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fandomjunkie · 3 years

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The Psychopath's Crown - Pt. 1

Characters: Jim Moriarty x Holmes!OC

Warnings: None.

Chapter 1: "And you're supposed to be a Holmes."

I strode into Speedy’s, the bell dinging as I swung the door open and made my way over to the table where she was already seated. By she, I mean Eve Watson. Best friend and partner in crime. Well, not quite a partner in crime considering she’s a DI. A smile tilts my lips at the thought as I sit down next to her. She says, gesturing to the waitress bringing over two drinks but not raising her eyes from the newspaper.

“I ordered what you need,

Her lips turned up ever so slightly at the sight of me.

I smile gratefully as I accept the steaming cup of chamomile. As I sip it, I remark, “I suppose I didn’t apply my concealer well enough, did I.”

She replies, turning a page of the newspaper, “I might not be a Holmes but I have picked up a few tricks. You’re clearly stressed out to an observant eye.”

I merely shrug at her words, cupping both my hands around the cup for warmth, “I do quite a lot of work. Mycroft has it worse though.”

At the mention of my elder brother she snorts, finally laying down her newspaper.

“Please. I don’t see Mycroft with dark circles under his eyes and paler than usual skin.”

I retort, placing my cup down gently just as the waitress arrived with Eve’s order, “You don’t see Mycroft at all. With good reason, placed in a room together with no supervision you two wouldn’t last a day.”

She shrugs as well, accepting the truth of what I said.

I plunge onwards, not letting her speak, “So I had a proposition.”

She arches an eyebrow and I finish, “We could move in together.”

She says monotonously, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I wasn’t aware that our relationship had become so serious. Whatever shall I tell Greg?”

I sigh, “I found recording devices in my home and even though I dismantled them, Mycroft refuses to let me live alone and as much as I love my brother I appreciate my freedom. If I moved in with Myc, my life would be very restricted. So, as an alternative, I’d rather live with you.”

As I finish explaining she thoughtfully stirs her matcha before she says, “Well, if that’s the case then sure. I’ll have someone help with your stuff. Just don’t take my room. There’s plenty of others.”

I instinctively lean forward to hug her, forgetting the table and letting out a small “oof” as I bump into it.

She snickers, “And you’re supposed to be a Holmes.”

I roll my eyes and stand up, “You wanted me to meet someone?”

She nods, standing up as well, “My brother, John Watson. He can be a little-”

I complete her sentence, “Overwhelmingly flirtatious?”

She nods again as we exit the cafe, “My brother flirts with every single nice girl he meets. It’s weird. But he’s living with Sherl so you’ll have to get used to seeing him more often..”

I reply as we enter 221, “Oh, I know he’s living with Sherl.”

At the look she gives me I say quickly, “Mycroft’s surveillance, don’t ask. And also, how are you two related again? He’s flirtatious and you despise PDA, even between friends.”

She replies simply, “He’s my brother.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes again and instead rap on the door to 221B, “Sherlock! Open up.”

A man with short blondish hair opened the door, looking rather confused when he saw me but he seemed to realize something as his eyes darted to Eve.

“This is who you wanted me to meet?” He asks her.

She merely says, “I got her along, didn’t I?” She pushes him out of her way and goes straight to the refrigerator.

I chuckle and step in as he stands aside. He starts speaking first, “So, Eve didn’t bother to mention your name?”

I answer with a small smile, “Emberlyn. I go by Emberlyn.”

He smiles as well, “Beautiful name, beautiful woman.”

Flirtatious, indeed. He’s barely known me for five minutes. I hold back a chuckle when I realise he probably doesn’t know I’m related to his flatmate.

As if on cue, Sherlock strides in, his pale blue robe billowing as he walks, “Where’s Eve?”

I point to the kitchen, and he seems to realize I”m here, “Oh, hello sister. John, I’d recommend not flirting with her unless you want an earful from Mycroft. You might even get maimed if you’re lucky.”

Eve adds, peeking out of the kitchen, at John’s incredulous look, “Mhm. Just try not to hook up with her.”

I finally let a laugh bubble out, “I forgot to mention, My full name is actually Charlotte Emberlyn Tara Holmes. Bit of a mouthful so I go by Emberlyn.”

John continues to gape at me for a moment and before I can register anything else there’s a blast. I’m thrown off my feet and backwards almost headfirst into the fireplace. I feel a ringing in my ears as I stand up and stumble towards the kitchen, “Eve? Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Worry seeps through my voice despite myself and I see that Eve is just now getting up with a wince. Sherlock has already dusted himself off and extended an arm to help her up. She stands up with a small groan and I see red contusions on her elbows.

I murmur slightly, my ears still ringing, “That is going to bruise.”

She retorted, though her voice was still weak, “You’re one to talk with the way you’re clinging to that counter.”

I grimace and ask Sherlock, “You’re alright, yes?”

He nods swiftly, still analyzing our injuries. Confusion passes over Eve’s face as he bustles over to put the kettle on.

He explains, “Mycroft will be here soon. I’ll give it ten minutes with the commute. If it was just us it would’ve been an hour or so. Emberlyn is involved thus expediting the travel time.”

