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Attacked with LoveIt had been a hard day. John was just getting home.
Sherlock could tell from the beginning. Glazed over eyes, uncombed hair. John had over slept. "Late for work again I see."
That was odd. Sherlock could usually at get some kind of reaction. An annoyed glance at least. He would have to go deeper. The detective inside him went into action.
* * John's POV * *
How could this have happened? How did he let it happen? Oh great. He's gone into detective mode. No chance of hiding how upset he was now. There he was, looking him over, reading every emotion, knowing every detale. It really was amazing. Normally John would be amazed. NO
BBC SH - Lullabies - BIt was very rare to catch Sherlock Holmes humming.
Occasionally the odd bar of a violin tune as he was composing, yes. But it was highly uncommon to find him with a song stuck in his head.
But John Watson was a clever man, and he had spotted a pattern.
When Sherlock texted Ophelia, occasionally John would find him gently murmuring a tune to himself as he typed.
He didn't put two and two together until a few weeks later when a song came on the radio.
At the beginning of the tune, Sherlock looked up.
He never looked up normally.
After a moment, John realised that it was the same song that he caught him humming very so often.
A piece of
Self-DisgustThe room hummed with a dull intensity, the walls resonating like the curves of a tapped wineglass as I spoke, my eyes fixed unseeingly on the table, my mind flooded with the images my words stirred to the muddy surface.
"Lestrade took me in," I mused aloud, the quick, precise voice perfectly even, despite the fact that my hands were trembling so fiercely that it was necessary to keep them folded safely in my lap as a knot of nausea worked its way steadily up my throat. "He took me in and... got me clean. And I stayed that way for several months, but... it never stopped. It never really got better."
My right hand worked its way to the crook
Perfect NothingnessThe warmth of the fire reflected on my face, flickering in lovely, orange patterns. The pillow beneath my head smelt of the laundry detergent John used when he had the time to do the wash. My arm dangled gracelessly over the side of the armchair, my legs bent and curled sideways, my back buried in warm safety among the cushions. The room was completely in peace; the only sound was the comforting crackling of the fire.
And there was nothing, nothing distracting me from this moment. This beautiful moment in time when I could simply lay here in utter serenity and sigh with relief at the blissful nothing. There was nothing in my mind. Nothing to
Four patch problem?It wasn't often that John Watson woke up in the middle of the night for reasons not concerning his nightmares.
The nightmares had certainly woken him up, screaming into his pillow for soldiers lost, but there was something that was keeping him from drifting off again.
From his little room upstairs, John woke to hear the sounds of Sherlock stirring in his sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, just for a few seconds so that he could slowly wake up before investigating further.
Sherlock didn't even try sleeping most nights; he'd just stay up with his cases, or his experiments. After almost a week of sleepless nights, he'd c
The voice that issued from the couch, or rather the depths of the pile of blankets there, was sleepy and soft and it made John smile behind his newspaper.
"What do you need Sherlock?"
"Mmmm, tea?" Sherlock slurred.
"You know you can't have anything hot."
The sound was decidedly more sulky as it grew into a loud groan and the blankets stirred, a pale foot emerging from one end while two long white arms burst from the other. This painful sounding stretch accomplished, Sherlock emerged from his cocoon in his entirety, all rumpled pajamas and a face like a sullen, and slightly swollen at the mouth
Bad Boys"Mr Sherlock Holmes?"
I looked up from screen of my laptop and the sight that I saw nearly caused me to fall off my bed completely. John was leaning nonchalantly on the doorframe chewing on the end of a pencil and reading a chart, but it was not what he was doing that made my heart pound in my chest. John was wearing nothing but a blue surgeons cap and a rather tight pair of scrub trousers, topped off with a stethoscope draped around his neck. I closed my laptop and laid it down on the floor. The case would be fine for a few hours.
"I would prefer it if my patients called me Doctor Watson." He murmured, still not looking up from hi
VintageJohn walked up the stairs to his flat feeling very satisfied. After Sherlock had destroyed his favourite jumper during one of his mad science experiments, it had taken John weeks to find another one to his liking. Even though he wasn't normally choosy about his clothes, he felt that he was allowed one guilty pleasure, and for him, that was selecting his jumpers. He was especially pleased because not only was this one good quality and comfortable, but it was also inexpensive. He had found it in a thrift shop just down the road. He would wash the garment later, but for now he just wanted to feel the familiar weight of the knit. Entering the sit
Sherlock snippets"Mycroft?" a tiny voice called. "Mycroft?"
Mycroft, at his desk, turned around to see his five-year-old brother, Sherlock, standing in the doorway to his room, his head poking in and his little fingers gripping the door frame. "Sherlock, isn't it past your bedtime?"
"I had a nightmare."
"Oh?" Mycroft replied concernedly as he walked over. "This is your third nightmare this week."
"I'm sorry, Mycroft."
"It's not your fault, Sherlock. Come on now." Mycroft knelt down and lifted Sherlock in his arms, carrying him to his bed. "You're sleeping with me to-night. Just let me put on my pyjamas."
Sherlock faced the wall to allow his brother priv
Wreak This JournalWhen you have grown accustomed to the general clutter that is practically attached to the younger Holmes, it is natural to assume that the older is also as untidy. Sherlock's flat is a mass of papers, case files, and, during one memorable drugs bust, body parts. I don't know how John can stand it sometimes.
So, when Mycroft finally asked me if I wanted to move in with him I was exited and slightly terrified. I had never seen his home before which is kind of weird when we have been dating for almost a year but I hadn't brought it up, fearing that it could be classified data and that he would have to kill me after telling me. Fortunately I sur
BBC Sherlock - OpheliaSherlock Holmes was currently laying half on the sofa and half on the floor, looking and feeling like a scarecrow that had had most of its stuffing removed. This awkward, sprawling position was far from comfortable but he didn't really have a whole lot of choice. At this point he was just grateful that breathing was a reflexive action because his normally infallible mind and body were currently in a state of rebellion.
"Joooohn." He let out a low hoarse groan and then coughed at the effort that had required.
"What?" The doctor stuck his head around the door, tugging a comb through his short hair, eyebrows quirked cu
BBC Sherlock - Day ThreeSherlock Holmes sat cross-legged in his armchair, glaring at nothing.
How? How did Lestrade manage to screw up that badly? He had let a psychologically unstable, symmetry-obsessed serial murderer slip through his fingers with the result that a fifth victim had been killed. And NOW his methodology was evolving, the previous four victims had been men in their early thirties; the latest one was a seventy year old woman who had gone to the surgery three days before the first murder for a check-up appointment after a face lift. And as the killer's technique changed, the harder it would be for Sherlock to anticipate his next move.
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