having started almost an hour ago.

"Brilliant," Sherlock told him. "Everything's gone brilliant, Lestrade, come at once to collect your criminal."

"Sherlock, I know heard a gunshot. What happened? Are you bleeding? Are you-"

Sherlock pressed the 'end call' button, then he texted Lestrade his address. Those details can wait for the report.

There was no way that Lestrade would be there anytime soon, but really, that was no problem. In the last few minutes since Sherlock encountered the criminal, he had whipped his head with the barrel of his gun and slammed his head against the dumpster for good measure.

With the final thought, the bell on Big Ben sounded, piercing the midnight air. Sherlock counted. One, twice, three times. Then nine more.

As the residents of the buildings around him started to sing, harmonizing "Auld Lang Syne", Sherlock lit a cigarette, taking a drag, then coughed horrendously.

The singing drowned out the hacking coughs of Sherlock, who stood alone and thin in a dank alley behind an old flat. Sherlock steadied himself against the wall, and he cleared his throat.

He really ought to start wearing smoking patches.

2010

The lights danced upon the walls of 221B Baker Street, the quietness of the flat pressing down on John like a pressure point, as he stole glances at Sherlock from across the room.

The policemen of Scotland Yard were more than certainly long gone by now. That left just Mrs. Hudson, who had since fully recovered from her fright with the American men and was now one floor below, preparing to issue in the new year.

That just left John and Sherlock, alone, as the clock slowly ticked towards midnight.

John poured himself a drink, the bourbon swirling into the glass held tightly in his hands. John gritted his teeth.

It didn't mean anything.

Irene Adler was wrong. Sherlock is not his. And John should have corrected her.

So why didn't he?

John walked into the sitting room, where Sherlock was picking up his violin. His elegant fingers gripped the back of the instrument, absentmindedly running themselves up and down the strings.

"So, she's alive then." John broke the silence, keeping his voice steady. "How are we feeling about that?"

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. John could only imagine why. He stared at the grace of Sherlock's turned back, posing to start playing.

"Happy New Year, John." Sherlock still wasn't looking at him.

John didn't move his eyes. "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

Sherlock finally turned to stare into him, and John watched as he started the first notes to the song. "Auld Lang Syne" wafted through the tense air at 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock and John had lived together for almost a year now. The lights outside were only dimmed by the steady snowfall, with the chiming of the bell continuing to soar through the street.

At this point, John could only sit down in his chair. Thinking to himself, It didn't mean anything.

But Irene Adler's words still played through his head, drowning out the chimes of the clock, drowning out Sherlock's playing.

"I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am. Look at us both."

John sipped his bourbon, though his throat had become tight.

Irene Adler was wrong.

/

Sherlock looked at John's reflection in the glass in front of him, thinking deeply as he pretended to watch the snow.

All the while thinking to himself: "What did it mean?"

Half an hour later, he picked up his cell phone and texted Irene. After thinking of his message for a moment, he wrote, "Happy New Year."

The game was still on.

2011

John sat alone in Baker Street, boxes with all of his things gathered in the corner. His beard, unkempt and dirty, was becoming far too wild even for John. He really should shave a little. Maybe just leave behind a mustache. Something to make him a handsome bachelor.

"Oh you prat," he said to himself. "You'd never take advantage of it."

John drank the bourbon, and the taste was the same as exactly a year before. Memories flashed in his mind of Sherlock playing the violin right in front of him, for hours and hours, before John had finally turned to bed sleeping fitfully with thoughts of Irene Adler's observations.

Could she have observed that a year later, Sherlock would be dead?

The bell chimed midnight, as it had so many times, so many years before. Texts ignited on John's mobile beside him, the screen lighting up as much as the sky probably is, fireworks booming loudly in the distance.

John took a glance, deadened eyes darting down to look at the screen. One from Lestrade read, "Happy New Year John - let me know if you need anything, mate."

Another text, from Molly this time: "Hi John! Hope you're doing better, know you've got us if you need!"

This one made John smile a little bit. Molly always was a bit of a sweetheart. Always deserved better than hanging onto Sherlock for all that time.

John's smile fell at the thought, his face grimacing. "Yeah, I should talk, shouldn't I?"

He looked up at Sherlock's empty chair, dusty and slowly losing its luster with passed time. John had made it a point not to place even a jacket on it since the Fall. The fewer reasons to look at it, the better.

John still woke up in the middle of the night, watching Sherlock's body plummet through the air, landing with a thud right in front of him on the sidewalk. John always gets there too late to catch him.

And every day, John thought to himself, "this is why. This is why I need to get my own place. Move on with my life."

"Yeah, right," Sherlock scoffed, twiddling his fingers as he stared amusedly at John. "Move on with what life, Watson? I'm gone."

John's head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes in concealed anger.

"You arsehole," John seethed. "You made me watch you die, you don't get to be snarky with me."

"I'm not being snarky. I'm stating a fact." Sherlock leaned forward. "I'm gone, John. You know I am. There's no bringing me back. And I can't come back. So why do you still see me?"

"You're not really here."

Sherlock smiled at him. Knowingly, cocky. "I always will be, John. Because you'll never stop believing in me."

John looked at him. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Well, I have to now, don't I?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. The chair did not move. "You can try. But I'll always be here. Right there."

Sherlock touched John's forehead tenderly with his finger. A tear fell from John's cheek. "I hope not."

Sherlock got up from his chair and moved to the back of the room.

/

Miles and miles away, Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was crouched down behind a tree with a gun clenched in his hand. He flipped open the revolver, the sound clicking against the silence around him. Blast. Nearly empty.

Sherlock looked around. Not for the first time, he wished John was here to shoot for him. He had already missed more than he should have.

The yelling of his enemies echoed nearby, and Sherlock knew the trees couldn't protect him forever.

A gunshot flew past him and embedded itself in the bark behind him. Sherlock turned to look at it, then faced forward again to meet John's eyes.

"Looks like they're carrying AK-47s. Can't be far," John told him, loading his own gun. "I suggest you get around them, dodge them on the northside, distract them with their own gunfire. Be loud then silent. They'll never see you coming, Sherlock. I can assure it."

"I think you're right, John." Sherlock looked at him. "Follow me closely. This is going to be thin."

Sherlock heard another gunshot, and he ducked his head. He bent low to the ground, then he weaved between the trees. The leaves below his feet crunched loudly, and he heard gunfire shooting the opposite way. Sherlock grinned. John had been right.

The alarm on his watch beeped. Sherlock glanced down.

He looked up, meeting John's eyes again, firm and determined, yet soft and kind. Sherlock smiled. "Happy New Year, John."

Another gunshot. Sherlock ducked again, and when he looked behind him again, John was gone.

2012

"Have you ever thought of getting married?" John asked Mary, who was leaning up against his side on the sofa. "I mean, to me?"

"Ooh, only every day, darling," Mary told him, smiling brightly and softly kissing his lips. "Every day you tell me you love me. Every day you're with me, I'm thinking about it."

John grinned and bent down to kiss her. "Brilliant. Best to know."

Mary grinned back. "You are too, love."

John laughed, unconsciously smoothing down his mustache. Mary glanced down at it, her brow wrinkling before it was smoothed out again. "Why do you ask, anyway?"

"I was thinking about it," John replied with a soft smile on his face. "I want to move on, best I can. It's time. It's been almost two years, you know."

Mary's smile turned sympathetic. "That's right. That can't be easy for you."

"No, it's..." John trailed off. "I always knew he was important to me. But losing him...I can't believe how difficult it is for me to say. You were there for me, Mary, and for that, I will forever be thankful just to have met you."

John looked into Mary's eyes, and all he saw was life. Just life. The life he wants for himself. One the opposite of the one he led with Sherlock.

When he looked into Mary's eyes, he didn't see the battlefield. He didn't get that tingle in his spine, the excitement in his heart. Not like he did with Sherlock. With Mary, it was calm. Just quietness. Security. And the promise that everything was going to be ordinary.

John looked up in the seat in front of him, and Sherlock was staring at him again. But this time, he was absolutely silent.

This time, when midnight struck, Mary kissed him, and John felt like everything might work out just averagely. Just the way he needs it to.

/

Sherlock smoked another cigarette, the map before him wrinkled, ripped, and damp. But still readable.

Gashes lined his arms and legs, his back aching from the unhealed whip marks embedded in his skin. Sherlock shook his head, trying not to focus on the immense pain pounding through his body.

Instead, he tried to focus on John's eyes.

"I think if you hit here, here, and here," fake-John told him with certainty. "You can catch them off-guard. Especially if you avoid the back entrance, that's where they'll think to catch you first."

"So where would I have to go in?" Sherlock asked bending forward to look at where his John was pointing. "What other way is there?"

"Right-" John pointed to another point. "-there. It's only watched over by one man. It'll be their downfall not to arm it. It's the only way, I think."

Sherlock looked at John, his own face soft, scarred, and muddy. "I think this could work."

John stared back at him. "I know it will. Long as we stick together. Sherlock, you can't make a mistake here."

"I know. And I won't." Sherlock licked his lips. "Not when I'm so close to seeing you again."

John fell silent, then he smiled and nodded, a soft look igniting in his eyes. It was a look Sherlock had seen several times before. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Sherlock checked his watch."Already?"

"You ought to leave now. Midnight on New Year's? Fewer people at the door." John looked at Sherlock knowingly. "Of course I've kept track. Now go. The people of London deserve to see you again. I deserve to see you again. Now go."

Sherlock huffed a laugh. His eyes met John's, full of love, admiration. His stomach flipped. "I'll come back to you. Soon."

John said, "You better, and you better be alive. Now, go."

Sherlock burst out from the door of the half-burned house he was squatting in. The quietness of the area, the woods, was enough to keep his mind calm. The leaves crunched below his boots, the snow around him falling steadily around him, into his wild curly hair and long wild beard.

But it was all worth it. Sherlock will always remember that.

Anything for John Watson.

2013

"Happy New Year, everyone!" Lestrade called out throughout the Baker Street flat. "The clock's counting down!"

John grabbed Mary's hand and tried to match her smile. "Another year, my darling," he said to her evenly. "Although it is much different this time."

Mary glanced up, watching Sherlock moving around the room absentmindedly. She shook her head. "Remember, he must have been through a lot. You said he spent two years abroad, fighting Moriarty's network?"

"Yeah," John sighed heavily. "I never got so many details, but...you can imagine, right? He's never going to talk about it as much as we want him to."

"He's independent," Mary responded. "At least from what I've heard of him. I don't think he's the sort to seek out help."

"No. No, he isn't."

"But, from what I have seen," Mary continued. "he is the sort to answer calls for help. He raced in that fire to save you. I saw it for myself. He will help if you just let him."

"I don't need help, Mary, he does," John told her. "He's back after two years-"

"And he's just come back to his best friend, who's moved on with his life. Who's getting married next summer." John bit the inside of his lip at that. "He should at least help you continue to grow. And if he doesn't, then he's not really a friend, though, is he?"

John looked back at Sherlock, who was standing rod-straight in the corner of the room, speaking with Molly Hooper. Sherlock looked up momentarily, right into John's eyes. Sherlock held his stare for a moment before they both broke away.

John shook his head, trying to focus on his fiancée in front of him.

"No. No, I guess not."

/

"Is he still talking to her?"

Molly looked at John for a moment from across the room, who was grabbing Mary's hand and leading her to the kitchen. She nodded. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm afraid he is."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "They're getting married in May, about to spend the rest of their lives together. Don't they think they have their entire lives to talk?"

Molly looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Can't imagine how this must be for you. I mean, he just moved out? You haven't seen him for two years, barely at all this past month since you came back."

"John made his choice. And if it's her, that's…"

Sherlock glanced at John at that moment, watching as he kissed his fiancée tenderly on the cheek. Sherlock trailed off, before falling completely silent.

Then Sherlock met John's eyes for a moment, and he purposefully stared right at him. Silently asking him to break away and talk to him instead.

Of course, John didn't read his mind. Instead, he turned back to his fiancée. Sherlock let out a long sigh.

"Sherlock." Molly's brows were wrinkled, her eyes wide with realization. "Are you jealous?"

Sherlock straightened his back. "I'm not. I'm just..."

Molly's eyes widened. "You're not just jealous...you're..."

Sherlock stopped, and he looked down sharply to the ground. He felt the walls fall for just a moment around his one confidant, and his shoulders slumped.

He met Molly's eyes, who returned the gaze with sympathy and sorrow.

"Molly..." Tears came to his eyes.

Molly sighed, placing a palm on Sherlock's cheek. "Oh, Sherlock-"

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One!" Lestrade called with the entire room. "Happy New Year!"

2014

The following year brought a gunshot, fired from Sherlock's gun and into Magnussen's head. John was still shaking on the inside from the moment it happened. And he couldn't get the tender look in Sherlock's eyes out of his mind.

"Give my love to Mary!" Sherlock had called above the deafening whir of the helicopter blades. "Tell her she's safe now."

The tarmac moment was also forever present in his mind and will be forever. Because John knew there was more than what Sherlock was telling him.

If John's deductions were right, Sherlock had been on his way to his death.

And John had had no idea what to say to him as a final goodbye.

Sherlock had looked at him deep into his eyes, his ungloved and bare hand outstretched to him to shake. "To the very best of times, John," he had said.

And how true it was. Sherlock was the best of his life; that's what John should have said.

That's what he should have said years ago.

Before Mary shot him. Before Mary lied to him. Before he promised his life to her.

Before everything.

The clock was ticking down again. The minutes were going by faster than John had thought, faster than he had ever seen them.

Because as soon as he leaves 221B Baker Street, he's going to have to go back to his wife.

And it scared him how much he didn't want to do that.

/

Sherlock had brought John back to Baker Street on Mycroft's orders, but this was the first of his brother's orders he couldn't help but genuinely want to obey.

This was the first time they'd been alone since the Stag Night. Since they sat together in those two chairs. Since Sherlock felt John drunkenly brush his thumb against his knee. Since Sherlock wanted to blurt out just how much he didn't want John to marry Mary the next week.

He would have chosen to tell John that Mary is a liar. But he didn't. Because he'd never do that to John Watson, never, because he didn't choose Sherlock.

And he never, ever would.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Do you have time for tea, then?"

John gave a heavy sigh. "I wish I did. I really, really do."

"So why don't you?"

Sherlock looked at John, letting the words hang in the air. John paused in his movements, clenching and unclenching his fists. He glanced at Sherlock.

"Because I have a duty to my wife."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "I understand. John, it's almost midnight. You should be with your wife. You should be…"

You should be with her, not with me. Because you're not married to me. You're married to her. She makes you happy in a way I never will be able to.

Sherlock cleared his throat, forcing those words away from his throat. He said instead, "you should be in your own home."

John nodded. "Yeah. I know. But I don't want to-"

"Then don't."

Sherlock bit down on his tongue. He really shouldn't have said that.

John looked at him. Sadness and exhaustion were in his eyes. "Sherlock, don't you start-"

"So pretend I don't," Sherlock told him firmly. "Pretend I'm too high to think straight. Let me say it. Please don't go home to Mary. Please stay here."

Sherlock stared at John despairingly. The words hung in the air.

Sherlock had never begged for mercy in his life. He has now.

John shifted on his feet, and he wouldn't speak. Deciding what he was going to say.

Then finally, John said, "Sherlock, I wish-"

Then John's phone rang. He looked down, his sentence interrupted. John stared at his phone for a long, long time. He almost let it ring out.

Then he answered it. "Yeah?'

Sherlock looked at John, his heart pounding, so low it was almost to his feet.

And also practically bleeding into John's hands.

John nodded. Made some noncommittal noises. Glanced up at Sherlock once or twice. Then, "Okay. I'll be there soon. I love you."

Sherlock felt his face fall. John looked into his eyes. Apologies were written in the air, all across John's face. But it wasn't ever said aloud.

"It's Mary. Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I have to..."

"Go." Sherlock gestured to the door. "I'll… I'll see you later."

John nodded. His feet didn't move, though, as if they were rooted to the very ground of Baker Street. John looked up at Sherlock, swallowing hard.

Then, after an even longer moment, John turned, and he left the way he came.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room for a long time after that. Even after the clock struck midnight.

2015

It'd been a long, long, long time since Sherlock had felt this happy.

John was in the corner playing with Rosie, wearing a 'Happy New Years' hat too big for his head, with one on Rosie's to match. Mrs. Hudson sat right beside him holding a toy in front of the little girl's face, much to her delight.

Lestrade made his next silly face at her, switching into a bright smile upon the sound of little Rosie's laughter.

Sherlock grinned. How such a beautiful creature came from such a poor and failed marriage was beyond even him.

John's eyes were happy again, his blue eyes alight with mirth and joy, a man unburdened. Even his shoulders were less tense, now holding his daughter the way they should.

"Sherlock?" Molly said. "I'm sorry I haven't been... how are you doing? I know that explosion must have-"

"Molly, what are you talking about?" Sherlock said, turning to her incredulously. "I'm the one who owes you an apology."

"Oh Sherlock, please, we've talked about this before," Molly told him, waving her hand once. "I can't imagine what you had to go through on that dreadful island. I only hope your sister is-"

"Eurus is doing fine," Sherlock replied easily. "Everything is fine. Perfect, actually."

Molly looked at John, then back at Sherlock. "Everything?"

Sherlock looked at John, and their eyes met. John smiled warmly at him, a smile Sherlock hadn't seen in a long time.

One that was genuine. One that was John.

Sherlock nodded. "It's perfect enough."

Then Rosie started crying, with an ensuing of "awwwww!" chorusing throughout the flat.

"Looks like someone might be ready for her nap," Mrs. Hudson announced. John laughed.

"I'll take her," Sherlock volunteered with a soft smile. "I was just heading out anyway."

"Well try to make it back for the New Year, darling," Mrs. Hudson told him kindly. "The bells about to chime, you know."

Lestrade handed Sherlock her rattle, and Mrs. Hudson stood to hand her over, whom Sherlock tenderly took into his arms.

"Be right back."