I scowl but gratefully accept the muffins he passes to Eve and I. By the time we finish the whistle of the kettle sounds throughout the house, almost in unison with the knocking on the door.

Eve hollers, “Come in Mykie.”

He answers, irritation clear in his voice as he steps in, “Good morning to you too Evangeline. No major injuries I see. Pity. A week in a hospital would have done wonders for your complexion.”

Sherlock steps forward, almost ready to engage in argument but I beat him to it, “It’s much too early in the day to beat one of my imbecilic brothers over the head with a lamp but I won’t hesitate.”

They both pause at that and Eve says, rolling up her sleeves, “I don’t have any such forebearing about beating one of them over the head with a lamp.”

I sigh exasperatedly, “Myc sit, Sher get the tea from the kitchen, Eve, you can go to another room if you can’t stand to be civilized.”

I pause and wait for them to comply, which they do. John murmurs to me, “Impressive.”

I laugh slightly, “It’s a skill.”

Eve busies herself in the kitchen, still grumbling under her breath about how she’d like to maim Mycroft, while Sherlock arrives with the tea tray, purposefully positioning it away from Mycroft. I roll my eyes at his antics but gesture for Mycroft to proceed.

*mycroft’s andrew west explanation*

Mycroft stands up and hisses, “Sherlock, this is of national importance.”

He scowls, “Then get Emberlyn to do it.”

Mycroft retorts, “Emberlyn has other work to do, especially with the Korean elections approaching. But you don’t need to know anything about that, do you?”

Sherlock lifts his violin and I sigh, dreading what was to follow. Sure enough, screeching emitted from his violin as he deliberately played off-key. I heard a crash in the kitchen accompanied by the sound of glass shattering.

“DAMMIT SHERLOCK!”

I snorted and even Mycroft smirked, “Good luck brother.”

Sherlock grimaced as Eve peeked out of the kitchen, “As much as I adore torturing Mycroft, giving me a warning first would be lovely! I just shattered my favorite champagne glass.”

John said incredulously, “You don’t even live here!”

Sherlock explains, “She gave me a glass which she used whenever she came around my flat.When I moved here, I took it with me.”

I interjected, “More concerningly, why were you touching the champagne glass at 10 am. Don’t tell me you were admiring it. You’re not sentimental.”

She sulked, “Listening to Mycroft talk is deserving of a glass of champagne. Not that I ever did get to drink it.”

She glares daggers at Sherlock who winces.

I stand up and shake my head, “Well, as long as she didn’t drink any alcohol, no harm done. I’ll leave you to wipe up your champagne puddle Sherlock. Mycroft will be waiting for me down.”

He nodded, dragging his feet as he went to the kitchen, Eve still looking put out over losing her glass of liquor. John waved as I left the flat. Soon I was out on the side walk of Baker Street. I didn’t see Mycroft but a familiar black BMW rolled up to me, the back window was rolled down and Megara came into view.

“We can talk in the car.”

I complied, sliding in as she opened the door.

“So, what does Mycroft have for me today?” I ask, as the car drives off into the street and towards my flat.

She brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and takes out a few folders. She hands me a sheet, “This would be your schedule for the week. I’m sure you have Ms. Watson’s permission so your things are being moved currently. We’re merely heading to your house for a last look for anything they might’ve missed. For this week you don’t have any active teams to look over. Andrew West, as you know, will be taken care of by Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In your schedule you can see your meetings for the week.”

I nod, rifling through the papers she has given me. A beautifully detailed itinerary of my week.

“Currently, Mr Holmes has only asked you to see the physician that we’ll be stopping at on the way. “

I cut her off with an incredulous look, “I only have a few bruises.”

She arches an eyebrow, “It’s about time for your monthly check up anyways.”

The vehicle comes to a stop outside the physician’s building and I grumble slightly as she marches me to the door.

I’m still scowling as we enter the vehicle again.

“Completely unnecessary.”

She allows herself a small snicker but says in a professional tone, “I almost forgot to mention the coffee I got you.”

I stare at the coffee and then at her, “Is this supposed to be the adult version of giving a child a lollipop after a doctor visit?”

Though she shrugs her eyes sparkle with mischief and I accept it with a sigh.

She continues her briefing from where we left off, “Mr. Holmes, only wishes for you to rest up today. Your main assignment this week would be researching one of our high profile potential criminals.”

She delicately hands me a rather thin file. I flip through its meager two pages with surprise, “This is all we have?”

She nods, “Precisely, why he wants you to investigate further I presume. And, you didn’t hear this from me but he probably would also like you to lay off the legwork for a while.”

I grumble at her words but I’m more pre-occupied with the file before me. Attached it a clear cut photograph of the man and I find myself mildly amused as he seems to be striking a pose despite the photograph clearly being taken by a security camera.

“James Elwin Moriarty.” I murmur the name to myself, taken aback by how soft it sounds. So gentle and distinguished. Rather contrasting to the number of illegal deeds he has been suspected of being an accomplice in. Suspected being the key word there. He was rather thorough and careful. A puzzle indeed. Despite having much information about his suspected crimes there was little to none personal information. Education, childhood, parents, family. As if he was nobody. I suppose that’s what Mycroft wanted me to investigate.

Everyone has a weakness Charlotte, if you find it, they’re yours.

