BBC SH - The Case of the Dancing Men VIt was a bizarre fact about John Watson that, doctor as he was, he never really liked hospitals.
The sheer impersonality, whilst practical, felt uncomfortable to him.
In Afghanistan, the field hospital had been a welcome haven to return to, a place where at least he had more than the most basic equipment to treat injuries with. But, that was a far cry from the utilitarian pathways of the Newham General Hospital.
Sherlock and John swept down a corridor, respectfully stepping aside for the tired-eyed nurses who came sweeping past, kept going on too-much caffeine and not enough sleep, time, money or hope.
Lestrade was waiting for them outside a room. Idly, John wondered if that deep frown line on his forehead had always been there or whether the recent stress had bought it about.
“There’s a bloke from social services in the waiting room.” The policeman informed them, tersely. “He’s to come with us when we find out where Alfie is.”
Still so certain th
I'll be Home for ChristmasJohn Watson was tired and sad and just all around sour. Christmas was in two weeks. He despised Christmas. How could everyone be so happy? It made him sick, and everyone's cheerfulness did nothing to help it. It was utterly disgusting. He shuffled, grimacing, to the cemetery and unpacked his bag next to a well-polished headstone. John scowled and dusted the previously undisturbed snow from on top. After he was certain all traces of snow were gone, John sat down next to it and sighed, beginning to speak, low and gruff, rambling about the hatefulness of it all. Hands groped under the jacket for his flask of whiskey. He tipped his head back, and the liquid slipped down his throat easily.
A figure stood close by, unseen. He furrowed his brow as this once happy man ranted and drank, scowling and hating the world. John wasn't the same John anymore. He didn't wear those horrid jumpers, and he used his cane ag
Short JohnLock drabble.. It was weird, to see the great Sherlock Holmes cry. Here I stand, unable to move, speak, only think about the sight before me. Said detective was sat on the sofa, head in hands. After three years, I would imagine it to be me that would be the emotional wreck, but the man whom I had learnt to suppress my emotions from was letting them lose.
It had been three years since Sherlock Holmes had supposedly committed suicide after declaring he was a fake. Of course I had not believed any of it, he was a remarkable man, not capable of ‘fakery’, unless of course it was to dress up for a case…
We had been like this for about half an hour, and to put it in short terms, I came home to find him here. Punched him. He explained himself. and now it seemed as though all of this chaos was getting to him, and I can’t blame him.
The poor man has been running around for years, targeting criminals, being targeted by criminals, saving people, solving the hardest of c
Christmas, Chandeliers, and Cellars at Mycroft's John and Sherlock are spending Christmas with Mycroft. No one really knows why. Sherlock has a suspicion that Mummy was involved, and Mycroft refuses to shed any light on the matter. John doesn’t really mind why, he just thinks it’s pleasant for them to spend Christmas together, and hopes, perhaps, that the good wishes of the Christmas season might reveal a smoother side to the Holmes brother’s relationship, even if he did have to bully Sherlock into coming.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
They have been staying at Mycroft’s house – well, mansion really – John isn’t too sure exactly where it is (classified information, apparently) but it’s certainly enormous; sort of like the Diogenes, except less silence (as far as arguments between Mycroft and Sherlock are concerned), and grander. They have been there for all of December in the lead up to Christmas. Sherlock argues that he is there under duress, which is n
Johnlock Challenge - 14/100. ''Smile''Slightly chapped, rose pink lips stretched over polished ivory teeth. They gleamed impossibly white against those lips that seemed like a young, natural blush. Marble skin flushed with a modest crimson, a glistening mirth bringing light into those warm, blue-grey eyes. A deep, baritone chuckle reached John's ears. The said man melted into the melody-like sound. John couldn't help but love it when Sherlock smiled.
"Oh John, I wonder what it feels like to be so simple. Tell me, when was the last time you were distracted by something shiny?"
He just hated what came afterwards.
"Shove it, Sherlock." John hissed, glowering as he took a sip of his too-cold tea. Sherlock laughed again. John couldn't help but notice that his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at the sound. It was a miracle that Sherlock never noticed John's guilty pleasure.
"I can't believe you thought Cider was a cheese."
"Solar system, Sherlock. Remember?"
John looked up just in time to catch Sherlock's smile fall int