Sherlock headed into the back room.

John followed right behind him.

/

Sherlock turned around, startled, as the door closed shut behind him.

John stood there, with his hand still hanging from the doorknob. As if, for one second, he thought about leaving entirely. But then his hand slipped away, hanging loosely at his side confidently and with certainty.

John wasn't going anywhere.

"John? What are you-"

"Sherlock, there's something I need to say. And I need to say it now, or it's never going to get said."

Sherlock nodded. He lay Rosie down. "Okay. Is something wrong?"

John looked away. "Look, I… I made the wrong decision. Last year."

"Last year?"

"Well, not just last year. Every time I went home with her. When I knew that wasn't something I wanted to do." John stepped closer. "Every time I knew...that I would rather have been with you. Not her."

Sherlock met his eyes. "John-"

"Sherlock, I know this doesn't make any sense. But...whatever you have to say...please let me tell you this first."

A moment of silence passed before John could continue.

"Sherlock, I have never...regretted anything more than marrying her. I should have-I should have been with you. The whole time. I don't know what I was thinking, and I'm so sorry I…"

John stopped at the shocked look on Sherlock's face. John's face fell. "I really shouldn't be saying this to you."

"No. John-"

"Sherlock-"

"I love you."

Sherlock felt the weight on his chest relieve itself as soon as the words escaped from his mouth. Sherlock couldn't believe how right it felt to finally say it, and for John to finally hear it.

John sighed, and he smiled so softly that even Sherlock felt his heart melt in his chest. John opened and closed his mouth again and again. Trying to find a way to reply.

Then, "I've loved you for longer than you will ever know."

There it was. The words finally said, finally out in the open. Sherlock couldn't look away from John's eyes.

Then the beeping started. Sherlock didn't even have to look down at his watch. Sherlock smiled wide, his face breaking out into a wide grin.

"Happy New Year, John."

John stepped forward, and before Sherlock could even register what was happening, Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and kissed him, softly, and without hesitation.

John huffed a laugh, pulled away, then kissed him again.

Finally. A truly happy new year.

[teawaffles]

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 5, Part 2

“Hey, madam innkeeper: where would you normally have been in the building?”

“……Since when did you get in charge of the investigation?”

As Sherlock took the lead, it seemed Gregson was displeased, but also no longer in the mood to put up a fight.

Hillary sniffed.

“I was always at the reception desk. I’m the only one managing the inn; I don’t have a single employee.”

“In that case, do you remember when these three men came to book their rooms? Or rather, at the time, had there been anyone with burns on their face?”

Sherlock was now diverting the conversation away from the case, instead attempting to verify if there were eyewitness accounts of the other fugitive. However, Gregson responded in a low voice.

“Holmes: it’s not going to work. We also tried asking her when we arrived at the scene back then, but it seems she has a strange policy of protecting her guests’ privacy, so she doesn’t check her guests’ appearances and such too closely.”

It seemed Hillary had heard him whispering, for she spoke up in defiance.

“You know, these parts are full of people with something to hide. I always make sure they pay up, but I don’t do such tactless things as staring people in the face.”

“Tactful, eh……”

Even Sherlock couldn’t stop himself; he cracked a wry grin. He didn’t know if it was an unwritten rule of the slums, but the innkeeper’s response was certainly a little too risky.

Nevertheless, at this point, there was nothing to be gained from laying blame on her. Sherlock continued.

“In that case, when the fire started, were you also at the reception?”

“That’s right. I wanted to stay there until the fire was contained, but a bunch of bobbies dragged me out at the very last moment.”

It seemed the lady possessed a truly dauntless spirit, so much so she had been willing to go down with her inn. That elicited something close to admiration within Sherlock, and he looked over the suspects.

“You mentioned ‘the very last moment’… That means you stayed at the reception until everyone had escaped?”

“Indeed: as the landlady, I have to ensure my guests are safe. Besides these guys, I definitely saw the ones from rooms 102 and 201 escape out the front door.”

“You’re indeed the epitome of a host.”

In his mind, Sherlock added this new piece of information on the guests’ rooms.

Excluding the murder victim, there had been five guests in total.

On the ground floor, rooms 101 (Jerry Dorff) and 102 had been occupied.

On the first floor, rooms 201 and 203 (Mike Myers).

Then on the second floor, room 301 (Bruno Campbell).

As he gathered the respective locations of the guests, the proprietress spoke up.

“Oh yes — earlier, everyone was talking about who had the chance to go up to the second floor, right? You’ll have to rule out Mr Jerry over there: for some reason, he immediately ran outside when the fire began. He seemed the very picture of alarm.”

“Hmm; this man, panicked?”

As far as he was concerned, people were free to run away in any manner they liked. But the gap between that and the taciturn, mysterious man before them made even Sherlock’s expression soften. It seemed Jerry had been strangely embarrassed by that reaction, deliberately clearing his throat.

Then, the detective turned to Gregson.

“Come to think of it, when you were going back upstairs, did you go past anyone? There must’ve been people rushing to escape.”

“I remember that: I passed by Bruno, Mike, and one other guest on the stairs. But is that important somehow?”

“If the killer had been among them, then he must’ve murdered the victim in the short period between the time you went downstairs to check the situation, and the time you returned to the second floor.”

Gregson groaned. “……Of course, that interval feels way too short. It didn’t even take me 30 seconds to go downstairs and back up again. So, that means……”

The locations of the suspects’ rooms. The escape route. The span of time until the victim had been murdered. Putting together all the clues they’d gathered by questioning the people involved, a single answer surfaced of its own accord.

“——It’s impossible for the killer to have gone upstairs and murdered him.”

Sherlock sounded as if he were pronouncing a judgement. Then, Gregson finally got his head around it — just like what a detective’s assistant would’ve done.

——“In that case, how did he murder the man in the room?”

“T-Then, the man in the room — how was he murdered……?”

Once again, the John in his imagination overlapped with Gregson. In theory, this ‘riddle’ had turned into something impossible to solve, and the assistant inspector was wracked with an anguish akin to agony.

However, that was a tale that only applied to ordinary people.

With his singularly transcendent powers of deduction, the consulting detective had already narrowed down two answers to this case.

Truthfully, right now, he could proceed to the solution right away. But for some reason, he didn’t want to do that. Surely, the reason why he was investigating the truth like this, was because he saw the figure of the man before him strenuously racking his brains.

As Gregson continued to despair, Sherlock Holmes placed a hand on his back.

“Gregson, do you have a moment?”

“……What do you want?”

He looked exhausted — but that was a weariness born from his own sense of responsibility, and even Sherlock refused to take a jibe at him now.

Gregson was shouldering a duty as a police inspector, so the detective resolved to use a little discretion.

“I want to talk to you outside for a bit.”

“…………”

Sherlock had said so in a serious tone, and Gregson didn’t put up a fight.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Once they left the inn, an unnerving oppressiveness made their skin prickle: clearly, the locals’ anger had only intensified. Lestrade was trying his best to negotiate with and conciliate them, but it wouldn’t be long before their frustration boiled over.

Yet, even as they were caught in this race against time, Sherlock remained unhurried. On the streets to which filth clung here and there, he began to speak as if they were simply having a chat.

“First off, from the conversation earlier, we’ve eliminated the possibility that the culprit went to room 303 and killed him. As such, we have to consider a different tack.”

“A different tack?”

“What I mean is, the idea that he didn’t attack from the door — rather, the window.”

Sherlock proposed the theory he’d thought up at the start: that the man had been shot from the window. With this idea, they could break free of the ‘riddle’ created by the locked room — the murderer could kill the victim even without going all the way to the second floor.

However, Gregson shrugged in amazement, and explained in an indifferent tone.

“This might dispute the deduction you’re so proud of, but we did look into that as well. Firstly, for this method to work, there must’ve been two men in total: one to start the fire at the inn, and the other to shoot the victim from outside. But hiring another collaborator to silence an accomplice, or settle a falling-out, brings its own share of danger. In addition, in order to shoot his victim, a gunman would minimally have to be at the same height as him. There’s a brothel across the street from the inn, facing its north wall, and with three floors to boot, it fits the bill. But at the time of the murder, there’d been people on its second floor, and no one testified that they heard a gunshot. Hence, that explanation has to be rejected.”

Unusually, the inspector had discussed his view without a hint of his usual thorny attitude.

But Sherlock was adamant. “If that’s the case, then——”

——“If that’s the case, then how about something like this? Sherlock.”

His partner’s voice resounded through his mind. Now, the detective persisted in playing the role of an assistant, raising another idea to the inspector.

“From the street beside the inn, he could’ve aimed at room 303’s window and shot the victim. With that, he wouldn’t have raised suspicions among the people in the brothel.”

“……That’s rather cliché. There were officers outside the inn, so if there’d been someone with a gun outside, they would’ve arrested him long ago. Moreover, the victim collapsed a step away from the room door. If he’d been shot from the window, he would’ve lain there still. Even if he had then used the last of his strength to crawl all the way to the door, with that level of blood loss, it’d be strange that there hadn’t been a trail of blood leading from the window. As I said earlier, as far as I could tell through the keyhole, I didn’t see any marks like that.”

The inspector calmly refuted his theory, and Sherlock made the same troubled face as John always did.

——Then and there, he eliminated one of his two suppositions, and completely saw through the ‘riddle’ of this case.

“Is that so? Then I’m completely at a loss here.”

“Hmm, what’s gotten into you since earlier? ……You kept making deductions that were quite unlike you.”

Gregson had casually said something that, deep down, revealed a glimpse of his recognition of the detective’s ability. Unwittingly, Sherlock broke into a gentle smile.

But just as quickly, he replaced it with the troubled expression required of the fool he was playing. Sherlock put both hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.

“Hey, Gregson. Somehow, we’ve been talking over and over and getting nowhere; so for a change of pace, how about a quiz?”

“Huh? You purposely brought me all the way outside, for a quiz?!”

Gregson frowned, but Sherlock continued without a care.

“Let’s say there are two children, A and B, and they’re friends. One day, the two of them play catch at a distance of about 20 steps away from one another. But although A can throw the ball to B, B can’t throw it back to A. Why is that so? In case you were wondering, the two of them have the same strength.”

“……Hmm.”

Gregson forgot about his complaints for a moment, and pondered.

“Did B sprain his shoulder?”

“In a quiz like this, that kind of reasoning’s rubbish, isn’t it?”

“There’s a wall between them.”

“Then A couldn’t have thrown the ball over.”

“……Another kid suddenly appeared and stole the ball.”

“You’re being a little careless, aren’t ya?”

It was unclear what the intention behind this quiz was, and to top it off, Sherlock had rejected every one of his answers. At last, Gregson raised his voice.

“Dammit, just tell me the answer already! Also, what’s the point of a quiz like this?!”

“Come on, now,” Sherlock parried. “I’ll give you a hint: for example, try looking at this building here.”

“Hmm……”

The detective pointed to the inn they had just stepped out of. Coincidentally, just like the one that had burnt down, this building also had three floors.

“What about it?”

“Man, you’re still as slow as ever. Look……”

Sherlock pointed to a window on the upper floors, and moved his finger between that and the window below it a few times.

Watching that action, Gregson seemed to have arrived at the answer himself.

“I see. So the children were standing on the upper and lower floors respectively, and leaning out the windows to throw the ball? Although it could be thrown from the floor above to the one below, it would be difficult to throw the ball back up in the other direction. That’s to say, the distance of 20 steps was not lengthwise, but vertical——”

Right then, as if a bolt of electricity had coursed through him, Gregson twitched. His hand shot to his chin; sinking deep into thought, he remained absolutely motionless, with only his lips piecing fragments together into clues.

“There’s only one way…… To be able to kill without going upstairs…… In that case, the position of the body…… And it ending up as a locked room…… But, such an extraordinary method –– is it even possible?”

At his final question, Sherlock grinned.

“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you just thought of…… But when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” [1]

“………!”

Gregson looked at the detective, standing boldly where he was.

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

That was what he’d always maintained.

A suicide, or an accident. Pretending to be dead. Entering the room and murdering him. A sniper shot from the window. After carefully pursuing all lines of thought, in the end, only this solution remained.

In that case, it had to be the truth.

Could it be, that he’d started this entire conversation in order to guide him here……?

“……Hmph.”

At that thought, Assistant Inspector Gregson reassumed his usual, haughty attitude: the manner of a police inspector who saw the detective as his enemy.

“Let’s go, Holmes. I’ll tell you what I’ve deduced.”

——This is my case.

As Gregson strode away triumphantly, Sherlock chuckled.

T/N: Sherlock has grown so much..! (my /heart/)

Footnotes:

[1] A quote from Chapter 6 of the Sherlock Holmes novel The Sign of the Four, by Arthur Conan Doyle. (Wikipedia)

[runnfromtheak]

tagged by @icosagens!!! such an eloquent and stunning writer with a sharp sense of humor srsly go check him out on ao3! <3 Specifically check out his JayDickDonna fic, CHCl3 which is beautiful and painful and just E V E R Y T H I N GGGGG.

I'll put everything under the cut so there isn't a terrible amount of scrolling for those wishing to skip <3

Rules: list the first lines of your last ten stories. See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line.

Anchors of Mortality

AKA my new passion project where Dick has a savior complex and no self-preservation skills featuring a Constantine who just wants to Tap That, a Zatanna who is tired and also wants to Tap That, and a host of resurrected characters because Dick can't let things lie or die. Ships include JayDick and Magic^2Dick (or Dick/Zee/Constantine)

Life ends and life begins in rain, at least as far as Dick Grayson is concerned. His parents died on a rainy day, ice-cold droplets seeping in through the bright, thick cloth of the circus tents. A drizzle, Haly had called it beforehand, telling them not to worry. But rain is an omen – a warning – of an uncertain future, of conflicting emotions and thoughts. It had been a sign he’d been foolish to ignore, a sign Haly had been foolish to ignore.

everything casts a shadow

AKA SladeDick with Slade being the Worst and Dick straight up not having a good time

Zatanna used to say that rain has a cleansing effect on the heart and the soul – and the cock, Constantine would always interject with a filthy leer of promise. Rain purifies negative energy from a space, murder or magic, and rain settles the anxious mind. The three of them had made love in the rain once, intertwining limbs and the glow of magic refracted throughout the cold droplets. Three hearts aligned in a crystalline world of skin and water, for a perfect moment.

a prayer for which no words exist

JayDick where Dick has issues and needs therapy. Like a true emotional support/projection character, he reads instead.

On nights he can’t sleep, he reads.

Dick’s always enjoyed books, had grown up with yellowed pages musty with the scent of age as comfort and entertainment, but he’d stopped reading frequently when he’d grown up. With everything else, with responsibility atop responsibility atop responsibility as he’d aged, he hadn’t the time or the mental capacity to love reading like he had before. He hadn’t been able to focus or concentrate, always oscillating between too keyed up and too exhausted. The words, when he’d try and sift through the neurochemical adrenaline high and sift through the luring temptress of melatonin and sleep deprivation, would float and float and float away like distant birds migrating to a new land.

i'm addicted to the way you hurt (i don't mind if you fuck up my life)

JayDick where Dick is a female and also depressed but not in a sexy way. Very Spuffy s6 vibes if ya know what I mean.

When she comes back to life, her world is a nuclear green.

She’s embraced by something; it cradles her, like she’s a precious bundle of jewels, like something perfect to be coveted. There’s warmth where she rests her head, breasts pillowed beneath her, and she’s held close enough to feel that rhythmic cadence like a siren call to life.

warning signs can feel like they're butterflies (i won't stop 'till i get where you are)

Johnlock fic because I got into the fandom late where Sherlock just can't say no and everyone is sad.

He shoots her blackmailer on Christmas Day on the front porch of a cold mansion.

It’s a good shot – clean, precise – with an entry wound and an exit wound. Bits of brain matter coated in blood spatter at Magnussen's back, a dead-eyed look of shock in his empty eyes.

hold your breath 'till we're in too deep (my love is a mood ring)

JayDick where Dick just wants to love Jason and people (*cough* Jason *cough*) make this a difficult venture.

The thing is: Jason Todd is dead.

The thing is: Jason Todd is holding a detonator in his right fist and a gun in his left, both pointed in Dick’s direction in a fairly menacing way.

The thing is: Dick’s vision is blurry from what may or may not be a concussion and there are little floating Batmen spinning around his head in diapers like a horrifying rendition of Cupid, so his assessments may not be entirely accurate.

i wanna waste my youth on you

DickDonna where Dick Grayson is a fucking simp for Donna Troy but aren't we all? (the correct answer is yes. if you said no, only god can help you now.)

He’s ten and she’s eleven and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

heart on your sleeve like you've never been loved (running in circles now look what you've done)

Johnlock and Adlock where Sherlock picks sex over drugs and John is Not Pleased.

It starts right after the funeral dressed up as a wedding. Tables of decorations he’d picked, dishes he’d selected, color pallets he’d painstakingly coordinated and plotted. John and Mary’s song, weaved from his tears and his blood spilt like ink over the dancefloor as his violin grieves with him.

She’s pregnant. Sherlock smiles, as the best friend is meant to, and John smiles, as the father is meant to, and Mary smiles and it’s all normal and proper and Sherlock’s frozen before she pulls John away with something so horribly knowing in her eyes, before they kiss sweetly on a dancefloor he’d helped pick and lose themselves in throngs of friends and family.

light at the beginning of the tunnel (but he tells me that i'm dreaming)

Johnlock where Sherlock pines and does drugs post T6T.

He hadn’t intended to return. Victorian London holds its own sort of allure, delicious danger at every corner, nothing but pure intellect unaided by modern machinations to solve puzzles of every sort—

(a John Watson that still looks at you like you hung the sun and the stars just for him, like you’re the center he orbits, a gravity he doesn’t care to escape. A place where deductions still evoke tenderness, approval. Where John Watson still wants to hear your voice and cares for you, even with Mary.)