His words ring in my ear. Precious but cold-hearted advice which he gave in my first years at the secret service. Before I was a famed interrogator there. I closed the file and leaned back, closing my eyes.

“Thank you, Megara. I think I’ll take my brother’s advice and take a short nap. Tell me when we arrive.”

“Of course, Ms.Holmes.”

#Jim Moriarty #moriarty #james moriarty #moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x reader #james moriarty x reader #moriarty x holmes!reader #holmes!reader #mycroft x reader #holmes sister #sherlock fanfiction

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utt-er-nons-ense · 3 years

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If you have a Tumblr and you're on it a lot like I am, I really highly suggest joining the same fandom on reddit. I have 10 reasons.

1. They're 2 sides of the same horrific political echo chamber. While Tumblr and twitter are screaming and crying about the producer possibly using a homophobic slur in 1956, reddit is screaming and crying because a minor side character is bi and they simply cannot relate anymore :(. Both platforms firmly believe that ALL movies, tv, books, magazines, comics, blogs, posts, tweets, and news providers should be sanitized until they churn out pure propaganda; they just disagree on what the propaganda should promote. (They also both pretend it's only propaganda if they don't agree with it.)

2. You might forget cishet people exist. To remind yourself, so that it's not jarring when you rejoin the real world, you can find all the cishet people in America on reddit. They have straight ships. They do not see the subtext. They think you're nuts for saying Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are together. I promise you that you need this slap in the face occasionally.

3. Reddit lets you show tiddie.

4. Tumblr praises and criticizes media based on how progressive it is. Reddit praises and criticizes media for like, everything else under the sun. If one platform HATES your favorite show, the other one probably loves it.

5. With really divisive tv shows like always sunny, you'll get to see 2 totally different plot breakdowns. It's like watching the show twice. Once "Tumblr style", with lots of ships, subtext, longing, pining, fanfiction, fan art, and slowed-down 3 second gifs that make every scene look romantic and sexy. Tumblr style fandom is intense, emotional, and deeply connected to the underdog characters. Then you can watch it again "reddit style", with pages of analysis on writing styles, acting styles, line delivery, and the items in the background, but no mention of The Way Those Two Looked At Each Other™.

6. When your normie work friends ask you what you thought of something, you can give them the normie answer. (Hint: there are 0 normie opinions on Tumblr. They're all bonkers in funking yonkers, I promise. If they seem normal to you please talk to a well-adjusted adult who supports themselves in the real world)

7. It is SO FUN to dump all of tumblr's hcs on your "reddit friends". I dare you to find a friend who uses reddit and then tell them about the absurd amount of gay porn for star trek. Tell them there's gay subtext in every episode of Merlin. Show them jack and ianto making out shirtless in the lab if they're a doctor who reddit friend. Remind them that Dennis had a m/m/m threesome in the pilot episode. Point out the 45x johnlock's close friends assumed they were together. Rant about whatever tf happened in supernatural with the gay angel. Every time one of my reddit friends (republicans if I'm not being clear enough here) recommends a show to me I immediately tell them how gay and GNC his faves are. This is a very fun game that will alienate everyone that you really don't want as a friend anyway.

8. Reddit also has a horrible UI and the messiest code I've ever seen, a poorly-functioning mobile app that crashes constantly, and community guidelines that are fuzzy at best. Anyone from Tumblr should be perfectly comfy there.

9. Entire fandoms dry up on Tumblr after someone involved does something unprogressive. You'll find the remaining fans on reddit because reddit doesn't give a fuck about progressivism.

10. And lastly... Because a LOT of bloggers on this hellsite need to learn that the culture here isn't the culture of the world. It's NOT pedophilic to like a post written by someone younger than you, and it's NOT sketchy not to have all your personal information in your bio. No one cares about your carrd/pinned/DNI, no one is going to read a terms and conditions document to find out if they're allowed to follow you. The rest of the world doesn't hold insane beliefs like "all harry potter fans are fascists". No one is going to tw food, alcohol, swearing, smoking, or thin bodies. And before you go "I know it's not like this irl but -", You're wrong, you DO think the real world is like this and I see it all the time. I see y'all out here being Karens about the nonsensical expectations that you developed here. I see you harassing actors for stuff their characters did! Do not do that! The cure for Tumblr psychosis is to get OUT of the feedback loop and read another opinion once in awhile.

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fangoddess221 · 3 years

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Hiiii!!!!

What would you recommend for someone who just started on the Sherlock fandom? (Exclusively interested in Johnlock)

Please do keep in mind that I do not like one shots and am very interested in teen-lock!

Hello!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I seriously love introducing new people to the fandom (one of the reasons I started the blog in the first place)!

I will tell you that teen!lock is something very hard to recommend when the person is not into one-shots. Although, I can’t blame you... if something is good, might as well be big, too.

Saving Sherlock Holmes by earlgreytea68

Rating: M

Warnings: Underage

Words: 139,494

Chapters: 43/43

Author’s summary: Sherlock Holmes, schoolboy. Yeah, that basically sums it up.

