SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch3“William.” Eleven year-old Mycroft Holmes glanced around the disorder that was his little brother’s bedroom. He sighed his most practiced, adult sounding sigh. “William. I know you’re in this unholy mess somewhere.” He waved his hand dismissively, though he was secretly very pleased with himself. Unholy mess. It felt like swearing, mummy even scolded him for saying it, though he suspected it wasn't really a very naughty phrase at all. Not compared to the types of words the boys at school used when the teachers weren't listening.
A precarious (a lovely word, learned from a rather dull librarian) stack of cardboard boxes shifted. “William, mummy says you’ve got to go to bed.” He cleared his throat. The exact message from mummy had included or Father Christmas won’t come.
As a four year-old, William could believe the made up fairy stories if he wanted to, but Mycroft would not encourage such chi
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch2Harriet Watson hated Jonathan Watson.
In the infinite wisdom of an eight year-old, she didn't think that it was proper to hate someone. And to be fair, she couldn't think of a single other person she hated. She hated things, and felt that hating a thing was okay, because a thing wasn't a person. Spiders were just asking to be hated. As were lima beans and the color brown. But people weren't meant to be hated.
At least that's what mum always said. And gran too.
Gran said God hated hate. Harry didn't understand exactly how that worked, but she didn't think it would be very good to make God hate her.
But it was hard not to hate the man she called father when her sweet, gentle, beautiful baby brother was huddled under her quilt, clinging to her nightshirt, sobbing. "It'll be okay, Ish. I promise. You'll see. Please don't cry. Please, Ish?"
"I'm bad..." The four year old wept as he buried his face in his sister's chest.
"No, Ish. You aren't. You are so, so good." Harry's
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch1"I don't know why they all think you're so special anyway. They don't have to live with you. You're positively dull." Seven year-old Mycroft Holmes huffed as he paced.
It wasn't even truly pacing. He had picked out a pattern in the nursery rug that wove back and forth in an uninterrupted line, and he walked along it carefully as if balancing on a tight rope, his arms out slightly to his sides. He called it pacing because that's what the grown ups did. When father would fret, about what Mycroft never really knew, he would march up and down the length of the sitting room. He thought it made his father look strong and serious, like a soldier. Mummy would tell him to stop pacing, have a drink, and try not to think so much.
Mycroft couldn't imagine anything worse than not thinking, and if father thought so much while he paced, then he reasoned pacing would help him think so much as well. And young Mycroft Holmes had weighty matters to consider.
BBC Sherlock - A Day In The Life, chapter 1Chapter 1: Streetlights, People*
The Homeless Network was under attack.
If Sherlock were to pin down a single instance the trouble had started, (and he had to; he found his mind wouldn't allow him to not suss out a timeline, to the exact moment), he would say it was the day six months ago that Lil Sis had peeked out from behind the skip in that alley.
But if Sherlock were to be completely honest, the trouble actually started much earlier than that.
John spotted her first.
Sherlock had been absorbed with the bodies and the evidence, dumbing down his deductions for Lestrade, and putting Anderson in his proverbial place. John had been doing what he always did -- staying out of Sherlock's way, and observing. Military training, John supposed. No matter where he was, he made a habit of knowing every single entrance and exit, and observing every single person who came or went.
That John was even present added to the exceptional nature of the instance in question.
John hadn't bee
BBC Sherlock - La Solidarite"It's just awful." Mrs. Hudson dabbed the tears from her eyes with her handkerchief. She placed the remnants of the tea onto the tray, glanced mournfully once more at the horrific images on the telly, and swept into the kitchen.
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement. His stare was unfocused as he steepled his fingers under his chin.
Sherlock could observe a great many things about an individual's history. He could use said observations to deduce patterns and potential outcomes.
But it was days like today, when a handful of people could find it within themselves to unleash untold horrors on their fellow humans, that Sherlock found himself lost.
He never presumed to understand what it was inside a man that could drive him to violence, or just as easily compel him to compassion.
As if on cue, John rushed down the stairs from his room. "All right, mate. See you in a few." He hung up the call and skidded to stop as the scene on the telly caught his eye.
"The Stade de France," John mumbled and
BBC Sherlock - Polyphiloprogenitive"John, I often find your mastery of the profane polyphiloprogenitive." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and rocked briefly onto the balls of his feet.
John scratched the back of his neck. "Uhm... Thanks?"
"Did you know you often swear in iambic pentameter? When one is not on the receiving end of one of your soliloquies, it's really rather mesmerizing. Brilliant even."
"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?"
With a huff, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And so much for brilliant."
"Oi! Don't be a bloody..." John caught himself. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "What's all this about?"
"It's come to my attention that while you are often complimentary of my work, frequently overly so, I seldom return the kindness." Sherlock shrugged and turned his face away.
John snickered and tried cover it with a cough. "You wanted to compliment me, and the best you could come up with is that my swearing is poetic?"
"Not just poetic. Polyphiloprogenitive." Sherloc
BBC Sherlock - Losing23:36 03/05/2013
Who is this? -JW
dont be dull john
Sherlock. Please. -JW
NO! God please no. Sherlock, please. -JW
Why? Why are you doing this? Who are you? -JW
If this is a joke, it's not funny. Do you have nothing better to do than harass me? -JW
You wouldn't be the first you know. I'm tormented endlessly because of him. By my own mind. So you can just sod off. -JW
shrelokc if its u jus anser. Pls. -JW
I migt be drukn
BBC Sherlock - Of A Necessity "So. Come here often do you?"
Sherlock hummed noncommittally, refusing to look up from his mobile.
"I'm not guessing. I'm observing. And what I observe is that that young lady seems to recognize you, and she hasn't asked you any questions. Whereas this young lady has asked nearly my entire life history, my blood type, and what I intend to name my future children."
"Don't be so dramatic. It's for a case, John. Just relax." Shoving his mobile into his pocket, Sherlock pressed a button on the armrest of his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and settled into deduction mode.
"It would be decidedly easier to relax if I were to, say, know any of the details of the case." John snarked. "Or, at the very least, if it were explained to me why it is of a necessity that we're speaking in Pashto. These young ladies barely speak English."
"They speak Vietnamese, and though English as a spoken language is notably not a strength, both ladies understand English rath
BBC Sherlock - Restoration"No John?" Lestrade made no effort to cover the wariness in his voice as he lifted the tape cordoning off access to the dank alley.
Sherlock hummed derisively. "Very good, detective. I'm happy to see you've not lost your deductive reasoning in my absence." Leaving his hands tucked deep in the pockets of the Belstaff -- Lestrade winced at the fact that the great coat still hung too loosely over the slight frame -- Sherlock ducked under the tape, forcing the D.I. to hold it up for him.
With a roll of his eyes, Lestrade let the barricade snap back into place, huffed a few breaths into his cupped hands in an attempt to warm them, and fell into step with the consulting detective. "It's your first case. You've only been back a month. Are you certain this is a good idea? No John means full immersion into the idiot pool without any sort of barrier. It's been two and half years; new faces and all. These new forensics guys are..." Lestrade dropped his voice to just above a whisper, "It's bad, Sh