—but it had been dangerous. It had been utterly reckless, a calculated OD with no less than five compounds of varying effects, each boosting the others into a delightful failing of his heart that hadn’t lasted because his transport’s tenacity outweighed his mind’s desires. The fanciful realm where his life hadn’t gone to complete and utter shite had never been a conscious plan. Sherlock hadn’t intended for his brain to grasp for a chain, a link to reality in the form of delusions and hallucinations and awful attempts at honesty. He hadn’t planned for a did you miss me? Despite all his claims to the contrary at the time.

me and you are such a beautiful tragedy (in love with agony)

JayDick Jason wants to be a good person but he's horny. AKA the new pitch for evil: come to the dark side, we have great sex or your ex that can and will kill you if you don't.

The thing about the Lazarus Pit is it consumes you. It’s greedy, like Midas’s touch on a cellular level. It replaces the old with the new – with it – carving a home in blood and soul for its will. For its intentions, passive though they seem at first. Mental stability is only one cost of such a bargain, but it’s by far the worst.

I mean, I used rain as a symbol/parallel twice but mehhh. I don't think I'm super duper set in any formula as far as first lines go. I think my fave would either be the Lazarus Pit line or the nuclear green one. I love my Pit consequences, okay?

Tagging @boyblunder-thedarkheir, @behindtherobinsmask, @luthienluinwe, @stevieraebarnes, and @bitterleafs!! <3

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Your fic reca are what’s literally keeping me alive right now! Thank you 🙏 Do u have any new Virgin Sherlock, Sensitive Sherlock or first time Johnlock fic recs? I would be forever grateful

Hi Nonny!!! *HUGS*

Aww, I’m happy my blog is making you happy! I’ve actually recently released a part 2 list for Virgin Sherlock last month so you can check these out:

Virgin Sherlock

Virgin Sherlock Pt. 2

As for First Time / Sensitive Sherlock, ahhhh, I’m gonna use this opportunity actually to update my First Times List, if that’s okay? Only because I have a list already started, and I’m currently compiling a “sensuality” list that I think will meet your needs for sensitive Sherlock when I post it (another ask from another Nonny) so I’ll save it for that time :P Though you might like Shy Sherlock  and Sherlock Soft With Children for that one!

Anyway.... Here we go! :D

FIRST TIMES Pt. 2

See also: First Time || [MOBILE]

Bathroom Accessories by Evenlodes_Friend (E, 3,324 w., 1 Ch. || Sex Toys, Butt Plug, First Kiss / Time, Romance, Horny Sherlock, John’s Patience Wears Thin, Humour, Bottomlock) – John discovers that Sherlock has been playing with some very adult toys in the bath.

Nothing So Sweet by alexxphoenix42 (E, 5,275 w., 1 Ch. || Shopkeeper AU || Beekeeping, Sussex, Alternate First Meeting, Awkward First Time Sex, Self-Consciousness / Body Insecurity, Fluff, Hand Jobs) – In an alternate universe, Sherlock is busy keeping to himself, tending his bees, and selling lovely jars of honey when a soldier limps into his life quite unexpectedly. Part 1 of The Sweetest Things

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Bridges by sussexbound (M, 6,602 w., 1 Ch || Post-TLD / S4 Fix It, Love Confessions, Mending Relationships, Moving Back In, Pining Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Past Abuse, Shaving) – The silence between them is deafening, interrupted only by the hum of the traffic outside, and the soft click-clunk of the plastic cups Rosie is playing with on the floor beside them. It is the first time they have been alone together, since Sherlock’s birthday. It’s only been two days, but it feels huge, important, like there is a precarious bridge stretched out before them both that they need to at least attempt to traverse.

An Interpretation of Viewing Habits by akitsuko (E, 6,653 w., 1 Ch. || Porn Watching, Masturbation, Anal, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Jealous Sherlock, Fantasizing, John in Denial / Internalized Homophobia, Bottomlock, Pining Idiots, Sherlock Has No Boundaries, Cockblocking Sherlock) – John watches porn. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. If every video he watches happens to feature actors with remarkable physical similarities to his flatmate, well, that's no one's business but his own. Or: John is in denial, until his infatuation with Sherlock is impossible to deny anymore.

Time on my hands by Mildredandbobbin (M, 7,179 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-S3, One Night Stands, Mutual Pining, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Sexual Exploration / Discovery, Desperation, Body Worship) – Virginity’s a construct, a concept—what does losing one’s virginity entail for a gay man anyway? Sherlock wants to fill that particular gap in his knowledge but John won’t, can’t, never will assist and there’s only so much desperately unspoken pining even Sherlock can take.

Sometimes When We Touch by kedgeree (M, 7,755 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Kiss/Time, Inappropriate Giggling, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Virgin Sherlock, John Whump, Touching) – John might be touching Sherlock a little more often than is strictly necessary. Sherlock probably hasn't even noticed. Right...?

Just Like That by sussexbound (E, 8,442 w., 1 Ch. || First Time/Kiss, Frottage, Virgin Sherlock, French Kissing, Anal, Emotional Lovemaking, Enthusiastic Consent, Tenderness, Crying John, Bathing/Washing, Insecure John, Toplock) – John doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants. Oh dear god, how he wants. For the first time in what feels like years he WANTS.

London Gods by a_different_equation (E, 11,092 w., 5 Ch. || American Gods Fusion || Magical Realism, Sex Magic, True Love, PTSD John, First Kiss/Time, Marathon Sex, Sensuality, Genie Sherlock, Human John, Internalized Homophobia, Star-Crossed Lovers, Soul Mates) – Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.

The shape of the world around us by Salambo06 (E, 15,058 w., 5 Ch. || Lumberjack John / Botanist Sherlock, Different First Meeting, John Has a Beard, Light Case Fic, Flirting, First Kiss / Time, Masturbation, Love at First Sight, Horny Sherlock, John’s Bum, Bottomlock, Tenderness, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Shy Sherlock, Sexual Fantasies) – Looking through the bush, Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken as a man passed in front of him. Sherlock frowned, trying to get a closer look despite the bush. The man was wearing a red plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, and Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the man’s arms. Muscular, slightly tanned with golden hairs along his forearms. For some unknown reason, Sherlock found himself imagining them around his waist, holding him tightly. Closing his eyes for the briefest second, Sherlock shook his head. Opening his eyes and looking back to where the man stood only a moment prior, he found himself alone. Great, now his only chance to find his way back to town was gone. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

The Wisteria Tree by SilentAuror (E, 29,773 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Emotional Love Making, Amnesia/Memory Loss, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Sherlock POV, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending, First Times, Hurt/Comfort, Est. Rel., Retirement) – Sherlock wakes up from a month-long coma only to discover that he has no memory of the previous six years to his own shock as well as John's...

The Real Great Perfumers by shelleysprometheus (E, 45,355 w., 68 Ch. || Case Fic, Alternating POV, Gay Sherlock / Bi John, Canon Compliant with Divergence at TRF, Friends to Lovers, Oral / Anal, Pining, First Kiss / Time, Dev. Rel., Drugging, Body Worship, Bathing, Love Confessions, Travelling, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock, BJ’s, Alternating POV, Jealous John) – The case, this case. This extraordinary, fascinating, scintillating case. A house. Designed entirely by its eccentric owner, built by no less than five hundred expert tradesmen in the heart of Marrakesh. A house that had, seemingly not only driven its owner out, but also to his quite unpleasant death. And a perfumer, a chemist no less, the very thought of the secrets that house could reveal, would reveal was irresistible. Sherlock had to have this case ... and it seems, he also had to have John! Part 1 of the Forethought and Fire series

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w., 16 Ch. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of SpaceBois go to Space

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal, Autistic Sherlock) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU ||  BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 97,884 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 25

On Ao3

Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 24 - Chapter 26

Chapter 25-  Sunflower 

“I understand that this is a good idea for the long term,” Amelia said. “I really do, but I think we should have started with something simpler.”

She, Sherlock, and John were in her bedroom, with John carefully wrapping the potentially broken ankle she had managed during that day’s “training”.

“You need to be careful with this ankle,” John scolded. “You’re too old to keep injuring the same spots over and over.”

“That was months ago,” Amelia protested, but paled when John pressed a finger into a particularly tender spot. “I’m not old. I’m young compared to the two of you grumpy old men.”

“I don’t understand what was so difficult about the instructions,” Sherlock complained, lounging in Amelia’s chair by her fireplace. “I warned you to jump.”

“And then you pushed me over!” she insisted. “That’s not a jump, that’s a dodge or move out of the way.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” he explained. “A real threat isn’t going to announce what you need to do.”

“It’s been a month, I can barely throw a punch,” she replied.

“The bruise on his shoulder suggests otherwise,” John supplied quietly, tying off the wrap. “You should be all set. I’ll see if we can get you in for X-rays in the morning.”

“It didn’t take me this long to learn self-defense,” Sherlock continued, tossing a bundle of hair scrunchies in the air above him.

“I’m incredibly out of shape, and have noodles for limps,” Amelia added. “I’m not even attempting to attack this at the level you would have. I’d die.”

“I think you’re doing great,” John assured her. “You’re getting faster and your reflexes are getting better.”

“John’s my new head coach,” she high fived the doctor.

“John’s in charge of firearms,” Sherlock turned to face them. “We’ve been over this.”

“There was that nice Judo guy who wanted to show me something,” Amelia reminded him. “You just get mad when anyone else touches me.”

“That’s not true, I’m fine when you hug John,” he stated.

“Hug,” Amelia repeated with a laugh toward John. “He’s fine when we hug.”

“You’re too casually affectionate in general, but as long as it’s directed toward our friends, that’s tolerable,” he clarified.

“I’ll keep that in mind for my afternoon shag with Judo guy,” she retorted.

He looked to John for support, but the doctor did what he did best when the pair disagreed- held his hands up and backed out of the room.

“Not my fight,” he replied. “I’m going to shower.”

“I’m not casually affectionate,” she paused. “Just to you guys. And Mrs. Hudson. And Molly of course.”

“You touch everyone and everything at all times,” he raised a brow. “You’re very open with your feelings.”

“Oh,” she replied, voice dropping. “That’s not ideal, is it?”

If she was going to play detective with him and John, it probably was not in anyone’s best interest to show what she was truly thinking at a crime scene.

“Do you need to conceal your true thoughts on anything?” he asked.

She considered the question. If she was being frank, the answer was no. Most of her time was spent around those she cared for and loved. If she was happy, she was happy. If not, she certainly was not the type to try and hide it for very long.

“Am I a bad liar?” she asked.

“You have a tell,” he replied, leaning forward with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“You laugh,” he answered. “When you’re nervous, when you’re being sarcastic, and when you’re lying. Anytime you’re being disingenuous, you laugh.”

“That’s not too bad,” she considered, biting down a chuckle that threatened to rise. He just raised a brow and she sighed in defeat. “I’ll work on it.”

“Just like you’d work on beating me in Cluedo?” he challenged, standing up from the chair.

“Rematch, tonight,” she stood to meet his eye line, poking him defiantly in the chest. “We’ll have John play too, even the playing field a bit.”

“You’re going to lose.”

“You’re-,” she stopped, thinking about her reaction, pulling back the scowl that emerged. “Nope. I’m going to win.”

“I know you’ve been looking up strategies online, and they aren’t going to help you,” he looked down. “Because I’m the best there is, and you especially can’t fool me.”

“Maybe,” she hummed back. “But I can distract you.”

She moved to kiss him by stepping on her tiptoes, but having forgotten her ankle, ended up crashing forward when it collapsed under the shift in weight.

In a mass of momentum, they crashed to the ground, Sherlock buffing the fall with an arm, and dropping his head back when she landed on top of him.

“That could have been so much cuter if we’d landed on the bed,” she noted, peeking down at him. “Are you okay?”

“How did you make it to adulthood in one piece?” he asked. “There was no way you should have made it past infancy with how clumsy you are.”

“Recently I’ve had handsome gentlemen catching me, it’s been pretty nice,” she smirked. “I mean, look at this view.”

They were face to face, Amelia grinning over him, while Sherlock’s eyes traced every inch of her face.

He pulled her toward him, devouring her in a passionate kiss. Hands threaded through her hair; her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Amelia shifted for a better angle when her foot kicked a pile of canvas tucked next to her bed.

The artwork tumbled free, and she peeked up to see what had caused the commotion.

“Oh,” she turned and grabbed one of the pieces, a small painting of one of Mrs. Hudson’s teacups. “I forgot about that one.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s drawn-out sigh, she busied herself with replacing the knocked over pictures, pausing when she came to the last one.

“I never showed you the painting I meant to send to Brooklyn,” she realized, staring forward at the painting in question.

He sat up, realizing the moment was lost and tilted his head in her direction.

“You never sent it?”

“Never had the chance,” she replied, turning, and holding the large piece up.

The silhouette was familiar, a lithe man standing in a room covered top to bottom in books. He held a violin, his back to the viewer. In the foreground was a pile of sheet music with a single bookmark stuffed between piles of pages. On the bookmark was a delicately drawn sunflower.

It was painted with darker shades than most of Amelia’s other works, less floral and more warmth. Sherlock could picture the living room of Baker Street perfectly. The sound of fire crackling, the smell of leather bookbinding.

This was what she saw. It was comfortable, a little mysterious, but familiar. An old friend.

An adored lover.

“Does my hair really look like that from behind?” he asked, earning a snort from his companion. “I like it. The bookmark is a sentimental touch. What did you call it?”

“Faith,” she replied. “It’s one of the many meanings behind a sunflower. I thought it was appropriate.”

“How so?”

She looked at him, genuinely bewildered by the question.

How did he not know?

“You inspire people,” she answered, looking back at the details in the portrait. “You give people hope in a way. People believe in you.”

It was difficult to explain out loud- hence the portrait (she was an artist after all)- but Sherlock didn’t seem convinced at her explanation.

“Do you believe in me?” he asked simply.

“I painted you a portrait,” she laughed lightly. “I still live here after everything, and we spent the last five minutes making out on my floor. I’ll always believe in you.”