Tags: Tennlock, AU, Schoolboy AU

My Notes: This is probably one of the most famous fanfictions in the Sherlock fandom. Earlgrey68 is brilliant and so is their writing. Basically, this is in an alternate universe where they meet as teenagers and (spoiler alert) fall in love as they get themselves involved in adventures and case solving. There’s a very cute plot of Mystrade (if you’re new, you probably should know that Mycroft and Lestrade are perfect for each other). There is a lot of smut, which is also beautifully written and is not too early on, but it’s not a super slow-burn. It’s just perfect, I’d say. They also get a dog at a certain point and I am all in for it.

If you don’t like angst or fics where they argue, then this is not for you, because it is quite long (average of 3.244 words per chapter) if you’re not used to it.

Happy ending!!!

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Love, SH by Lola_hyuga

Rating: M

Warnings: Creator Chose to not Use Archive warnings

Words: 34,571

Chapters:15/15

Author’s Summary: Sherlock shares anonymous emails with someone he very much enjoys receiving attention from. Problem is, he has no idea who. Bigger problem is, someone finds out and blackmails him.

He compromises himself, just for an opportunity at happiness with the most confusing, adorable guy's he's ever "met".

Tags: Johnlock-Freeform, Smut, Fluff, Emails, Secrets, Blackmail, Teenlock, POV Sherlock, Holmes, First Time, Complete, Slow Burn, High School, Redbeard-Freeform, Rugby Captain John Watson, Secret Identities, Bullying, Inspired by Love Simon, AU, Pining

My Notes: So, if you read or watched the book/movie Love, Simon, you will love this. If you didn’t, you will love it anyway. i actually read the book BECAUSE of this fanfiction. It is slow-burn only because (spoiler alert) they only get together like on the last three chapters. It is a very recent fic, so the author replies to the comments without delay and accepts criticism.

It is not very long, but it’s not very short either, so it’s the perfect length for a “light reading” session.

Smut only happens on the last chapter of all, although there are mentions of it throughout, and if you want to skip it you lose nothing important to the plot and if you want to read it separately you don’t need to read the other 14 chapters before.

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Chemical Bonding by deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet

Rating: E

WArnings: Underage, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Words: 11,307

Chapters: 3/3

Author’s Summary: 17 year old John Watson, straight-edge rugby star of his school, needs a chemistry tutor. Enter 16 year old Sherlock Holmes. Cocky, brilliant, and distractingly gorgeous. Sherlock has a few choice illicit vices. John soon discovers an addiction of his own: boy geniuses by the name of Sherlock.

A prompt fic. Less story and more an excuse to write sexy-times. Dedicated to the lovely shootbadcabbies, who provided the prompt: "teenlock getting high together leading to some explicit things (preferably bottomlock things)"

How could I NOT write that?

Tags: Drug Use, Teenlock, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Tutoring, Porn With Plot, Prompt Fic, Teen Sherlock, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, bottomlock, Top John Watson

My Notes: I prefer longer fics, but the concept was very good. If you like scenarios where Sherlock is a complete BAMF who uses drugs without giving a damn, here you go!

Enough smut to keep one satisfied.

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This one is not teen!lock (I recommended my favorite ones), bus, as I am sure you will fall in love with earlgrey68′s writing just like I did, I will leave here a kind of bonus. I noticed that a lot of people who like teen!AU’s seem to enjoy parent!AU’s as well, so please give it a shot!

Nature and Nurture by earlgreytea68

Rating: M

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Words: 203,273

Chapters: 57/57

Author’s Summary: The British Government accidentally clones Sherlock Holmes. Which brings a baby to 221B Baker Street.

Tags: Babylock, Parentlock, Kidlock, cloning

My Notes: This is a long fic. It is full of emotions, it will leave you perfectly satisfied, yet wanting more. It was pure parent!lock perfection. I’ve read it again and again and still am not tired in the slightest. How could I be?

(spoiler alert) Basically, the government clone Sherlock by accident, he wants to keep the baby, John helps and realizes that they are basically an old married couple, anyway. The kid id the cutest thing ever and you’ll melt when he says his first word!

It is entirely in character and has a sweet sprinkle of Mystrade to make it all better.

The smut is still spotless and, let’s be honest, it is onw of the reasons why it’s so good.

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Thank you!

Please don’t forget to support the authors by leaving kudos, comments and sharing!

Feel free to ask anything!!!!!

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swissmissficrecs · 4 years

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My favorite fics of 2011

Continuing to sift through old bookmarks, here are my favorites from 2011 that are still up:

26 Pieces by Lanning (28K, E, Johnlock) Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.

A Life Well-Lived by Kate_Lear (20K, E, Johnlock) ‘John got scared off men by an abusive past relationship. Sherlock has to try and woo him while not scaring him off with protective possessive rage.’

A Love with No Name by aceofhearts (49K, M, Johnlock, Warstan, Mary/Irene) In which Asexual!Sherlock and Straight!John are platonically in love life partners.

A Thorough Examination / In Depth by emungere (15K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock watched John's mouth as that smile slid away too quickly. There had been something there, something he'd not had time to analyze. He was left with the unsettling impression of having witnessed an expression that didn't belong on John Watson's face at all. In its wake it left the equally unsettling thought that perhaps he didn't know John as entirely as he thought he did.