He seemed content with that answer, his hands snaking around her waist and encouraging her to replace the picture and pick up where they’d left off.

~~~

“This was a bad idea,” John voiced for the third or fourth time since the game started.

Amelia was wrapped up in Sherlock’s robe, fingers drumming on her chin while she studied the Cluedo board. She lifted her notecard, lowered it, and continued gazing at the board.

“She’s under this delusion that she can beat me,” Sherlock scoffed, twirling a pen between his fingers, leg jittering under the table.

“I will, this is it,” she announced, moving her piece. “Colonel Mustard, with the wrench, in the observatory.”

She motioned for John to open the packet; brows knitted in focus.

Even Sherlock leaned forward, watching their friend with interest.

“That’s right,” John held up the three cards. “You got it.”

Amelia threw down her cards and grinned, jumping up victoriously.

“I actually did it!” she looked to Sherlock, hands squeezed at her sides in excitement. “I beat you at Cluedo.”

“Impossible,” he grabbed her cards and notes, reading through everything. “How did you know I had the garden?”

“You showed John,” she replied excitedly. “I saw him scribble it down.”

“That’s cheating!” Sherlock snapped back.

“That’s deduction, my dear Mr. Holmes,” she smirked. “I thought all was fair in a game of Cluedo? Those were your rules.”

“I didn’t expect them to turn on me,” he huffed.

“I’m texting Lestrade,” John announced, phone pulled out. “He’s not going to believe this.”

“Don’t you-,” he whirled around at Amelia who was rapidly typing something into her own phone. “Who are you texting?”

“Mycroft,” she answered quickly. “He owes me twenty pounds.”

“You bet against this game?” he scowled, glaring back down at the board. “You must have cheated. John? Did you tell her anything?”

“You would have noticed if we’d been conspiring against you,” the doctor replied. “You lost. Accept defeat.”

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock paced out of the room toward the kitchen, returning with his finger pointed toward Amelia accusatorially. “You distracted me.”

“What?” she blinked up at him innocently.

“In your room, you threw yourself at me and threw my focus off,” he replied tersely. “You knew you could get the upper hand.”

“That sounds like a personal problem to me,” she smirked. “Besides, I’ve never distracted you before.”

“Are you naked under that bathrobe?” he demanded, stepping toward her.

“Jesus Sherlock,” John stood up. “She’s wearing pajamas, you can see them.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock pulled open the robe to reveal an old band shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants. “You tricked me.”

“I outsmarted you,” she laughed. “Without being totally naked. I’m the superior detective. Dr. Watson, mark the date that I ascended to alpha detective within Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s face fell into a mix of horror, confusion, awe, and shock.

Without another word, he grabbed Amelia by the waist and threw her over his shoulder, trussing back to his room.

“John, find something to do that isn’t here,” he called over his shoulder before slamming his door shut.

Sherlock’s scramble to get Amelia undressed was met with her own quick hands tugging his belt free.

Frenzied hands up and down, pulling at buttons, running through one another’s hair, with hungry kisses, with Sherlock hiding her backward toward the bed.

“Are you sure?” he asked when she was down to a bra and underwear. She was ethereal. Her chest was flushed, her cheeks a mix of blush and freckles, curly hair astray-

“I’ve been waiting much longer than you have,” she purred, pulling him forward and meeting him with her lips.

John was partially out the door when he heard the ruckus upstairs. Mrs. Hudson peeked her head out of her flat, looking up and exchanging a knowing look with the doctor.

“About time,” she sighed, a bit of relief. She cringed when something crashed above them. “I hope that wasn’t the china.”

“I’d put those headphones Sherlock got you for Christmas on,” he advised dryly. “I think we’re in for a long night.”

Chapter 26

[moodforanime]

Runaway| Sherlock×Daughter!Reader

Requested: Nope! The idea popped in my minded and I wanted to write it.

Word count: 5.4K

Warnings: This is an A/U where the apartment is spread on to the floor above, where the bedrooms and Sherlock's office is. Maybe a little angst, but nothing too big.

Summary: You hated the place you grew up in and the relationship with your father. People expected you to be smart, and you were. It was just that you wanted a better relationship with you father, which felt like it wouldn't happen. So you try to find your way and see if he cares.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The words he told you that day had the consequences of an excruciating pain. Maybe he didn't mean them to have this effect on you, but they did. Not like he cares about your feelings., you thought.

It’s been a few hours since the incident, yet his words still rang through your ears crystal clear. Sometimes, you act so stupid you make me wonder if you’re ever going to become a detective. With that attitude of yours, you’ll definitely fail any hope I had for your future. That’s what h. wanted .to make your father proud. Your deepest wish was to get even the smallest crumb of attention and emotion from your father to you, any emotion that wasn’t anger or disappointment.

He’s been sitting in his office, at his desk, ever since. He’s probably forgotten about this incident and the words he said, and occupied himself with a new case. You couldn’t say you were so lucky. Having arguments with a high-functioning sociopath who happened to be your father always ended up that way- he always returned to his office and focus on a case, forgetting about the incident within minutes, while you returned to your room and tried to bring yourself back on track, even when you felt like crying your eyes out.

You slid yourself out of your bed, walked down the stairs and walked towards the kitchen. As you passed by the living room, you heard the front door creaking. You watched how the door opened, allowing the familiar face of a man with short grey hair and a black jacket- your father’s colleague and only friend. At first, he smiled, but seeing your red cheeks and wet eyes, any spark of joy on his face disappeared, replaced by worry.

‘Y/N,’ he said, as he entered the house, closing the door slowly behind him. 'What happened?’

You’ve known each other for a few months now, and he’s seen you upset every now and then -as it turned out, you were much more capable of empathy and feeling emotions than your father-, but he’s never asked you until now. In a way, it made him feel like it wasn’t appropriate for him to ask, but he knew the feeling of being alone and far from the reach of help. If he could, he wanted to help you.

'Hello, Mr. Watson,’ you greeted as you wiped off the tears lingering in your eyes, 'Nothing out of the ordinary. I had an argument with my father, he said some things to me that might’ve hurt me a little too much and… yeah. I don’t know how to cope with it.’

John’s face hardened. He was very much aware that Sherlock was an insensitive person. It was annoying, but he never felt personally attacked by the man’s words. He was used to harsh words in the war, words all coming from his superiors and comrades, but a girl of fifteen with no obligations to the country and in a stable situation should not experience such thing. It was a family thing, he knew, but at the same time, this was the first time he’s seen you this upset by your father’s words.

'What did you father say?’ He asked.

You explained shortly what the argument was about, and you repeated the exact words your father told you. John didn’t seem to relax any bit.

'That’s terrible. Where is he now? In his office?’ You nodded. 'I’d like to talk with him about this. This is unacceptable.’

As he said that, he turned around and began walking up the stairs.

'Oh, it’s not necessary, Mr. Watson,’ you said, as he reached the middle of the stairs, 'He won’t listen.’

John turned around and shot you a confused look. ’This is about you. You’re his daughter. Of course he’ll listen.’

'Honestly, Mr. Watson, I would be surprised if he felt the smallest crumb of love or care towards me.’

The ex-soldier frowned as he walked the stairs back down. 'What do you mean?’

'He’s a sociopath, and a damn strong one. He most likely didn’t tell you about this, but my mother was killed when I was very little. She was a detective, too, but was shot three times to death by accident by my father while on a case. He mistook her for the enemy, and shot. The jury let him go under the pretext of self defense. If it wasn’t the few photos Mrs. Hudson has of my parents, I probably wouldn’t even know what my mother looks like anymore. Other than those photos and Mrs. Hudson's’ stories, I can’t say I have any kind of memory of her.’

John smiled softly. He knew very well how children were made, but Sherlock never confessed about what kind of relationship he was in when his daughter appeared and how you came into his custody while his wife was gone.

'What did Mrs. Hudson say about her?’ He asked.

You relaxed your shoulders. 'She said that my mother was incredibly sharp and intelligent, yet so caring and lovely, whatever that means. She said how it was a match made in heaven, as she’s never seen my father so happy before. He smiled whenever he was with my mother and would do anything to make her happy. She said I was a wanted child, but I think that after my mother’s death, while he would not give up on me, I was nothing but a grim reminder of his neglection in that case. I know he would never send me away, but I don’t think he cares about me in the real sense.’

A bittersweet feeling caught onto John. Sherlock smiling genuinely and dedicating himself on to making people happy? Sherlock… feeling? It was an odd idea, but not impossible. He’s lost people before. He knew the feeling. Yet… the idea of having a child that feels unloved because of an incident they couldn’t control still made him feel even more pain. John nodded lightly.

'Thank you for telling me. I’ll talk to your father, and see what we can do, okay?’

You nodded. It wasn’t okay, but you appreciated his genuine feelings of worry. It wasn’t something you got often. Knowing your father, you didn’t know how much that John’s words would affect him, but the attempt to fix something was still something you were grateful for. After multiple failed attempts, you gave up on trying to truly communicate with him.

John went upstairs as you took a glass of water from the kitchen and carried it to your room. As you passed by your father’s office, you felt a certain argument going on. You stopped walking.

'John, she’s fifteen, she gets food, she has water, a place to sleep, she has good grades, what’s the problem?’ Your father’s voice said, in a slightly angered tone.

’Communication, Sherlock. She wants a father, not someone who’s there to make sure she’s remaining alive.’

You felt how your lungs refused to get the full amount of air they normally would as something stopped in your neck, when heating the doctor’s words.

'How do you know what she needs?’ Sherlock shot back, 'You didn’t raise her, I did.’

'It’s not rocket science, Sherlock. Just try to more open with her. Be there for her. Please.’

Silence fell between the two for a few moments, before hearing your father getting up from the office chair he was sitting in with a creak.

'It’s not rocket science, huh? I certainly believe so but,’ anxiety pumped in your veins as you heard his footsteps come closer to the door. 'If she isn’t capable of doing the smallest task of doing well in school, I may as well think more seriously about how much of my genetics went onto her.’

‘Sherlock!’ John exclaimed.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took a step away from the door. How dare he! He’s said many painful and insensitive things towards you, but this! It put all those things i the past to shame. It crossed every line and limit you put to his insults, by far. He could be ashamed of his daughter, but to the point to even wonder if you were his? You couldn’t stand and watch that. It would only get worse if you didn't do anything. 

You walked down the grey hallway and entered your bedroom. It wasn’t a big bedroom and was originally fairly modest, but after your father gave you the ok to decorate it as you wished, it became more colourful and welcoming. Various posters hanged on your wall that presented various series you loved and people you admired. 

Your father needed to learn the consequences of his actions, and you had a plan. Before you started the search for the things you needed, you took your phone and connected it to your charger, along with a powerbank. You needed a phone that would last, and a backup for when it’ll run out of battery. You looked through your room until you found the first thing you needed for your plan- a spacious, black backpack you once got from your uncle Mycroft. You don’t remember the exact context through which you got it, but you knew it was from him.

You grabbed a half empty plastic bottle you had in your room and filled it with the water that you carried to your room. You placed the bottle of water in the corner of your backpack, before proceeding to fill up half your backpack with some spare clothing. You made a quick trip to the kitchen again, from which you returned with a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in an aluminium foil you brought home that day from school. As you passed by your father’s office, the two men inside now talked much quieter and calmer, on a topic far from you. You took your wallet and put it in one of your jacket’s pockets,before eventually checking your phone’s battery. You looked at your phone’s screen, which now showed you that the battery was 80% full. Good enough, you thought. The powerbank appeared to be fully charged. You stuffed thepowerban and charger inside your backpack, before closing it, and put your phone in your jacket pocket. Taking your jacket on, you looked at the clock hanging on your wall. 8:40 PM.

Taking your current plan, your luck was that today was a Friday, which happened to be the last day before the winter break. You had two weeks to settle things with your father. If he wanted to do things his way, so would you. You threw your backpack on your back, and walked quietly down the stairs. Taking how focused your father and his partner in crime were on their current case, they probably wouldn’t notice your disappearance. Not immediately. You took your shoes on, opened the front door and left without looking back. Just as you put your hand on the apartment building’s exit door, you felt a presence creep behind you.

‘Y/N dear, where are you going this late?’

You cursed on the inside. You turned your head around and looked at the old woman with a smile.

‘I’m going to Madeleine’s house, Mrs. Hudson. We’re having a sleepover tonight.’

Madeleine was your cousin, Mycroft’s daughter. You were born a couple of months apart so it wasn’t like there was a large age gap between you two. You took a little of your fathers’ rivalry upon yourselves, but the coldness between those two didn’t stop you from forming a strong, close bond.

The woman seemed relieved when hearing your words. ‘Your father knows about this, I suppose?’

‘Of course.’

Before you could let the woman say anything else, you exited the building and began wandering the dark, wet streets of London. In truth, you didn’t know where to go. In the end, Mycroft’s house was the best place to end at. You could wander the streets for a while and then… You froze as you felt a cold hand press against your shoulder. You could only walk two streets away. Could’ve they already…? You turned your head around, ready to see your father or Mr. Watson, but it was neither. It was a woman in her early twenties with long, dark hair. Her face reminded you a lot of your own father. Odd, but it can happen. You squinted your eyes at her for a moment, as you analysed her. One thing you inherited from your father was, although seemingly weak, his observation skills. 

She was too clean to be a homeless, but she was below the average ordinary people’s life. A lower class person.The hair was brushed thoroughly, but not washed properly in two or three weeks, masked with some shampoo spray to look decent.The clothes on her wear casual and practical to keep warm, but not well kept and old looking- giving you the feeling that she wore them for along time without washing them. Low class with money problems, probably struggling to pay rent and bills.Tries to be as economical as possible.

‘Y/N?’ She asked, ‘Are you Y/N Holmes?

You nodded lightly. You made an appearance on TV and the newspapers a couple of times, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if people heard of you.

‘You’re not safe on the streets at night. Please go back home.’

You shook your head. ‘Thank you, but… please leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.’

She let go of you, allowing you to go further, minding your own business. Whoever that woman was, it was an odd conversation. She was well-meaning, you knew that, but you couldn’t go home. Not now. Not so soon.

In the meantime, it seemed like a case was one step closer to be solved in the 221b Baker Street apartment.

‘Can you ask Y/N if she’s hungry?’ Sherlock asked, as he arranged some papers on his desk. ‘I didn’t make any food, and neither did she.’

‘I’m not her father.’ John said, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock raised his head to look at the man with a blank stare. ‘You’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of…’

‘Sherlock, just go talk with her!’ John exploded, ‘You had an argument with her. She’s upset. You can’t keep silent for forever!’

Sherlock sighed as he stood up. ‘If you insist…’

He walked to your room and felt his face wrinkle in confusion as no light passed through the crack under your door. There was no way you were asleep so early. You never went to bed before 10 PM, and it was just 10 minutes before 9. He knocked on the door.

‘Y/N? Open the door please.’

No answer came.

‘Y/N?’ Sherlock tried again. ‘I just want to know if you’re hungry.’

No answer.

‘If you don’t open the door now, I’m going to come in.’

It seemed like luck wasn’t by his side that evening. He opened the door slowly, only to be met by a dark room. He reached for the light switch and turned the lights on. No one was in the room, and various objects were scattered around the floor. Sherlock felt how his heart missed a beat. 

'Y/N! Where are you?' He yelled, as he hurried down the hall. He walked down the stairs, his eyes scanning the rooms. You weren't there either. 'John!'

It didn't take long for John to come. Hearing the man's yelling, he was already up. 

'What's wrong? Where's Y/N?' John asked, worryingly.

'I… I don't know! I thought she was in her room, goddammit!

The front door opened slowly, as Mrs. Hudson came in, looking at Sherlock questioningly.

'What's with this noise, Sherlock?' She asked, 'It's 9 PM, for God's sake!'

'I don't know where Y/N is. Have you seen her?'

The woman frowned. 'She left about 20 minutes ago, I think. She said that she went to Madeleine's house for a sleepover. I asked her if you knew about it, and she said that you did.'

For a moment, Sherlock and John made eye contact.

'Mycroft's place.' John said.

Sherlock paused, as he looked at the front door. 'She took her black shoes. The Adidas ones, for better mobility. They're more comfortable, allowing the user to walk longer distances without a discomfort. Assuming she took her new jacket,' Sherlock paused for a moment as he walked up the stairs, 'She'll be able to walk a long distance without discomfort because of the coldness or her feet.'

He entered your room, opened your wardrobe and all your drawers, followed by John and Mrs. Hudson who couldn't do anything but look at him.

'She's taken the backpack Mycroft gave her, her phone, charger and a power bank,' he said agitated as he walked around the room, looking for clues, 'She wouldn't need a power bank if she went to Mycroft's, and if that's the case, she probably didn't plan to come back anytime this evening. Empty glass, bottle… she also took a bottle of water with her and some spare clothes, so she wouldn't dehydrate and be dirty if anything happened. She probably took some food with her too.'

For a moment, Sherlock stopped from walking and talking as he thought of a conclusion. As they sat at the door, John was frozen in the shock, while Mrs. Hudson was trembling, inches away from sobbing.

'If I would've known, maybe… She didn't give any sign that there might be anything wrong.' She said.

'Of course not.' Sherlock said, calmly. 'She's a good liar. Conclusion: Y/N  ran away.'

That short sentence was enough to bring Mrs. Hudson to such emotions that made her tears fall, along with wails of pain and worry as John tried to call her down.

'This is all your fault, you know?' John said, looking at Sherlock, 'Not yours, Mrs. Hudson, it's Sherlock's. How insensitive can you be?'

'John, I-'

'She's your daughter! High functioning sociopath or not, you're supposed to love and to protect her! Did you even bother to ever ask her about how she's coping with the loss of her mother?'

'She was very young when her mother died.' Sherlock said, coldly.

'Y/N's told me how she died. Whatever happened there is not my business but please, be compassionate with her, even if it hurts. If I had a daughter, I would go through Hell and back just so she would be happy. Why don't you? Do you even know what she thinks-'

'I don't know how!' Sherlock exploded, making Mrs. Hudson stop from crying for a moment, 'She's my daughter. Do you think I'm so heartless to hate her? I can assure you, John, I loved my wife with all my heart. Y/N's all I have left of her. I could never hate her. She's my only real family.'

John's eyes widened. This man…

'Sherlock, that's beautiful.' Mrs. Hudson commented, as she wiped off her tears.

'Then why…?' John asked, his voice trailing off.

'I don't know how to communicate with her, okay? She's so different from me and so sensible that I always get the feeling that if I say anything, it might hurt her. That… bringing to the lack of communication. Then, she asks me why I don't talk to her and… I just can't. We always get in arguments, do you think I like it?'

'Just tell her. Ask her to sit down and try to word out everything.'

'If it only was that simple,'Sherlock said as he walked out of the room, 'but if we don't make a single attempt to find her, I'll never get the chance to do the impossible.'

He took his coat on and stormed out of the apartment, not waiting for his colleague. He got outside the apartment and stopped for a moment. Think, Sherlock, think. Where would Y/N go? It was already some time after 9 PM, so most places would already be closed. 

'Did you call Mycroft?' John said as he catches up to him.

'Why should I? He'll know nothing more than me.'

'He works with the police, doesn't he? He can easily send some people after her to help.'

For a moment, Sherlock considered

'I'll call my brother only we truly can't find her.'

And with that, Sherlock began to talk down the streets of London aimlessly. It was almost as if he was hoping to see you any corner. He did, in a way,  it he was aware it wouldn't be so simple.

You were smart. He didn't even know why he said those words to you that day. He didn't even know why he even consider you any less that worthy. He wished you to be like him, but as it seemed, you were in the same position he once was. Parents often wish the best for the kids, but forget what's truly best for the child itself. In that moment, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore. He wasn't the famous particular detective every detective envied. At that moment, he was nothing more than a desperate fool trying to find his daughter.

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the cold on the stairs of someone's front door. What were you even doing there? You could've easily called Mycroft and go to a safe, warm space. But he'd call your dad, and he'd come to get you. You were in no mood to do that. You didn't have the energy for another argument.

'Y/N.'

The voice came to you so unexpectedly that you jumped straight up, your senses now sharp and alert. Next to you was the same woman that stopped you earlier that evening, with a curious, worried look. In that moment, you regretted not bringing any kind of weapon with you. You could've called the police, but again...

'What do you want?' You asked, 'Are you stalking me?'

'I'm not here to hurt you, so relax.'

Her words came so unexpectedly that you obeyed immediately. Although still alert, any feeling of fear and concern you felt went away, leaving you staring at the woman blankly.

'Your father is looking for you with some friend of his, and he's worried sick. He's almost on the verge of calling your uncle.'

You snorted. 'Like he'd ever do that for me. Calling my uncle and all, I mean. If he really wants, he'll find me.'

You knew that all along. Your father was a private detective, for God's sake. He's dealing with missing people every day. You didn't plan on going anywhere far or make it too complicated for him. You just wanted to give him a small surprise, like an alarm that something wasn't good with you.

'He's a smart man. If you want, I know a place where you can hide for as long as you want. It's safe from the authorities. My people know some people up there, in the government. They can pull some strings for you.'

'Your people?' You frowned.

'Well of course,' she smiled sheepishly, 'How do you think I'm still roaming around as I please? We don't have much time left, though. I need an answer now.'

It was tempting. Very tempting. But it would be only temporary, and for a short amount of time. Whoever this woman was, she gave you a good opportunity to escape. But your father knew your weak points and he'd get the information out of you with no trouble. You didn't want to do that to her.

'I don't want to put you at risk,' You told her, 'But I want to keep contact with you, if anything happens for real. How can I find you then?'

She smiled. 'Go to Baker's Hollow and ask for Eurus. They'll bring you to me.'

'Eurus. Wait… Baker's Hollow? I never heard if it.'

'You're too young to know it. It's a place downtown, where the freaks all come around. It's full of interesting people willing to do all sorts if things for you, in return for something. Anything worthy for their actions.'

You nodded. 'Thank you. I'll keep it in mind.'

For a moment, the woman looked behind you, down the dark street.

'I'll have to go now. See ya.'

'Goodbye ' You said, as you watched the woman disappear behind the street's corner. 

You turned around and began walking. The street was empty and lighted nicely by multiple street lamps spread on it. Somewhere in the distance behind you, two sets of hurried steps could be heard, approaching you rapidly.

'Y/N!'

'Y/N, stop right there this instant!' A strict yet familiar male voice yelled after you.

You sighed as you stopped walking. So they really got me fast, you thought, turning around. You raised your head, ready to face the man's wrath on you, but instead, you were pulled in an inescapable bear hug. You felt how your father rested his head on yours as you tried to process what was happening.

'God, I was so worried about you,' he mumbled.

Your father… hugging you? Telling you he was worried? The last time you remember him hugging you was when you were eight, after twisting your ankle for the first time. As for his worries, you hoped for him to be worried, but you never thought of him showing it. In your best case scenario, he'd scold you for running away,  let you off the hook and not talk to you for a week. It was nothing you expected to happen, in none of your calculations, and to put it simply, you didn’t know how to react to it. You let yourself fall prey to your instincts and did what you felt like was right- you hugged him back. 

Sherlock felt his heart beat harder than ever. His daughter was fine. You were there, with him, with all your limbs intact- wounds. He pulled out of the hug and knelt down a little to get on your level. He grabbed you by your shoulders.

'Y/N, are you hurt?'

You shook your head negatively. 

'You sure? Did you fall or-'

'I'm fine, believe me.'

Sherlock pursed his lips. 'Of course I believe you. You're my daughter.'

You smiled sheepishly. For a moment, Sherlock paused as you made eye contact with his sidekick.

'I'm sorry to put you through the trouble of looking for me, Mr. Watson.' You told him.

'Y/N, why did you go away?’ Sherlock asked,  ‘I promise I won't get mad.

You looked back at your father, with a blank stare. You wanted to tell him so badly the reasoning behind your little escape, but you didn’t know if you should. You didn’t know if he’d understand, let alone try to fix it. You were fine and alive, what would he need more from you? You were nothing but a reminder of what he once lost on a case because of his momentary inattention.

‘Go on.’ John encouraged softly, ‘Tell him. It’s okay.’

You felt your face wrinkling in overwhelming as all the emotions you suppressed through time came back to you at once. 

‘I just wanted you to look at me,’ you said as you choked on your tears, ‘‘People always tell me how much I’m like you and you always tell me things of when I’ll become a detective but you never ask me if I want to become one. You never ask me about school or how I’m doing, and I… I get the feeling like I’m a burden to you and everyone.’

‘A burden? That’s absurd!’ Your father said, incredulously. ‘Who told you these things? Did your uncle Mycroft say that?’

‘He didn’t. He never said anything like that. No one did. It’s just that sometimes, I don’t feel like your daughter, but a stupid, daily reminder that my mother died and the cause she died. Maybe if I just disappear, then-’

Your father pulled you in another hug, holding you tight as he rested his head on your shoulder. Every emotion you’ve felt until then couldn’t be suppressed anymore, leaving you to empty yourself from your sorrows through ugly sobs. You felt so weak, so useless. There, you said it all to your father, but your chest didn’t feel any lighter. The same hardness lay on your chest, restlessly tormenting you day and night.

‘You’re not a burden, Y/N,’ your father said quietly, ‘You’re anything but a burden. You never were one, and you’ll never be. When your mother died, it was very painful, but you’re not responsible for it, and I’m sorry you feel that way. I loved your mother very much, and I don’t think I’d be able to love another woman so much. It happened so long ago that without you, I might forget things. But with you, I remember everything perfectly. I remember your mother, and why I have to keep going. You’re not a burden to me, Y/N. You’re the best thing that happened to me. I don’t know where I would be without you.’

Standing behind you two, John blinked repeated as he tried to stop his eyes from stinging. As it seemed, there was much more to your problems than you let people know. Lack of parental attention was already a problem, but everything that came after it was even more serious. Sherlock's negligence could be debatable, but the things he told you were something new and unusual to the Sherlock he knew. 

John was very much aware of how much that your father cared about you- he talked about you whenever he got the chance, may it be laughing at a joke you told him or a funny story, or may it be his praising over you and your achievements, anyone who'd spend time with Sherlock would be able to tell just how much you meant to him. It was just unbelievable that Sherlock would express those feelings to you. 

As for you, you’ve never held onto your father harder. You hugged him so hard you felt your fingers hurt. He didn’t seem to mind it, though. Were those his true feelings? Then… all that time, it was just your mind playing tricks on you. You father really cared about you. He held you like that until you calmed down and didn’t cry anymore. After you calmed down, he looked at you and smiled softly as he wiped your tears with his sleeve.

‘Let’s go home, shall we?’

Sherlock paused as John gave him a pressuring look, 'What?'

John pursed his lips.

'Oh, alright, alright. John, Y/N, let's go.'

You entered the apartment you were so familiar with and took off your shoes and jacket. 

'Are you hungry, Y/N?' Your father asked as he walked through the kitchen, 'It's still eight thirty P.M., I could order some pizza.'

You smiled. 'That sounds great.'

There were people who cared about you. There were people who loved you. You felt how a burden was lifted from your chest. No matter how tough it would get, there will always be someone for you. You were loved. You mattered.

[weasleywinchester]

Ok y’all. It’s my birthday! And I’m finally taking the plunge into writing some fanfic, I’ve never “published” anything so be nice! Also if you enjoy let me know 💙 tips for writing on tumbr always welcome :) we’ll be starting with a very handsome Detective Inspector (first part of ?? We’ll get to Greg eventually) also feel free to replace OC (Jamie) with your name!

Chapter 1 - The Meeting at Baker Street

“Oh sorry, we’re done with cases today.” the man who looks like a teddy bear kindly says as I approach the door.

“For you Dr. Watson.” I hold out a giant stack of cash. His eyebrows raise and he takes the money from me, gesturing for me to come in.

“And what tale of woe have you brought us this evening.” A tall man with a mop of curly hair states, his back turned to me.

“Woe has nothing to do with it. I’ve come to strike a deal, Mr. Holmes.” I plop onto the well worn leather chair that faces the kitchen. I flick my eyes to John, his face in utter curiosity as he sits across from me.

“A deal?” Sherlock grumbles to himself. His hands quietly join together, his pointer fingers leaning against his upper lip.

“Yes, from an enemy of yours.”

“Which one?” He turns to face me. I lean back into the chair, letting my head roll to the side so I can look at him.

“Apparently your arch enemy.” I took out the second wad of cash I had stowed in my coat, giving it a little shake.

“Mycroft?” John asks, his face crumpling in confusion. I stand, walking over to Sherlock.

“He said if I gave him information on your whereabouts he would pay me. I figured you would want some of it.” Sherlock’s brows raise in surprise. “Of course, that’s if you decide to share that information with me on a regular basis.” I push the money towards him, praying he will agree.

“And why would my brother choose you?” Sherlock’s gaze narrows.

“Your guess is as good as mine. You’d get that same amount every month. You too Dr. Watson.”

“Why you?” Sherlock demands again.

“Maybe he hopes that my smartass-ness can rival your intelectual smartass-ness.” I calmly state, John huffs in amusement. Sherlock looks me over, I can see the wheels spinning in his head.

“You’re American. Why would he choose an American?” He enunciates.

“Sherlock I assume the dumb questions is your attempt to be polite but if you want to deduce me, the deduce away.” I fiddle with the lapel of his suit coat, running my fingers lightly across the fabric as I peak at him through my lashes. He opens his mouth to begin- “but I warn you most people, especially women, don’t like all the negative to be pointed out about their personality or bodies, so I would watch what you say.”

“Very well. You’re American, Southern California to be more precise due to your accent, naturally tanned skin and heavy coat instead of layers. Although your accent seems to switch between American and British, possibly a passion for all things England that started at a young age. You’re young, but your personality has always been seen as more adult. You carry yourself in a dignified way, not like most people in their late 20’s. You’re chubby by societal standards but by your makeup, curled hair and provocative dress, you don’t seem to give a damn about what society says about you. Although when you came in you wished, at the very least, that John would have given you a flirty smile. Your heels are not your usual attire since you immediately sat down after being invited in, but you’ve been wearing them for a little over a week, which suggests the start of a new job.”

“Well done Sherlock. I’m slightly aroused. Shall I fill in the gaps with the answers you’re really looking for?” He nods for me to continue. “The obvious one being that if your brother decides I am not giving him the information he wants, all he has to do is put me on a plane. He holds the cards to any future I have in England.”

“You don’t have a visa?” John asks.

“Of course she does John. But it’s a working visa. As long as her employer provides all the necessary information she can stay here.”

“Which for the near future, is your brother.”

“Which most likely means you lost-” I flinch at what his assumption is. “No. You quit your job. But why agree to spy?”

“Oh I told him I would get him information about your whereabouts and how you were doing mentally. I didn’t agree to how detailed or accurate said information would be. He also did not specify in his contract. Plus, who wouldn’t want to traipse across London with Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson for a living?”

“Is it a 24/hr job?” John asks, handing me a cup of tea.

“Thank you John, and that question doesn’t have a straight answer. It will completely depend on Sherlock. If he’s out and about, so am I. But as long as I give updates when Mycroft wants them I can do whatever I please with the rest of my time.” I take a sip of my tea, letting the idea of my new job settle into their heads.

“Mycroft is going to despise every penny he spends on you.” Sherlock states, walking to sit in the leather chair.

“True, but I figured I could save a majority of the monthly allowance and then if he decides I’m no use I’ll have a little cushion to survive on.” I take a seat in the dining chair that is in the middle of the room.

“Where are you living now?” John asks.

“Some fancy new complex they just finished; maybe a block away? It’s nicer than any place I’ve ever lived. Even has a small backyard- wait- garden.”

“How is it you can afford that exactly?”

“Oh John. Mycroft is literally paying for everything.” John gives me a surprised but approving look and Sherlock breaks into a grin that rivals the Grinch.

“John will text you every morning when we are going to leave the house, or if we’ll be staying in.”

“I will?”

“You do want the money, do you not?”

“I will text you, um, we never got your name?”

“Oh right, silly me! Jamie Luna.”

“Well, Ms. Luna, welcome to our little crime solving club” John says, a hint of glee in his voice.

Thank you for reading! 💙 -J

Picture found here : https://pin.it/4xMVRx7

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part thirty-nine

Hello and welcome to the final official part of Trust. It’s mushy. I played Taylor Swift’s new song “Lover” on repeat to get me in the mood. The lyrics are peppered in throughout in italics. Enjoy. (A sappy note from me is coming shortly behind this xx.)

With the attempted-murder of Major Sholto and the case of the Bloody Guardsman solved and dealt with, Sherlock seems to be calming down.

           The photographer turned out to be the assailant, and Lestrade dealt with him accordingly. And once that is over with, everything returns back to normal, back to the way things were supposed to go.

           Sherlock steps up onto the small stage, preparing to place the waltz he wrote for John and Mary. Again, you try desperately not to think about the dreams you had. Since it’s been a while, they have been less frequently in your thoughts, but today they seem to find anyway they can to enter your conscious mind.

           And right now, as you watch John and Mary dance while Sherlock gently plays, is no exception.

           Sherlock finds your eyes and smiles, practically playing to you, despite this piece being written for your brother and his now wife.

           Wife. Mary is your sister-in-law now. She’s your sister.

           There’s not a moment of this that doesn’t feel surreal. You’re certain you’re going to wake up tomorrow, Sherlock’s arm around your waist like it always is, and you’re going to have to ask him if John and Mary really did get married. Because none of this feels real.

           It feels good. That much you know. But good things have never lasted for you, so the idea that this is a good thing – that you now have a sister-in-law on top of having your half-brother back in your life, that this good thing doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon, is baffling to you.

           “Ladies and gentlemen, just one last thing before the evening begins properly,” Sherlock says, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “Apologies for earlier, a crisis arose and was dealt with. More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I have never made a vow in my life and after tonight, I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and second to last vow.”

           He speaks quickly over it, but you catch it. Second to last vow? What does that even mean? What is he talking about?

           “Mary and John. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you. Uh, I’m sorry, I mean two of you. Both of you. All two of you. I must’ve included Y/N on accident there, apologies. That’s later, love. Sorry. Anyway, it’s time for dancing. Play the music again, thank you.”

           You meet Sherlock when he rushes off the stage, shaking his head. “What was that?” You ask, wrapping yourself around his arm. He went from calm and collected to a nervous wreck within a matter of seconds.

           “Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting.”

           “Deduction?” Mary questions over the music.

           “Increased appetite. Change of taste perception. You were sick this morning. You assumed it was just wedding doubts.”

           “Oh my God…” You whisper. “You were. Remember? You nearly threw me out when I mentioned you might be…”

           “All the signs are there,” Sherlock continues, slowly.

           “The signs?” John chimes. “The signs?”

           “The signs of three,” Sherlock glances down briefly. “Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test.”

           John bends over, hands on his knees, no doubt almost near hyperventilating. You tighten your grip on Sherlock’s arm, sharing Mary’s wide grin with her as Sherlock continues rambling on.

           “The-The statistics for the first trimester are—”

           “Shut up!” John hisses. “Just. Shut up.”

           “Sorry.”

           “How did he notice before me? I’m a bloody doctor!”

           “It’s your day off,” Sherlock tries.

           “It’s your day off!” John counters.

           “Stop panicking!”

           “I’m not panicking!”

           “I’m pregnant, I’m panicking,” Mary shouts, getting both of the boys to shut up.

           “Don’t panic,” you finally speak up. “You don’t need to panic, come on.”

           “There’s absolutely no reason to panic,” Sherlock agrees.

           But John is still panicking. “Oh, and you’d know, of course?”

           “Yes, I would,” Sherlock nods, sure of it. “You’re already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you’ve had.”

           You know exactly where he’s going with this, and you smile. He’s right. John’s had years of practice and Mary has had a year.

           “The practice?” John asks, looking ready to clock Sherlock in the jaw any minute now.

           “Well, you’re hardly going to need me around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way,” Sherlock clarifies.

           “And I’m going to help!” You blurt. “Dibs on being the babysitter.”

           John and Mary laugh together, the panic slipping away and dissolving into excitement. They’re expecting. They’re married (finally) and now they’re going to be parents.

           “Dance,” Sherlock says suddenly. “Both of you, now. Go dance. We can’t just stand here, people will wonder what we’re talking about.”

           “What about you two?” Mary asks, tears still in her eyes from moments before.

           “We’re going to take a walk,” Sherlock answers, placing his hand over yours.

           “We are?” You ask, turning your head to look at him. He nods. “Okay,” you shrug, giving Mary a look. “I guess we’re gonna get some fresh air. Dance, you two.”

           They start to, and Mary sends a wink your way before Sherlock tugs you away and out into the night air.

           You don’t realize how much you needed fresh air until you’re out in it, holding onto Sherlock’s arm while you walk down the sidewalk and away from the reception hall. You’re not even entirely sure where you’re going until you see a gazebo up ahead. You took a few pictures in it earlier, but now there are lights all around it.

           Your heart races in your chest, your hand tightening its grip on Sherlock’s bicep. You know he feels your death grip, but he doesn’t say a single word about it as he steps up into the gazebo with you.

Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close, forever and ever?

           “Sherlock…” You murmur. “What are we doing?”

           “Dancing,” he replies simply, turning you to face him. The two of you begin a slow waltz, no music playing at all.

           “Okay,” you chuckle. “Why couldn’t we dance in there?”

           He shrugs, pulling you a little closer. “I wanted you all to myself. I’m selfish.”

           “I know you are,” you reply, giggling at the look on his face when you agree with him. He wasn’t expecting that response at all. “Earlier,” you pause, staring at his tie instead of his face, “you said that was your second to last vow.”

           “I did.”

           “What’s the last one?”

           “This right here.”

           Your eyes meet his, a confused smile stretching across your lips. “What?”

           “This moment,” he says. “This is my last vow.”

           “I don’t understand…”

           “My vow to keep you close,” he continues, pulling you closer for emphasis. “My vow to protect you,” he squeezes your hand. “And my vow to love you. For a lifetime.”

           “Sherlock…”

           He lets go of your hands to reach into the inside pocket of his jacket, returning with two gold rings in his hand. Just two simple gold bands. Exactly like you’d dreamed.

           You cover your mouth as a choked sob leaves your lips, staring down at the rings as he holds them out to you, a small smile on his lips.

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover…

           “It’s not a promise ring because I don’t promise things – only one thing,” he explains. “And it’s not an engagement because you said you don’t want to be married in the traditional way. It’s… It’s a vow.”

           You shake your head in disbelief at the man before you, vowing right here, in his own way, to love you for as long as he lives. “I love it.”

           He takes your hand in his, slipping the ring over your ring finger. The exact fingers that he was holding and massaging frequently the past week, and that’s when it clicks.

           When he was doing that, he was figuring out your ring size. Of course. You’re an idiot for not realizing that sooner.

           You slide his ring on his finger, wasting no time in grabbing his curls and pulling him in for a kiss.

Darling, you’re my, my, my, my…lover.