A Week in the Country by chainsaw_poet (20K, NR, Gen) Sherlock's lifestyle has taken its toll on his health and John is worried. With Mycroft's help, John coerces Sherlock into taking a holiday in the country to get some rest. Unfortunately, their trip doesn't quite turn out to be a relaxing as John had planned, when Sherlock's latest case decides to catch up with them.

Blind Man's Bluff by Rae666 (25K, T, Gen) "We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?

Contamination by LauraJV (16K, M, Gen) In which an artistic murder draws Irene Adler and her brother Nathan into the lives of Lestrade and Holmes, and Dr John Watson balances his morals against the happiness that is a warm gun.

Dehumanise Me by deuxexmycroft (26K, E, Johnlock) John is sent down for life after accidentally murdering someone, and gets snatched up to play prison wife for a strange man named Sherlock Holmes.

Disguise by kaalee (55K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock's disguises are little more than a nuisance to John until one day he walks into the kitchen dressed as someone from John's past, someone John had tried to forget.

Evidence of Human Life by thesardine (16K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock's sanity deteriorates while he and John are stranded on a deserted island.

Floriography by lbmisscharlie (21K, M, Johnlock, Warstan) Florist!AU - Sherlock is a florist and he's doing the flowers at the wedding of John Watson and Mary Morstan. John's about to marry his best friend in the world. He's happy, in love, and content with Mary. So why can't he get tall, enigmatic man who did the flowers at his wedding out of his mind?

Getting Better by noxcandida (75K, T, Gen) Tristram Holmes dreads attending his new primary school, fearing he'll be teased and bullied as usual. Only, nothing goes exactly as he thinks it will when he finds himself with a seemingly unlikely friend in Emily Watson.

In My Master's House 'Verse by BrighteyedJill (185K, E, Johnlock, Mystrade) As a new slave in the Holmes household, John is having trouble finding his place. (This series began posting in 2011 and continued until 2014)

In The Land Of The Blind by entanglednow (12K, M, Johnlock) Apocalypse.

Indecorous by Basingstoke (55K, E, Johnlockary but it’s a different Mary than in the show) In which John learns to balance a kinky girlfriend, an asexual boyfriend, a ten-inch cock, his sister, the neighbours, his friends, and his blog. Some are more balanced than others.

Lacuna by coloredink (15K, E, Johnlock) God, it must have been terrible, to think that he would never have this again.

Let's Make a Bed Out in the Rain by theimprobable1 (17K, M, Johnlock and Warstan) John is devastated after his long-term girlfriend leaves him. Sherlock helps him through it.

Level 65 Paladin Looking for Group by etothepii (10K, T, Gen) "I think I met someone," John says at his next therapist's appointment. "A friend." "Really?" Ella asks. She sounds pleased, and also surprised. "What's his name?" John nods. "Really. His name's Sherlock. He -- he plays the same game as me, the online one. We party together."

Major Pieces by Lindentreeisle (31K, T, Gen) Sherlock knew that he could thoroughly rely upon John Watson's moral sense. And that's why he knew that Lestrade was wrong, wrong, wrong.

My Phone’s on Vibrate For You by misslucyjane (21K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock texts John all the time. Today’s different.

Never-Ending Cycle (orphaned) (17K, T, Johnlock) Or, four times Sherlock Holmes attempted to propose to John Watson, and the Christmas Party at which he finally did. Sherlock thinks he's a miserable failure, John is confused, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade provide some unsatisfactory advice, and Mummy is, as always, the solution. All in a lovely, fluffy holiday theme.

On The Ice by berlynnwohl (35K, E, Johnlock) "Sherlock, I once saw you taste a vacuum cleaner attachment that had been used as a murder weapon, so can we please not pretend that Dungeons and Dragons is too weird for you?"

Parallel by brbsoulnomming (77K, M, Johnlock) There's a case at a secondary school/University, some series of threats or string of bizarre murders that has the entire campus shaken. In the course of the investigation, Sherlock and John meet two students. And, because they both want to help with the investigation, they get to watch them become friends and fall a little in love. And that makes them feel things about themselves that they've been working very hard to not feel, thank you.

Secondary Exposure by thesardine (18K, T, Gen) After twenty years, the killer who abducted John as a child has resurfaced. Now John and Sherlock must track him down before he claims another victim, and at the same time navigate the shifting nature of their relationship.

Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc by etothepii (20K, M, Johnlock) "Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc. It's the family motto." "What does it mean?" "We gladly feast on those who would subdue us." (Addams Family crossover)

The Art Of Seduction by flawedamythyst (97K, E, Johnlock, Mystrade, Sheriarty, John/OMC, Sherlock/OMC) Sherlock ran a website called The Science Of Seduction, on which he gave advice on the best ways to get laid, wrote blog entries detailing the results of his various sexual 'experiments' and generally contributed to the stereotype of 'every gay man is a sex-mad playboy'. John avoided the thing like the plague. AU in which Sherlock treats sex like he does crime in canon.

The Baker Street Series by magicbunni (199K, T, Gen with background John/Sarah) Conspiracy and murder find Sherlock Holmes and John Watson surrounded by covert enemies in the heart of Scotland Yard. Together, they unearth clues that illuminate the scope, depth, and distorted psychology behind the crime. And, after a preemptive strike ordered by the mastermind they pursue, Holmes elects to continue the investigation under conditions that will force John Watson to fight for his friend's -- colleague's -- life.