~~~

When you wake the next morning, curled into Sherlock’s side like always, you immediately reach for his hand.

           You let out a sigh of relief when you see the ring is still there. And when you see your own is still present as well.

           It’s real.

           Sherlock stirs with the movement, opening his eyes to look down at you, your chin resting on his bare chest as you stare up at him.

           “Good morning, lover,” you tease. You had the idea last night to call him your lover instead of your husband. Husband does sound too…traditional for you. Lover fits perfectly.

           “Morning,” he breathes, pulling you closer.

           The dreams from your coma have been replaced with this reality. The reminder of his vow resting forever on your ring finger, a constant assurance that he is here. For a lifetime.

           And that you are safe. For a lifetime.

All’s well that ends well to end up with you…

[mrscrowley8]

Soft Smut Sunday Anderlock Fic

Title: Be gentle

Rating: Mature

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Characters: Sherlock, Anderson

Pairing : Anderlock

Notes: My first Anderlock and attempt to the soft smut sunday challenge. Word: "gentle"

--------------------

Summary:

After days without news of Sherlock, Anderson ends up receiving a text from him, urging him to come to his flat. Anderson rushes to Sherlock's place, hoping for a very pleasant reunion under the covers. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock has something else in mind.

---------------------

When the first blow landed on his lower back, he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. The pain was so intense that it burned him from the inside. Fortunately for the neighbours, he managed to remain silent. For once, Philip Anderson felt extraordinarily brave.

The second smack hit him hard between his shoulder blades. The impact was even more acute than the first one. Breathless and hopeless, he clung to the chair, wrapping it in his arms, as if the piece of furniture was a heartwarming Teddy Bear.

He had to remain strong in the face of adversity.

Teeth clenched, eyes burning with pain, he put his cheek on the chair, waiting for the next strike. The wood was so cold against his skin. It felt good. Behind him, his torturer clicked his tongue, thwarted. The strap of leather fell gently over the back of his head.

“Sit up straighter,” the voice ordered firmly.

Philip let out a grunt of discontent. He was feeling so much better in this position. Wasn’t that obvious? The end of the riding whip then pressed his cheek. Philip's sensitive nose absent-mindedly picked up the typical smell of blood.

His blood.

His entire body began to shake with a tremor.

Despite the situation, Philip Anderson wasn't frightened.

Valiantly, he sat ''properly'' down on the chair, his back straight, his hands squeezing the chair bars. He didn't want to disappoint his tormentor. He breathed deeply to relax, wondering where he was going to be hit. Maybe in the back?

He didn’t have to wait a very long time. The characteristic whistle of the riding crop broke the silence and Philip felt his skin split under the force of the blow. This time, he uttered a cry of pure agony, and he leapt out of the chair.

“Damn it! Can’t you take it easy?! Be gentle?” He asked, a hand pressed against his bruised flank. He whistled, writhing in pain. “Ow!” Touching the wound was a very bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. The carmine liquid stained his fingers.

“No,” came the laconic answer. “I have to respect all the parameters of the experiment perfectly.”

“You know, when you asked me to come here for a little experiment, I didn’t have that in mind.” Philip wanted to turn around, but the whip prevented him from doing so, by teasing the lower part of his back. Then, the leather hit his shoulder, and it wasn’t gentle. “Sherlock!”

“We're not done yet,” the consulting detective said. “I'm willing to give you a break, but only because I have to take pictures of your injuries.”

“You're too kind, Sir.” Philip complained, turning his head slightly to see the other man in action. Sherlock placed the leather whip on the living room table to grab a photomacrographic scale in his left hand and his phone in the other. He approached him, his blue eyes professionally watching him. He beckoned him to sit down. Philip sighed and dropped himself on the chair. Despite all these years, Philip was still struggling to decipher the emotions on his face. “Are you gonna ask me what I had in mind?”

“No.” Another very succinct answer.

Philip groaned and he turned his head to stare at the wall in front of him. He was really upset by Sherlock’s attitude. He hadn’t seen him all week and he would have expected a little more enthusiasm from the detective. Sherlock was still working on another of his complex cases, but he had refrained from telling him until today.

Not like John Watson, who had to know every detail of the case.

It was hurtful. Very hurtful.

Philip would like them to communicate more.

Sometimes he had the awful feeling that Sherlock didn't trust him.

“I know exactly what you had in mind,” the detective forced himself to say, after a couple of minutes. Philip hadn't expressed interest in a more elaborate answer and Sherlock didn’t like to be ignored.

“I don’t think so,” Philip retorted, colder than he would have liked. However, the throbbing pain in his upper body, combined with Sherlock’s distant attitude, had overcome his usual gentleness.

“You thought I invited you to share a pleasant moment in my company,” the sleuth whispered in his ear. Philip immediately tensed. He hadn't realised that Sherlock was so close to him. “Sex,” Sherlock purred in his ear, proud of himself.

Needless to say, Sherlock was right.

“Whose fault is that?” Philip asked, moving away from his very warm lips. He was still terribly angry with him. “You sent me a text to order me to come immediately to your flat. Naively, I thought you wanted to ... you know...”

“I know,” Sherlock assured him. “You were wrong.”

“I had noticed, Mister genius,” mumbled Philip between his clamped jaws.

Philip Anderson was... frustrated.

Upon arriving at Sherlock's place, he had been over the moon. He thought he was finally going to spend some time alone with the consulting detective.

It all started so wonderfully.

Sherlock had urged him to take his clothes off. Philip hadn't hesitated for a second. He had stripped naked with a certain eagerness, before approaching the detective to rip off his so indecently tight purple shirt (of sex).

Unfortunately, Sherlock had stopped him firmly, by grabbing his wrists.

His disappointment had only been short-lived.

Sherlock had instructed him to sit astride a chair so he could whip him.

Whip him ?

Philip knew Sherlock was special in every way, but ... BDSM? Seriously?

Of course, Philip wasn't against testing new things. New practices. Especially with Sherlock.

However, the surprise had quickly been replaced by bitterness.

Sherlock just needed a human guinea pig to verify a point from his current case. He wanted to study the healing processes of a leather whip on the skin. Similar to the marks found on a dead man, who had been discovered in the Thames. The body had had multiple lacerations on the back.

Sherlock and his eternal sidekick, John-Always-Bonded-with-Sherlock-Watson, had managed to follow the man's trail back to a very private club in the heart of London. Posing as rich customers, in search of thrilling sensations, they had entered the place and they had questioned the 'Favourite' of the man in question.

She had assured them he hadn't died at the club.

However, the man was an addict to such practices. He needed his weekly 'dose' of pain to withstand the pressure of his work. Sherlock was certain the woman was the culprit, but Lestrade wanted solid proof.

While Lestrade was checking her alibi, Sherlock had opted for a more 'scientific' approach.

Philip Anderson was a very lucky person.

“Why didn't you ask John?” Philip asked, grumpy. The doctor was spending more time with Sherlock than him. When did John Watson work? Besides, was the man really a doctor?!

“You don't like John.” Sherlock remarked, with a strange tone in his voice. Could that be surprise? Disappointment? Sadness? “Yet John is a remarkable person.” Remarkable?

R-e-m-a-r-k-a-b-l-e?!

“He certainly has better things to do than to accompany you everywhere, like a little dog.” Philip did his best to remain calm. Oh, he didn’t hate John. Not really. He was just...

“John and I have a unique alchemy that optimises my thinking process. This has always been the case. This will always be the case. There's no way this would change over time.” Sherlock’s honest answer didn't help him relax.

An ... an alchemy?!

Better and better!

Philip tensed up on his chair, more and more upset.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock naively asked, when he noticed that something was bothering Philip.

“Nothing. Everything is fine. We're doing great.” Philip muttered and he clenched his fists. He absolutely didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't sure that Sherlock would understand it. Emotions weren't his area of expertise. Far from it.

Yes, Philip Anderson was jealous of John Watson.

Sherlock was still spending far too much time in the company of the doctor. The two men shared so many things. They investigated together. They had fun together. They ate together. They talked about everything and nothing. John even had an assigned seat in Sherlock’s lounge! And Sherlock was also taking care of little Rosie, John Watson’s daughter.

What about Philip?

The poor man was entitled to the last remaining crumbs.

The two lovers rarely saw each other. Only when Sherlock had time.

If Philip wanted information about Sherlock, he had to read the posts that John was writing on his blog or to check Sherlock's tweets.

Unlike John, Philip couldn't leave his office in a heartbeat. He couldn't come running at him when Sherlock asked him, and leave everything behind.

Was that why Sherlock never sent him a text? So as not to bother him?

No, it was ridiculous. Nothing could ever stop Sherlock. He didn't care about embarrassing people in the middle of their work. Sherlock didn't think of him. The truth was... even more painful than the lacerations on his skin.

Philip would love to investigate with Sherlock.

To accompany him.

To be with him.

To do ‘normal’ things.

To have dinner in a restaurant.

To go to the movies.

But no!

Instead, Philip was his giant guinea pig.

Was Sherlock ashamed of him?

“You’re jealous,” Sherlock finally understood. Philip shook his head. He didn’t want to admit it. “If Mycroft says it, it’s the truth. Pure and simple.”

Philip almost choked when he heard the Holmes brothers' eldest name in Sherlock’s mouth. He turned around just in time to see Sherlock put his phone in the pocket of his trousers.

OH MY GOD!

HE HAD SOUGHT THE ADVICE OF HIS BIG BROTHER!

WONDERFUL!

“This obvious jealousy for John is stupid,” Sherlock assured him and he reached out to him. Very gently, he ran his fingers through Philip’s hair, in the vain hope of reassuring him. Philip scoffed, his shoulders hunched, and he turned his head to the other side.

Did he honestly think he could coax him like this?

“Our alchemy is different from the one I'm sharing with John. Is he jealous of you? No. He isn't. He knows what his function is, by my side. He is my blogger. My conscience. My...”

“Sherlock.” Philip didn’t want to hear Sherlock anymore. He felt awfully... weary.

“I will clean your wounds,” Sherlock warned and he removed his hand. “The experiment is over.” The sleuth seemed to be even more disappointed for his experiment than for the unfortunate Philip.

Or was all of this in his head?

Philip’s new job was exhausting and far from London.

The former member of the Metropolitan Police's forensics team had ceased to be considered an expert by numerous institutes. His resignation, following his severe depression, caused by Sherlock's (fake) suicide, had seriously tarnished his image.

Oh, of course, he had received a very tempting offer from a private forensic medicine institute. The offer was TOO PERFECT for him. Philip had declined this strange opportunity. He was certain that the job offer had come from Mycroft Holmes, who had wanted to please his beloved little brother.

Philip just wanted to be accepted for his competencies and not because he was Sherlock Holmes's lover. He had his pride.

His professional situation hadn't facilitated their relationship.

Perhaps it would have been better to accept his kind offer... ?

Philip heard Sherlock walk away and quickly return to his side. He put a first aid kit on the pedestal table, next to the chair, and he opened it.

Long pale fingers grabbed a compress to wipe the blood.

Philip decided to remain silent and distant.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, concerned. Philip knew he was concerned because his voice was softer and warmer than usual.

“Hmm...”

This was Philip's only answer.

Sherlock sighed.

“I am...” Sherlock began, but he stopped before saying the word 'sorry'. Apologising wasn't in his DNA. Instead, he gently blew on the gash that was streaking his shoulder.

“Hmm...”

This time, Philip shivered and closed his eyes.

Sherlock couldn't say he was sorry.

However, he knew perfectly how to demonstrate he was sorry with his actions.

For a cerebral, Sherlock was very... manual.

Two large hands landed delicately on his deltoid, carefully avoiding the cut on his right shoulder. Philip breathed deeply, relaxing almost instantaneously, under the sudden contact.

He felt... appeased.

His anger disappeared strangely, as if by magic, followed closely by his sickly jealousy. The rational part in him knew Sherlock was right. The alchemy they both shared was very different from the one he shared with his blogger.

It was excessively...

Physical.

Carnal.

Although he was certain that he was Sherlock’s exclusive sexual partner, Philip was suffering from a serious lack of self-esteem. For him, it was impossible to dispose of his constant anxiety. Sometimes he thought he was dreaming. This couldn't be the reality. He couldn't be Sherlock Holmes's lover.

And yet, as soon as Sherlock laid his hands on him, Philip felt reassured. Safe. He felt... considered. Loved. It was strange because Sherlock had never pronounced a single “I love you.” Or even a simple “I like you.”

Neither had Philip.

He feared the detective’s reaction.

Oh yeah, he felt really stupid.

The hands slowly slipped along his bare arms and teeth began to bite the sensitive skin of his neck. Philip felt his body flared up with this simple contact. He let out a moan of appreciation. It had now been over a week since he and Sherlock had been intimate.

Just like the dead man from the Thames, Philip was addicted to something.

Addicted to someone.

He was addicted to Sherlock Holmes.

He had been obsessed with him for years.

And even now, he was still an obsession.

If Sherlock were a God, Philip would be his first disciple.

“Hmm...”

Philip tilted his head to the right, offering his neck as a sacrifice, to his deity. Teeth scraped his jaw before closing around a specific point. Voracious lips replaced them to make the skin blush. Philip uttered another moan, without concern for the neighbours.

Soon his body was pressed against the chair, forcing him to spread his thighs further. Sherlock sat behind him, his torso painfully snuggled against his back. Unlike Philip, who was completely naked, Sherlock was still wearing all his clothes. The sensation was unpleasant.

For a couple of seconds.

The former Scotland Yard employee could now feel something particularly awake against his buttocks. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, like an anaconda on the verge of suffocating his prey.

Philip hoped he would be soon swallowed by him.

“Do you still want me to take it easy?! Do you want me to be gentle?” The detective asked, and he licked the bruise he had just made on his neck. Philip shook his head vigorously, his eyes closed. "Are you sure?" Sherlock insisted with his deep baritone voice.

“Sherlock, take me hard,” Philip implored in a weak voice. He already felt he was losing his mind. Sherlock’s hands started to wander on his chest. “Sher-...” Philip began to gasp, waiting for the final blow, which would finish him off. A fingernail scratched an eager nipple and Philip completely snapped. “Oh yes! Here and now! On this chair! This is what I want! Hard! Not gentle!”

“As you wish,” Sherlock whispered in his ear and he obeyed scrupulously the least of his lover’s requests.

If there was one man in the world who could submit Sherlock Holmes to his will, it was Philip Anderson.

Not Mycroft Holmes.

Not John Watson.

Shame he didn't realise that.

Philip Anderson could ask him so many things.

Philip Anderson could ask for everything.

Everything.

And have everything.

But for now, Philip Anderson was just asking Sherlock Holmes to be...

Here for him.

And Sherlock was here for him.

Only for him.

A very gentle thought.

[sophiaholmes221b]

Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker

Chapter One

Dad backs away carefully and ducks to avoid the blow. The client-turned-attacker advances on dad, pushing him back against the sofa. I grab the attacker's arms as he slashes his scimitar down onto dad, and dad ducks under the sword in time and drops into a sitting position. I jump out of the way as dad kicks out his leg, striking the assailant's chest hard before the robed figure can bring the scimitar back down. As he stumbles backwards, dad jumps back up and straightens his jacket once more before charging across to join my fight with the attacker.

"Duck!" he yells, and I crouch in time for the blade to pass over my head then kick out my leg so he buckles to the floor.

The man growls at me and I bounce back up. He mirrors me and brings the sword down upon me. Dad pushes me out of the way and grabs the mans wrists tightly, but the man pushes dad towards the kitchen with his sword held horizontally in both hands and pins dad onto our kitchen counter. He pushes down, the blade resting on dad's neck, threatening to cut. Dad grimaces under the weight of holding the scimitar away, so I charge forward and kick the attacker in the popileta fossa. He bends a little from the impact but doesn't fall, however it's enough to distract him and dad tilts the scimitar sideways and out of harm's way.

The point of the blade marks the counter as dad repeatedly kicks the swordsman in the side and as he begins to loosen his grip, dad is able to force himself upwards again. The sword tip slides across the countertop, making a large scratch that will no doubt come out of our rent if Mrs Hudson sees it.

I replace dad in the fight as he catches his breath and I bring my leg up, repeatedly kicking the swordsman in the stomach and pushing him out of the kitchen once more. I jump the scimitar as he swings it low and land on the blade, pulling the robed man down with - at the very least - a sprained wrist. As I leap out of the way to dodge his low kick, dad replaces me.

The swordsman jumps back up and takes another swing at dad, who ducks under it.

"Look!" dad shouts, pointing to a place just over the man's shoulder.

Already turning, the attacker is distracted by our reflections in the mirror for just long enough for dad to take the opportunity to swing a powerful hit to the assailant's chin, knocking him unconscious before he even lands in dad's chair.

Dad straightens up immediately and checks his reflection in the mirror, re-adjusting his cuffs and brushing the dust from his jacket before sending the unconscious man a look of hatred for ruining his suit.

I give dad a sly smile and he and I lift the body, carry it through the kitchen and throw it out of the window and out onto Mrs Hudson's bins. I listen with delight as he lands on the safety of the bags. He won't be seriously injured - he just won't want to come back.

I check out my own appearance in the mirror as we walk back to the living room. My white, sheer blouse is all ruffled and dusty and my black jeggings are torn from the blade, but on the bright side - no cuts!

"All this over a damn God," I groan.

Dad laughs and takes his phone out. "Quite." He looks me up and down. "John'll be back soon. To stop him fussing, you might want to change."

It's my turn to chuckle, but I turn and head upstairs to my room to change.

I am Sophia Elizabeth Holmes, and you may have heard of the last case we cracked - A Study in Pink, as John prefers to call it.

I dress myself in another white, sheer blouse and black leggings, and leave my others in the increasingly large pile of other clothes that Mrs Hudson hasn't washed yet. By the time I've finished getting changed, I hear the front door slam shut, and the footsteps of Doctor John Watson coming up the stairs.

Joining dad back down in the living room before John reaches the top, I lean against the doorway and give him a wave as he comes up the last set of stairs. Dad is also acting casual by resuming the book he was reading when John left.

John frowns as he walks in, suspicious that something has happened whilst he's been gone. Curiously, he doesn't seem to have any shopping with him, which is what he supposedly went out to get.

"You took your time," dad says, not looking up from his book.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."

Dad looks over the top of his book indignantly. "What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," John answers, tetchily.

Dad lowers his book a little to look at John with surprise whilst I attempt to stifle a laugh. "You ... you had a row with a machine?"

"Sort of," John replies, still angry. "It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

Dad smiles, amused at John's normal human troubles, and nods towards the kitchen. "Take my card."

John hesitates for a moment before walking towards the kitchen but he stops as he reaches me and turns back to dad indignantly.

"You could always go yourself, you know," John says, angrily, and being so very, very ignorant to dad's own troubles with machines. "You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left."