The Penultimate Problem by Random_Nexus (18K, E, Johnlock) Angst, apocalypse-light, pseudo-hiatus, and other hijinx ensue.

The Love Song of Dr. John H. Watson by Kate_Lear (11K, E, Johnlock) John takes Sherlock out for the evening on Valentine's Day.

The Perfect Specimen by Cleo2010 (27K, E, Johnlock) After seeing John undressed for the first time and making certain observations, Sherlock quickly becomes obsessed with a certain body part belonging to his flatmate. This is the story of how that first sighting came to be and the following attempts to learn more. An unashamed masturbation-fest, first person and very detailed. It's rated explicit for a good reason!

The Poster Girl by stardust_made (67K, M, Gen) A seemingly straightforward case has Lestrade calling for Sherlock's help. Written from John's POV, this story takes place two months after the events in "The Great Game" and follows the investigation of the murder of Veronica Havisham: seventeen, popular—and murdered in Hainault Forrest on a Friday night in June.

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes by ivyblossom (62K, E, Johnlock, Warstan) “I had,” he said, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.”

The Pull of One Magnet to Another by ellie_hell (46K, M, Johnlock) Mummy has arranged Mycroft’s marriage with an ex-army doctor. However, John meets Sherlock first, and sparks fly.

The Top-Secret Livejournal of Sherlock Holmes by malacophilous (23K, M, Johnlock, Sarah/John, Sherstrade) Sherlock has a Livejournal, which he updates constantly via his mobile phone and netbook. Everyone offline thinks that he's this stoic super-genius, when in reality he's a bonkers super-genius.

There's A First Time For Everything by Kate_Lear (21K, E, Johnlock) A series of 'firsts' in Sherlock's life.

Those Left Behind by nickelsandcoats (33K, E, Johnlock) After the events of The Great Game, Sherlock is on the hunt for revenge as John waits for Sherlock to join him. But deception abounds as both men struggle to come to terms with the paths their lives have taken.

What Makes Us Rich by flawedamythyst (31K, E, Johnlock) Agreeing on a compromise is one thing, living with it is quite another.

Whirlwind by rubyofkukundu (19K, E, Johnlock) You may be familiar with the following fanon ideas: 1. Sherlock was very sexually active at university. 2. It was while John was a student that he discovered he was bisexual. I decided to put the two together :D

#rec list #best

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revisitingstoneybrook · 4 years

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#8 Boy-Crazy Stacey: Chapter 1

Here we go with chapter 1! Check it all out under the cut:

We open with Stacey asking her mom how she's supposed to behave in a MANSION. She's concerned, as she remembers how they helped Kristy give her dog Louie a makeover so he would fit in with the wealthy dogs (which apparently happened in #7 Claudia and Mean Janine...I don't remember that part but I also haven’t read that one in years). Stacey's mom (who’s got it going on) tells her that Kristy is nuts sometimes gets carried away, but she'll always be a dictatorial bitch with a Napoleon complex the same. She then reminds Stacey to be careful about what she eats. Stacey gives her an *eyeroll*, as this is when her parents were still in paranoia mode regarding her diabeetus.

Being that this is an early book, Stacey starts in with the Chapter 2 crap now, when she describes the BSC and all the members. I love how the first few books were in real time and the events are all perfectly sequential. Elizabeth and Watson the Millionaire are newlyweds, the BSC held a play group last month, and they're now going on vacation (separately!) before starting 8th grade for the first of 910 times. Whatever went wrong along the way?

Stacey runs to her bedroom and tries to decide what to wear. She's looking for casual, yet sophisticated, “to look impressive in case any rich neighbors dropped by.” I'm guessing “sultry” is thrown in as well, so she can show off in front of Sam. Was anyone else weirded out by Stacey and Sam being an on-again, off-again couple? I forget if Kristy ever made any mention that she was grossed out by her friend dating her older brother.

Anyway, I wouldn't call the outfit she decides on "sophisticated," even though she says she bought the pink shirt in NYC:

“Big, bright green and yellow birds were splashed all over it. It was gigantic, so it would be cool. I put it on with a pair of baggy shorts, looped a wide green belt around my middle, and hunted up some jewelry - silver bangle bracelets and a pair of silver earrings shaped like bells that actually ring when they dangle back and forth.”

*Checks date of publication* 1987. Mind you, I was barely a year old when this book was written, but even going on what I know about 80s fashion, I am not getting a sophisticated vibe from Stacey's ensemble. More like "I'm going to the mall in August!" or "I'm on vacation in Disney World and it's luau time!"

Stacey whines a bit about how her parents won't let her get two holes pierced in each ear (they say it'll make her look like a pirate), then a car horn beeps outside. Mr. Kishi is driving Stacey, Mary Anne, and Claudia to Kristy's! Unfortunately, we're spared the details of Claudia's outfit.

Stacey runs downstairs to meet them, but her mom stops her to present her with some apple slices. Oh come on, Maureen. Stacey already said Kristy would have some diabetes-approved food for her! She also describes her diabetes and uses the word "kerflooey" to describe what would happen to her blood sugar if she ate a single jelly bean (and not one of those yucky sugar-free kinds).

Stacey's dad (who’s also got it going on, I guess) is outside gardening, so this is obviously pre-divorce. And do the Stoneybrook dads have any other hobbies besides gardening? Well, I guess John Pike has baby-making. Ed waves goodbye and warns his daughter to be careful. Stacey mentally *eyerolls* again, and reassures herself that they aren't as bad as they used to be. And I think he added the "be careful" in there as a reminder in case she gets near Sam, if you know what I mean. Safety first!

They arrive at the MANSION, and everyone is in awe. Because, you know, it's a real, live MANSION! And they're brought back to reality when they see Kristy hanging out front, in shorts and a t-shirt, eating a Popsicle and reading People. It's a crazy concept, but yes, girls: "normal" people do live in MANSIONS. And People? I could see Stacey or Claudia reading that. Something like Sports Illustrated would be more Kristy’s thing.

Dawn arrives, and the girls head upstairs, with Stacey marveling at how big the MANSION is. She compares it to her apartment in NYC, which was considered big because it had four bedrooms, though Stacey doesn't seem convinced that's big. Um, a four-bedroom apartment in NYC? That's fucking HUGE. And if the McGills could afford an apartment that big, I think Watson the Millionaire has some competition...

They get to Kristy's room and Stacey asks Kristy where her brothers are. Clever way of disguising your interest in knowing where Sam is, Stacey! Unfortunately, getting to third base will have to wait, as Kristy says Sam and Charlie are at their neighbor's house, using the pool. Kristy adds that she and her mom made a ton of sandwiches for dinner, including some plain tuna fish ones for Stacey. What's wrong with the others if Stacey can't have them? Are they chocolate frosting and peanut butter M&M sandwiches? Actually, that sounds like a Claudia creation.

Stacey says she and Mary Anne are spending the next two weeks together and she's nervous about it. Mind, meet gutter. No, they're going to be joining the Pike Army for two weeks as mother's helpers, and Stacey's nervous because they're oh-so different. Stacey brags about her sophistication and "couple of boyfriends," while calling Mary Anne young (you two are the same age! Geez!) with no interest in boys (this is obviously pre-Logan). Well, aren't you so worldy and grown-up, Miss McGill! Do you want to join me for cocktails later?

The other girls express their envy at spending two weeks at the beach; I laugh because Stacey says they'll be chasing after the Pike kids and lists them, including everyone's favorite red-headed, glasses-wearing dweeb. Oh, the days when Mallory was still a babysitting charge. No wonder they still kind of look down on her.

Also, are the Pikes paying for Stacey and Mary Anne to come along, therefore giving them a free vacation apart from the babysitting? If so, pretty sweet deal, even if it means having to endure Mallory for two weeks. Like I asked before, how loaded are the Pikes?

And if anyone cares, Dawn and Jeff are going to California to visit their dad (leaving Sharon alone to throw the pot party to end all pot parties), and Claudia's going with her family to a mountain resort in New Hampshire. Elizabeth and Watson the Millionaire, however, want to get some family bonding time in with everyone, so they're staying in Stoneybrook. More like Watson the Millionaire's a cheapass, so they're staying in Stoneybrook.

Elizabeth brings the sandwiches and some sodas to Kristy's room and the girls scarf down their dinner. Stacey later tries on some of Kristy's clip-on earrings to see how she'd look with extra piercings, and I'm left wondering what the hell Kristy Thomas is doing with clip-on earrings.

Later, Mary Anne gets a Great Idea (don't tell Kri-, oh wait) for everyone to exchange addresses so they can send postcards. Then Kristy tops that idea with one of her own. She asks Stacey and Mary Anne on penalty of death to write her daily postcards as notebook entries so they can keep the BSC notebook up-to-date. Creepy. And what a wonderful way to waste a ton of stamps! Dawn says she might babysit for her old clients while in California, so she'll send some notebook entries too. Um, WHY?!? Does the BSC honestly give a shit about Stephie, or Clover and Daffodil?

David Michael calls up to them that everyone's parents have arrived. Then Kristy starts to cry, followed by everyone else. So not only is Kristy crying, she's the first one, even before Mary Anne, who cries at everything. WHAT?!? I have a feeling the moon isn't in the seventh house, and Jupiter is not aligning with Mars here. The girls sob into tissues and hug because they're going to be separated for OMG two whole weeks! Geez, the way they're carrying on, you'd think they were going to be apart for two years and heading to opposite ends of the earth. Drama queens. The girls head home and Stacey's still all emo about being separated from everyone for two whole weeks until she looks at her new bikini, which makes her think of the beach and cute boys and she gets excited. Of course she would.

#babysitters club #boy-crazy stacey #stacey mcgill #bsc #snark

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inevitably-johnlocked · 2 months

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Five Fics Friday: March 1/24

Happy Friday everyone!! Check out these fics for y'all to get into the weekend! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

Through a Glass, Darkly by Calais_Reno (T, 5,959+ w., 2/11 Ch. || WiP || Mirror Universe / ACD Meets BBC Sherlock AU || Serious Injuries, Case Fic, Questionable Science, Spatiotemporal Anomalies, Protective Sherlock, Doctor John, Developing Relationships, Danger, Angst with Happy Ending) – It begins in an alley. Two alleys, to be accurate. John and Sherlock, chasing a suspect. Holmes and Watson running for their lives. While John and Sherlock try to clear their names in ACD universe, Holmes and Watson are solving a missing persons case.