I put on an innocent face and walk over to dad to grab a book. It's best just to let John make his own assumptions; it stops the waste of several tedious minutes of explaining.

John rummages through dad's wallet to find a suitable card to use. "And what happened about that case you were offered - the Jaria Diamond?"

"Not interested," dad says and I smirk. Using a piece of paper as a bookmark, he slams his book shut. My eyes lower to his feet where the scimitar lies in plain view. I cough slightly, and dad looks at me, questioningly. I indicate to the scimitar, and he quickly slams his foot onto the edge and sends it further under the chair. "I sent them a message," he continues firmly. My smirk grows larger as I remember the uppercut which ended the fight.

John seems to have found a card he can use, but pauses to look at the new scratch in our counter. He sighs as he runs his finger along the top to see if it can come off. "Ugh, Holmes," he says in an annoyed whisper and looks across at us, tutting pointedly.

Dad shakes his head innocently and John turns and leaves the flat again as dad smirks at me knowingly.

"I think we need to get rid of the scimitar," I say quietly as I hear the door slam shut downstairs.

Dad nods in agreement and squats down to fetch the blade from beneath his seat before tossing it out of the window and on top of the bins.

As he comes back, he sits down at the living room table and opens up John's laptop. Oh the days where he had to get up and fetch his own laptop.

This has been our routine for the last two weeks: Client, computer, emails, repeat. Nothing decent has come up on the website for months, and I'm starting to believe the emails are a long shot too.

Dad lets out a sigh of delight and I spin around. The computer has fired up already, and dad has a new email. A potential client? He opens it up and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Sebastian Wilkes?" I question, scanning through the email from over his shoulder.

"University," dad says, narrowing his eyes. "Never liked him."

I roll my eyes and read the email in its entirety.

Sherlock,

How're things, buddy? Been a long time since we last met.

I hear on the grapevine that you're now a consulting detective? There's been an 'incident' at the bank - something interesting. I'm hoping you can sort it for me.

Please call by. Needless to say, I'll be relying on your discretion.

Sebastian

"Buddy?" I snigger.

"See what I mean?" dad replies, smirking.

"Anyway, what are you thinking?"

"I don't know," dad replies, putting his hands into a praying position as he thinks. Sighing, I turn away to get my laptop from my bedroom. He's not going to be talking for a while.

***

"Don't worry about me. I can manage," John says sarcastically as he climbs the stairs, laden with several bags of heavy shopping.

"Don't worry, we aren't," I sing back.

Dad chuckles quietly but John just sighs and shakes his head at my remark. Dad folds his hands in front of his mouth, and I can see his brain still trying to figure out what to do.

John dumps the shopping on the kitchen counter and frowns as he sees the computer dad's using. "Is that my computer?"

"Of course," dad replies simply, beginning to type his reply. From what I can see, he's agreeing to come.

"What?!" John says in disbelief.

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up? Sophia ... Sophie, why couldn't you get it?"

"Couldn't be bothered," I say, smiling sweetly at him. "I've been doing it for about ten years, I've earned my rest." Dad snorts at my retort.

"It's password protected!" John shouts indignantly, not taking any notice of me.

"In a manner of speaking," dad replies calmly, still typing. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours," he glances up at John with a smirk. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John says, annoyed, and coming over to slam the lid down. Dad pulls his hands away in disbelief and holds them there for a minute before he puts them into the prayer position again, resting his elbows on the table and looking thoughtful. John takes the laptop across the room and puts it down on the floor beside his armchair as he sits down. It's not as if he's using it though, is it? So why can't dad use it?

John picks up the small pile of bills I brought up earlier and frowns. "Oh," he mutters quietly as he sifts through them. I know at least one of them requires urgent paying, and the rest are just escalating in price. John shakes his head in surrender to the fact he's about to say. "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," dad mutters, half-listening as John puts the letters back onto the table and looks across to dad for a moment, before he looks back at the letters.

"Listen, um ..." he begins, leaning forward awkwardly, "if you'd be able to lend me some ..." he fades off as he realises we're not listening properly. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

Dad doesn't look around, but he seems to have concluded what to do. "I need to go to the bank," he says quietly, getting up and heading towards the stairs and throwing me my coat from the hook, before putting on his own and heading outside.

John frowns at my dad's sudden change of attitude but then jumps up to join him, following behind me.

The bank that dad leads us to is certainly not the one he uses, and neither does it look very welcoming to children of my age. The name of the bank is the Shad Sanderson Bank, I notice, as I follow dad through a set of revolving glass doors into the foyer. John looks up, impressed at the sight of all the white walls and glass ceilings. They must have a very exclusive clientele.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank ..." John fades off as he steps onto a large escalator behind us.

Dad and I look around, observing the level of security this bank contains. It seems everything in here is secure, and they've obviously spent a lot of money insuring it stayed that way. I don't see how anybody could have walked in without being noticed, unless it was an employee. Other than that, I have no idea, and I don't think dad does either, although he won't admit it.

We reach the top, and dad walks over to the reception desk. "Sherlock Holmes," he says confidently to one of the women.

"Yes, of course, sir. Mr Wilkes was expecting you, but I'm not sure if your..."

"They're with me," dad interrupts.

"Of course sir. I'll send a message through to Mr Wilkes. If you can just wait through there, please." She indicates to a room to the left, and dad walks directly over to it. I leave her a small smile of thanks before I follow after dad.

A little while later, we're shown into Mr Sebastian Wilkes' office by his secretary.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man greets, smiling broadly.

"Sebastian," dad says, his face emotionless towards the man as they shake hands, Sebastian clasping dad's hand in both of his own.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Dad ignores him but looks back with dislike which is barely disguised. Sebastian turns to look at me and John. "This is my daughter, Sophia Holmes," dad introduces me, and I step forward to shake Mr Wilkes' hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," he smiles at me, but I ignore him, my attention focused on his watch.

"... And this is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?" Wilkes queries, latching onto dads emphasis on the word.

"Colleague," John corrects him, also looking pretty emotionless.

"Right," Sebastian says, looking curiously at John as they too shake hands. "Right." He throws dad a quick look of surprise at his ability to gain a friend, then smiles unpleasantly as he scratches at his neck, his watch on full show. I think dad might have noticed the watch as well.

As Sebastian turns away, John purses his lips, seeming to take an immediate dislike at this man. I can't say I like him much either, but if it results in an interesting case, then I'm all for it, and I think that was the only reason dad took up the offer as well.

"Well, grab a pew," Sebastian smiles, gesturing us to some seats. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?"

Dad and I shake our heads, wordlessly, but John voices our answer. "No."

"No?" Sebastian questions, turning to his secretary. "We're all sorted here, thanks." As the secretary leaves behind us, Wilkes sits down behind his desk, and we take the seats in front of him.

"So, you're doing well," dad states. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Wilkes lies, modestly.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" I see John frown in confusion, but I just smile innocently, enjoying the scene.

Sebastian just laughs and points at dad. "Right. You're doing that thing," he chuckles, looking to John. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," dad says quietly, obviously annoyed.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Wilkes continues to John.

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John says, joining in on the conversation.

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated him."

I turn my head to see dad's eyes filling with pain from the memories. I smile sadly to myself at how alike we are - I'm going through the same at the moment at school.

"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall," Wilkes continues, "and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed," dad says quietly, his confidence completely knocked around Wilkes. They must have put him through hell.

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world - you're quite right. How could you tell?" Dad opens his mouth to speak, but Sebastian continues to lower my IQ by talking.

"You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan," he continues, smugly.

I can tell you exactly how I know, but if I know dad, he won't explain it now.

"No, I ..." dad starts, but Sebastian begins to talk over him.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!"

Dad looks back at him for a second before attempting to speak again. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside," dad lies, convincingly. "She told me."

John frowns at dad, confused by the fact that we didn't speak to the secretary at all. In fact, dad ignored her for the most part.

Wilkes laughs humorlessly, and dad smiles back with an equal lack of humour. Sebastian claps his hands together and becomes more serious. "I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

"That statement was clearly stated in your email," dad says.

"Yes, of course," he says, reddening a little. "Yes, so do you want to see it?"

"Naturally," dad says, standing up and walking towards the door.

I stand up with him, and Wilkes leads us across the trading floor and towards another door.

"Sir William's office - the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night," he explains as we walk.

"What did they steal?" John asks.

"Nothing," Sebastian Wilkes says. "Just left a little message." He holds his security card against the reader by the door, and the door clicks open. That rules the door out as an entry-point.

Hanging on the whitewashed wall behind the desk is a framed portrait of a man in a business suit, perhaps the late Sir William Shad himself. On the wall to the left of the portrait, someone has sprayed some yellow graffiti into the form of the number '8', but the top of the number has been left open and above is an almost horizontal, straight line. Across the eyes of the portrait, the graffitist has sprayed another almost horizontal, straight line, and the paint trickles down in trails down the painting. Could it be a disgruntled employee?

Sebastian leads us towards the desk, then steps aside so that dad and I get a clear view of the wall. John moves to stand on the other side of Wilkes, who looks at us expectantly as if we're about to spout a conclusion already. Maybe not, but I think I've seen these symbols before; I just can't place where I know them from.

"Could you show us the security footage from last night, around the time of the break-in?" I ask him, not turning away from the wall.

"Yes, yes, if you'll come back to my office..." He trails off as I turn and walk to the door, now aware that I'm not listening.

Back in Wilkes' office, he opens a tab to show us the video footage of last night.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian tells us, flicking to and fro between the images taken at 23:33:01 - which shows the office as it should be - clean and tidy - but then, sixty seconds later at 23:34:01, it shows the wall and painting covered with paint. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute," Sebastian concludes.

"How many ways into that office?" asks dad.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting. Come with me, I'll show you our security system. Only the receptionists have control over it because there will always be someone at that desk." He leads us back through to the reception. "Mandy, yes," he greets one of the reception girls. "I need you to work with Heather for a minute - I need to show these guys something."

'Mandy' nods and leaves us with Sebastian. He taps into her computer systems and brings up the layout of the trading floor and the offices surrounding it. Each indicated door has a light against it, showing it's security status.

"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," dad states, correctly.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you - five figures," Sebastian says, reaching into his breast pocket, and pulls out a cheque. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," dad mutters, before walking away. I follow him, but I can hear John stop to collect the cheque we urgently need to pay the bills.

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 13

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: None that I can see

You stood in the kitchen of your flat, staring at the mug again. With some difficulty, you had convinced John to let you go so you could change out of your party outfit and now you were trying to decide if you felt well enough to eat something. Or you had been until you saw the mug on the counter where you’d left it. You had on a comfortable pair of jeans and one of John’s hand-me-down jumpers from a while back, leaning against the wall opposite the counter as you tried to think for a minute. A weight had been lifted off your shoulders when you’d finally told John but it had dredged up old memories, not to mention you were still angry at Sherlock over the whole mug thing. You sunk down to the floor tucking your arms between your chest and your bent knees so you could cover your face with your hands and let out a long heavy sigh, turning your thoughts back to the food vs. no food debate. You sat there for a bit before there was a knock on your door and, not wanting to get up, you simply yelled, “It’s open! Come in!” Yelling was a decision you immediately regretted as a new wave of throbbing set in and you heard the door swing open and approaching footsteps. You expected it to be John so you paid little attention to the sound, leading you to be very surprised when they stopped and you looked up to find Sherlock staring down at you. You frowned at him with narrowed eyes, “What do you want?” 

He looked almost hesitant, his mouth slightly open as his eyes flicked over your position and then to the mug on the counter. You groaned, knowing that he was reading you again, and pressed your hands over your face, “Sherlock I’m really not in the mood. It’s been a rough morning and my-“

“Your head hurts and you're angry with me.” He finished and when you looked up, he was offering a hand. You frowned but took it anyways, “Was there a purpose for your visit or did you just come to state the obvious again?” As soon as you were on your feet, you pulled away from him and went to your living room, not waiting for his answer. He didn’t follow you, standing in the doorway as he watched you flop down in your chair and pull your legs up to you in an unwelcoming manner. He ignored your behavior and, after a moment of surveying your small kitchen, he scooped up the mug from the counter and went to sit on your couch. You had your cheek rested on your knees, watching him carefully with tired eyes, and you softly huffed, “What?” It was obvious to you that he wanted to ask you something and normally you would be patient with him but right now you just wanted him to leave. His eyes flicked between you and the space next to him on the couch and you rolled your eyes, unfolding yourself to go plop down next to him with the reasoning that it must be important if he was being this difficult. Sherlock watched you carefully, you were able to see things about him that others had never been able to and he couldn’t help but wonder why that was the case, testing it’s extent as he communicated with you wordlessly in only the slightest gestures. It had taken him longer than normal to gather his thoughts after that morning, his mind plagued not only with anger but by the feeling that had somehow escaped the confines of the walls he’d built for it. When he’d finally reigned everything in he came to a single question that was more pressing to him than any of the others. He looked at the mug in his hands, knowing that you would follow his gaze, “Why does this mean so much to you?” You tilted your head at him, “It’s big enough for a good sized cup of tea, the pattern feels good beneath my fingers, and the blue is calming. It’s always been a favorite.” He lifted his eyes to look at you and you could see that wasn’t the answer he was looking for so you sighed and tried again, “That mug is the only thing I ever made on the wheel that I liked, I’m shit at the wheel, and it is the only ceramic piece I’ve ever kept. I guess you could say I’m proud of it and I wanted it to be taken care of properly.” You looked at him, that still wasn’t the right answer, so you reached over and took it from him as you gave the one you’d been avoiding, tracing the swirls with your thumb, “This was my hope. You may not understand it but this mug saved my life so many times. I would feel so broken and lost, wanting to just end it all to make the hurt go away, and then I’d open the cabinet and there it was. I watched plates and mugs and bowls and cups shatter to against the floor or wall in anger so many times but never this one. For some reason this one always managed to escape that fate, this one fragile mug defied all odds and continued on in the cabinet time after time. In my mind, if this one delicate thing could survive in the chaos then so could I.” You raised your eyes to look at him and found him frowning as he stared off in the direction of your small oval coffee table, you’d given him the answer he wanted but he didn’t look particularly pleased. You set the mug down on the table in front of you, moving to get up and let him think when his hand caught your wrist. You turned to look at him. He didn’t look up but he’d adjusted his gaze to stare at the mug, “Offering this mug to us, to me, was about more than replacing the one you broke, wasn’t it?” You sighed and sat back down, your anger at him fading away as you gathered that he hadn’t really meant to come off the way he had, “Yes, Sherlock. It means a lot to me and I wanted you to have it as a way of thanking you for all you’ve done for me since I’ve been here.” He pursed his lips, “I haven’t-“ “Yes, you have. Even if you don’t realize it or it wasn’t exactly your intention, you have.” It was quiet for a bit so you got up to let him think and this time he didn’t stop you. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked toward the kitchen and you gave your hips an extra swish just to mess with him, it was so very fun to mess with him when you could. And mess with him it did, he was already trying to fight off the feeling in his mind again and that little swish caused his heart rate to jump and his breath to hitch slightly. Now he was sure he was sick, there was no other explanation… and yet no illness he could think of fit the symptoms he was having. His mind briefly entertained the idea that maybe there was some other way to explain it and what it came up with made his eyes narrow. No. It couldn’t be that. He wasn’t capable of that. No, he had to be sick. That’s what was causing this and perhaps even the feeling in his mind. Yes, that was it. He was sick and it was messing with both his body and his mind. Sherlock had just come to this conclusion when you came back from the kitchen with two mugs and when you saw him, the grin on your face changed to a concerned frown, “Are you feeling alright Sherlock? You look rather pale.” Before he could answer, you set down the mugs and leaned to look at him as you pressed a hand against his forehead and his heart rate fluttered again, if you could see it then surely he was sick. His eyes caught yours and despite the worry, he saw there, you gave him a small reassuring smile, “You’re a little warm, Sherly. You should get some rest before it gets any worse.” He frowned at your nickname for him but made no attempt to correct you and you removed your hand from him to go back into the kitchen, rummaging around for a minute before coming back to hand him a glass of water and two pills, “Take these and drink your tea.” He quirked an eyebrow at you and you rolled your eyes, “Don’t give me that look. Just because I don’t take pills doesn’t mean I’m not prepared. My brother is a doctor after all. Now take them please.” He shook his head and slumped back like a difficult child and you sighed, “Fine. At least go upstairs and rest a bit then.” He looked like he was going to refuse and you quickly added, “Don’t make me tell, John. You know as well as I do how he gets.” Sherlock thought this over, he was going to need to inform John should this continue but right now he felt well enough, good even. His chest felt warm and slightly tingly like it often did when he got a worthy case and his heart rate had dropped back to a reasonable speed. Not to mention John was particularly annoying when he felt the need to be doctorly. He looked up and, though you were still obviously concerned, there was a glimmer of hope in your eyes. When he nodded and stood, you offered him a relieved grin, “Thank you, Sherlock.” His eyes flicked between you and the mug and you giggled, picking it up as you pushed him towards the door, “Go on. Out you go.” He turned when he was in the doorway and you pressed the mug into his hands before bouncing up to kiss his cheek, “You are forgiven, Sherlock.” Before he could respond, you had closed the door in his face, trusting that he could and would get up to his own flat and get some rest without your supervision.   Sherlock stood there for a moment looking down at the mug, the feel of the pressure from your lips on his cheek lingering on his skin. He felt weightless, that was new, his heart was flipping over in his chest in a rather worrisome way, and his face felt hot. You must have been right when you said he looked ill, he reasoned before deciding to take your advice and climbing the stairs to go and rest a bit.

[i-believe-n-sherlock-holmes]

What is Reality?

So, I spent the morning typing out this long, detailed response to a post by @possiblyimbiassed​ concerning therapists in the show being representations of Sherlock - hit the post button - and found Tumblr ate it. Yep, it disappeared into the ether. That’s... fine. Probably didn’t belong on that post anyways since it went down a completely different track, but here is an abbreviated version of what I concluded:

We have always been in TAB/S4 hell and just didn’t realise it. 

It all began to break down when I tried to discern the point of view we are seeing the story from - or who the author is. This is a story about John - we begin with him, and he is ‘the blogger’ (and original author of the Sherlock Holmes stories) so we might naturally conclude he is the storyteller here, but then that conclusion quickly breaks down the first time we see Sherlock. We see Sherlock before John meets him. John has no way of knowing about Sherlock beating a corpse and rejecting Molly’s advances, so how are we seeing that if John is the author? Lest you think that John made this up from Sherlock’s comment about leaving the riding crop in the morgue and his interaction with Molly when she brings him coffee 1) that would be amazing because we have never seen anything to indicate this level of imagination from John 2) his stories on his blog are not anywhere near as detailed, fantastic and elaborate as this moment and the show on whole 3) that is a pretty twisted conclusion for John to draw about what a man he just met was doing with a riding crop in a morgue - not something one would just guess. Also consider that John would never have known (and is unlikely to have ever been able to get an accurate account from Sherlock given the way we see them interact) about what really happened between Sherlock and Jefferson Hope when they were alone. 

So maybe Sherlock was the narrator? Well, then there are several scenes that he didn’t witness and can’t have possibly known about (like the entire first part of the story where we are shown what John’s life is like beforehand) and what happened with Donovan and Mycroft. Likewise, it seems very unlikely that Sherlock would have been able to devise John’s very novel reaction to Sherlock being with the killer. I mean, one would not typically think that an experienced soldier with ‘nerves of steel’ (as Sherlock himself says) would panic and go running through the building screaming Sherlock’s name which would both alert the killer that he was coming and alert the cleaners that someone is in the building who shouldn’t be. Not a reaction otherwise in character thus far.

This doesn’t even go to mention that there are scenes that neither character could have seen or known about. We see Jennifer Wilson and several of the other victims right before their demise and we have to conclude that those scenes are either seen through the eyes of an omnipresent/omnipotent (all seeing/ all knowing) author or through the killer’s eyes.

OK, so maybe it is a story told from the omnipresent/omnipotent perspective? Well, then that doesn’t explain the shared consciousness between the characters. Again, I’ll point you to the first scene, if we only see what happens to John because we are “omini” then how does Sherlock know about what happened to John to play out a very close echo of that original telling of exactly what happened to John before they met in his TAB MindPalace drug dream. Another glaring instance of this is the whole “dragon slayer” term, which is first mentioned when Sherlock and Mycroft are alone together, then Mary calls Sherlock the same thing when she’s alone with him, then John uses the term - none of them should know what the other has said.

So reality is broken from the start. 

Why?

Well, this is where things really make your mind explode. 

So in the 2nd episode when John returns from his interview with Sarah, Sherlock says that he had asked John for a pen when John was gone and John concludes that Sherlock ‘didn’t notice’ he was gone. We might be tempted to take John’s assessment at face value and think that Sherlock was too distracted or self-absorbed to have noticed John left, but we have been given an evolving perspective on what that moment really means. Over time, we’ve learned that Sherlock actually sees a version of John in his alternate reality (MindPalace) where he talks to John and John helps him solve things. And sometimes (like when he tries to replace John with Molly as an assistant in solving crimes) that alternate reality spills over and he hears John’s disembodied voice taunting him in Reality. So, what we have from this little moment in episode 2 is the clear indication that, at times, Sherlock cannot discern Reality from his Alternate Reality. Yet, as things evolve, we (as a viewer) often move with Sherlock seamlessly between these two realities that, in their own right, seem equally real except that the location of one might be a bit extraordinary or Sherlock exhibits extraordinary qualities to manipulate the Alternate Reality - cluing us in that it is “not reality”. 

Two realities. Bleeding between them. Funkiness in both of them. What does this sound like? Well, it sounds a lot like TAB, doesn’t it? And what did we find out in the end of TAB. Neither reality was Real. 

So, what does this mean? What part of what we see is Sherlock’s hallucinations or alternate reality and what is Real?

Maybe this moment in episode 2 and Dr. Frankland’s and Culvertson’s drugs that make people hallucinate and lose memories are hints that Sherlock has been drugged from near the beginning and was seeing things and/or losing time since the 2nd episode. All reality is suspect because we are shown Sherlock’s internal world along with the rest - but some it Real.

Maybe, Sherlock really did take Jefferson Hope’s pill before John could reach him and, instead of dying, he slipped into a coma like-state and everything after that point was like TAB where he created two realities (a MindPalace and a Real World) and he keeps slipping between the two, but neither are Real.

Maybe nothing is real and from the beginning it is all in Sherlock’s head. From that first episode we see perspectives that don’t make sense from any one point of view and there is a collective consciousness that can’t be explained unless there is a narrator that has full control of all the characters and so every character has the potential to know what other characters have said or done (since they are all just fabrications). 

Perhaps, it will be explained with something akin to the movie Ghost Stories (which, interestingly enough, Martin Freeman plays the doctor) where Sherlock has been ‘locked-in’ his own mind (in a coma-like state) this whole time and has simply been “setting the stage” with the people from his hospital setting who seep into his imagined world (John is really his doctor, Sarah and Mary are nurses that Dr. Watson seems to flirt with, Lestrade is the kindly janitor, Billy is the anesthesiologist, etc., etc.). And, if you have ever had your mind play a trick on you by reinterpreting something you hear or feel from reality (like your alarm clock going off or your cat sitting on your chest) into something that can fit into your dream, then you can begin to imagine how Sherlock could be reinterpreting things from Reality into his coma-like state. John really has saved his life so many times and so many ways (as his doctor). The gunshot wound literally was surgery. They really did have to restart his heart. When he is walking around on walls and everything is falling apart, they’ve got him drugged up and are moving him between beds (which would give the strange sense of weightlessness), etc., etc. Maybe there is a telly on his room that is playing documentaries (about Chinese pottery and the Van Bueren Supernova) and news (about Chinese gangs, bombings, murders) and infomercials (featuring Connie and Kenny Price) and kids shows (featuring Richard Brooks) and the occasional Bond and horror movie. And, as his health deteriorates, so does his imagined reality, until he is torturing himself with his past and everyone is both a mirror of himself and an enemy. 

The last possibility is the saddest interpretation of all the facts because it is quite possible that if in a S5 Sherlock does manage to wake up, the relationship between him and John is not nearly as deep as he imagined it to be and is, in fact, (if Sherlock is just a patient) non-existent. It could even be that Sherlock put himself into that state when he was a young man, overdosing due to his attempt to escape some childhood trauma. If so, then he might not even be consulting detective. It is also possible that the image that Sherlock projects of himself isn’t at all close to reality but more who he wishes he was. Perhaps, he is more like Billy, extremely clever underneath it all (able to deduce John) but looks and speaks in a way where no one would listen to him or pay attention to him in Reality.

What is reality? 

It could be very, very different and jarring.

  @ebaeschnbliah, @sarahthecoat, @sagestreet, @raggedyblue, @possiblyimbiassed, @sherlockshadow,

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hi steph! know of any fics where sherlock dates someone else and john gets jealous and confesses his feelings?

Hi Nonny!

AHHHHHHH Okay, so I have this weird thing where I have a hard time reading fics where Sherlock is dating someone else, LOL, because I’m garbage. I dunno why… the closest I can get is fics with Victor Trevor in them as a “replacement” or “past bf” D: I’m so sorry I’m useless in this regard… Methinks these lists may help you out a bit? :)

MY FIC LISTS:

Jealous John

Jealous John Pt. 2 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous John Pt 3 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 3

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 4

ALEXX’S LISTS

John is Jealous of Victor Trevor

Victor Trevor Appears

MORE Victor Trevor/Sherlock (Part 2)

Jealous John

Sherlock with Other Men

John thinks of Sherlock with Other Men

EDIT: ACTUALLY NONNY, I just found an offline list in my folders that I think you will like; I’ve been waiting to post it anyway :P I hope this is good :D

VICTOR TREVOR / VICTOR IS SHERLOCK’S PAST FRIEND (S4)

Unforgiven by 221b_hound (M, 4,721 w., 1 Ch. || Marriage Proposal, Victor Trevor, Jealous / Protective John, Jealous Sherlock, Sherlock’s Past) – Sherlock’s latest case is for his ex boyfriend, the brilliant and handsome Professor Victor Trevor. John is not too happy about that. But things aren’t what they seem, an old friend of John’s is involved in the case, and John has a few surprises up his sleeve. Also - a proposal! Part 16 of Unkissed

Laid Bare by esplanade (T, 6,529 w., 1 Ch. || Romance, Fluff, Pining, Angst) – “I suppose it comes as no surprise that I always rather detested grand romantic gestures. They struck me as unnecessary and contrived, feeble attempts at desperately holding together relationships, most of which should have been allowed to fall apart.”

I can’t pretend by Salambo06 (E, 7,692 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Victor Trevor, Jealous John, Miscommunications, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Anal, BJs) – They had arrived more than a hour ago, and the moment they had walked inside the hotel reception, John had understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come. Two men, posh suits and expensive watches on their wrists, had come to greet them with sharp remarks and badly hidden mockery, and John had seen red. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, mostly ignoring the two men entirely, and without thinking twice about it, John had slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and introduced himself as his husband.

My Life for His by QuinnAnderson (E, 8,816 w., 1 Ch. || Guardian/Protector, Greek Mythology || Growing Up, Sex, Religious Themes, Suicide, Minor Character Death) – It began when Sherlock was eight, and he attempted to climb all the way up to the highest branch in the old willow tree in his back garden. He’d thought he was still small enough that it could support him, but the second he’d grabbed hold of it to pull himself up, the branch snapped, and down he went, plummeting a solid twenty metres. The odd thing was, he never actually hit the ground.

Illogical, even. by magikspell (E, 9,119 w., 1 Ch. || Grey-Ace Sherlock, Character Study, Growing Up, Victor Trevor, Romance, First Time/Kiss, Sherlock-centric) – Five reasons Sherlock never believed in love and one reason he does now.

I’m content as we are (but) by inqui (The_Circus) (E, 13,086 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous John, UST/RST, Pining, Victor Trevor, Minor Whump, First Kiss / Time, Misunderstandings) – In which John Watson sees something unusual, becomes jealous, and makes too much of a small thing as an old friend of Sherlock’s shows up in the middle of a case.

Say For Me, Love by MirabileLectu (T, 13,147 w., 1 Ch. || UST, First Kiss, Drama, Pining John, Victor Trevor) – If you had asked John this morning what the result of his quiet afternoon at home would be, discovering a truth about Sherlock’s past startling enough to shift the foundations of their friendship would not have been his first guess. So naturally, that was what was bound to happen.

Let’s Make a Bed Out in the Rain by theimprobable1 (M, 17,664 w., 11 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Angst & Fluff, First Kiss, Unrequited, Jealous Sherlock, Protective Sherlock) – John is devastated after his long-term girlfriend leaves him. Sherlock helps him through it.

That Partitioning of the Things of Youth by wearitcounts (E, 35,353 w., 7 Ch. || Humour and Angst, Post-TRF, Fake Relationship, UST / RST, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John) – Victor Trevor is in town, and nobody’s happy.

(Never) Turn Your Back to the Sea by DiscordantWords (M, 39,968 w., 7 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It || Grief / Mourning, Victor Trevor, Friendship, Sherlock is Not Okay, Nightmares/Flashbacks/Panic Attacks, Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, John Comes Home) – Baker Street is very much the same. Only different. And Sherlock is just trying not to drown.

Resistivity and Relative Charge by liriodendron (E, 41,750 w., 8 Ch. || Synesthesia, Angst, Case Fic, Romance, Est. Rel., Homophobia, Religious Content, Victor Trevor, Mild Jealous John, Mild John Whump) – In which Sherlock Holmes meets an old acquaintance, John Watson doesn’t enjoy a trip to the country quite as much as he thought he would, and the past absolutely refuses to stay where it belongs. Part 3 of Conductivity

Sacré Coeur by Mamaorion (M, 95,236 w., 27 Ch. || S4 Fix It Rewrite, First Kiss, UST / RST, Eventual Happy Ending, Coming Out, Holmes Family, Marriage Proposal, Husbands, Healing, Evil Mary, Beekeeping, Caretaker Sherlock, Mind Palace, Alzheimer’s Disease, Protective / Big Brother Mycroft, TD-12) – In this s4 fixit, John must piece together the gaps in his altered memory if he and Sherlock are to face the terror that has plagued Sherlock since childhood. As they untangle the web, seven years of hidden love ignite. (TO READ)

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship’s surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there’s more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin’ the eye, he has to choose… is it a pirate’s life for him?

Colors by Quesarasara (E, 140,537 w., 17 Ch. || Pleasantville-Inspired AU || Soulmates, Colour Bonds, Alternating POV, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Case Fic, Medical Procedures) – Everyone on earth is born with eyes that see in black, white, and an endless series of greys. When you meet your soulmate, you finally see the world in color. We’re all searching for the person who brings color to our lives. John and Sherlock are no exception. Part 1 of The Colors ‘Verse

SHERLOCK AND OTHER MEN

Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (E, 36,833 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Time, Reunion, Jealous John, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending) – When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.

Drawn to Stars by Silvergirl (E, 66,392 + w., 42/56 Ch. || WiP || S4 Compliant to TLD / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock’s Italian Adventure, Jealous John, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, First Kiss/Time, Idiots in Love, Angst with Happy Ending) – After the Culverton Smith case Sherlock is clean, working, and looking for a romantic partner—since John has told him that’s what he needs. Shame John didn’t mention he was interested in that role himself, before Sherlock went off to Rome with a gorgeous Italian copper to try to fall in love and become a complete human being. (MARKED FOR LATER / TO READ)

[ithinkthereforiamfandom]

Last S3 fix-it chapter

There's an S4 fixit epilogue. I've used my "everyone" tag list so let me know if you want on or off.

Prev

John breathed a sigh of relief as the black door closed behind him. They had been home for about a week and things were settling into something cozy but familiar. He looked at the flowers in his hand, it would be a blatantly romantic gesture if Foxglove wasn’t so toxic. The flowers were for Sherlock to experiment on though his offerings, like the Nightshade three weeks ago, did sometimes wind up in a vase on the dinner table while they ate. That always made him grin which made Sherlock grin, the romantic gesture turned on it’s head. It suited them.

Sherlock was pacing around the lounge when John came in. Mycroft was in John's chair and raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes at the blooms. “We apparently have a case John and you need a suit.” “But I have...” “A proper suit John! We need to look fancy for my brother’s little spy.” Sherlock flicked a nasty smile at his brother but then sobered. “She's tried to kill Mycroft.”

John stared at the elder Holmes who stood to show a brace on his shoulder, identical to the one John had worn himself. “Just a flesh would Doctor.” Sherlock was staring stonily at the wall and it would appear John was getting a new suit of Holmesian quality. He was quite looking forward to this.

The fitting had taken forever and gotten very very personal. Standing in the tailor’s under the gaze of both Holmes brothers John felt like cattle on sale and the approving looks they shared did not make him feel any better. Mycroft's sling had been replaced by a smooth black fabric that blended with his suit jacket. “It will do.” Had been the verdict then Mycroft had handed over the flash drive he'd pulled from the sling and promptly left.

....

Sherlock grinned as he carried John’s suit bag into his own cupboard. “shouldn’t I keep that Sherlock?” “Of course not John, it’s in good company in my wardrobe. It might catch a case of Jumpers upstairs.” Sherlock teased. John left Sherlock to fuss and set the flashdrive into Sherlock’s laptop to see what they were up against.

Half an hour later an amazing smell drifted to John’s nose. Sherlock must have ordered take away as he put a very good curry next to John with a smirk. The accomplice had medical training and John had been pulled into his history. An orthopaedic relief aid surgeon was selling state secrets it would seem, a flash drive had been found in a shipment of medical relief implants and the recipient was a government official who had developed unfortunate political leanings in a country the British government was trying to help. The shipment had been halted and the device removed before the relief supplies continued but they need more proof, a direct link and Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had left very few traces before she had attempted to seduce, and then promptly shot, Mycroft Holmes.

“My brother has appalling taste.” “In women certainly.” “My brother has appalling taste.” Sherlock deadpanned back making John chuckle. “Lady Smallwood played him for a proper idiot I’ll give you that Sherlock but don’t forget you share genetics with him... and I quite like that suit!” John had absentmindly spilled curry on his sleeve but the information gathering was more important than one less grey jumper in the world. “So she was in the air force for four years before family connections got her into politics.” “She’s going down for shooting Mycroft but finding the connection to the official on the ground will keep her down.” “She needs to stay down John. She could have killed him had he not known precisely when she would pull the trigger.” “We'll find it Sherlock.” John had been surprised when Sherlock had finished his meal in record time and had started setting up the evidence wall as John scrapped his own container clean.

The lounge looked like something out of a fangirl's blog there were pictures everywhere and colour coded strings, linked theories, evidence, and some just wild ideas. “All these angles are giving me a headache.” John grouse at 1:30am. “Angles!” Sherlock burst out and grabbed John’s laptop. “Angles, of course John if we can’t find anything from the Lady Smallwood angle we can check the receiving official. He’s already under arrest but the Smallwood estate is doing absolutely nothing to cover him, hanging him out for the crows really.” Sherlock curled up with John’s laptop as the rapidly tiring physician went to make a round of tea. Sherlock tea was better but something had to help. The genius was chuckling so maybe he was over tired too.

“What’s so funny Giggles?” John set the mug down with a bit more force than he intended. “Easter lunch with Great-Aunty Lizzy.” A smug Sherlock waved John’s focus to the screen where a carefully tagged Facebook photo showed their receiving official with his “Great-Aunty Lizzy” also a friend of the family, one Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Clearly enjoying the day with an old school chum and said school chum's idiot nephew who had decided to aid in treason whilst indulging in social media. The photo is less than three months old. John was set for bed as Sherlock made a rare phone call to his brother, presumably it made gloating easier.

Next

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