The Detective I Can't Forget by amalnahurriyeh (M, 8,761 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting AU || Online Dating, Gay Culture, Grindr, Sympathetic Sally) – John Watson knows whoever he met last night was amazing. He just can't remember a bloody thing. He never should have joined Grindr.

Invalid Home by Tindomerelhloni (NR, 10,853 w., 7 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting AU || Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Strangers to Lovers) – Captain John H Watson has only been home from the war for two weeks. He is not home out of his own free will but due to an injury that has put an end to his ability to serve. On one fateful day, he decides that he will seek out three strangers and do something kind for them before he ends his life. On his third encounter, he meets a strange man who sees right through him and helps pull him from the brink of self-destruction.

The Curious Case of the Casablanca Killer by meet_me_in_samarra (G, 15,066+ w., 4/15 Ch. || WiP || Post THoB, Case Fic, Bromance / Friendship, Clever John, John is a Conductor of Light, BAMF John / Sherlock, Sassy John, Cheeky Sherlock) – Deemed a three at best, the case of an invisible burglar in a historic cinema who stole nothing only caught Sherlock’s attention because he was bored. Also, he wanted to do John a favour. In the end, this proved to be a real stroke of luck. Otherwise, Sherlock would have missed an intriguing mystery that quickly ramped up in complexity.

Happily Ever Jeremy Bearimy by standbygo (M, 16,922+ w., 8/9 Ch. || The Good Place Crossover || Afterlife, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Implied / Referenced Drug Us, Soulmates, Angst with Happy Ending) – So. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He's in The Good Place. And he has a soulmate that makes him actually believe in the soul. Too bad that John Watson doesn't think he belongs here.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #five fics friday

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v-thinks-on · 4 years

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Jeeves Gets Sick - Part 1

Next I would be the first to tell you that I’m far from the most chipper fellow in the mornings. It usually takes quite a bit of groaning and blinking to get myself upright at all, and I’m not fit for company until I’ve had my morning restorative in the form of a steaming cup of oolong.

I struggled one eye open, and then the other, and pushed myself in a bit of an upward direction. I had just started to have the presence of mind to begin to fancy a spot of tea, when to my distinct surprise, it did not appear. You may be thinking right now that this is a bit thick, that this Wooster fellow expects, just because he’s thinking of tea, for a cup of the stuff to miraculously appear in hand. But all I can say to that is that you have never employed a man like Jeeves. It’s like a sort of telepathy; as soon as I’m up and conscious enough to be thinking of tea, lo! It appears, and such has been the case since day one of his employment. How I’ll ever manage without the man is beyond me.

Given all that, you can imagine that I was rather put off by the non-appearance of the tea upon that particular m. I was just starting to wonder if I should give it all up as a bad job, go back to sleep, and try again later, or if perhaps my dinner the night before hadn’t been a touch too rich and was giving me strange dreams, when the tea did, at long last, make an appearance. It appeared in a sort of rummy way, however. The tea was there, of course, and Jeeves was there carrying it in, just as usual, but rummy, like the sort of dream where everything is normal, except you’ve forgotten you had a Latin exam the next day and when you go in to take it, it’s all in Greek.

Perhaps I’d do best to illustrate the rumminess of it all with some specifics. Jeeves, as you know, is a silent sort, I don’t mean in speech, though sometimes he can be so taciturn you forget he’s there, but I mean in movement. One moment he’s there, the next he’s not, or vice-versa, and you never hear the coming or going. But on that morning, I could have sworn I heard his footsteps whispering against the carpet as he approached. Or, for another demonstrative example, take Jeeves’s expression; he can give the best stuffed frog impression of the lot, I’m sure he’s won prizes for it at contests, but even when he isn’t wearing the mask, so to speak, there’s always a certain nonchalance to his bearing. I don’t think I’d ever seen a feverish spark dancing in his inky blacks, or seen him glassy-eyed like a fellow after a sleepless night.

I know it wasn’t much to go off of. In all other ways, Jeeves was impeccable as always, with his “Good morning, sir,” and “I hope you slept well, sir.” There was hardly a thing out of place, but between the late appearance and the aforementioned symptoms, I thought I had something of a case.

I was so badly startled by the whole upset to the usual routine that I was mostly coherent even before I’d had my first sip of the oolong. Still, I broached the matter cautiously as I took the cup from his tray, “Jeeves, are you quite all right. You seem a little out of sorts, what?”

“Sir?” Jeeves asked stiffly, with a bit of the air of an offended cat.

“A little peaky, I mean,” I attempted to clarify, “Like you’ve come down with something.”

“Is there something not to your liking, sir?” Jeeves said, as though he’d only heard every other word.

“Not exactly, I just-”

“Will that be all, sir?”

I sipped my tea, defeated. “Right ho, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

With that, he left the room. I could have sworn I heard him go.

I was not to be so easily contented. I ruminated as I readied for the day. You must understand that in all the years I’d known Jeeves, I had never seen the man so much as falter. He’s something of a paragon, if that’s the word I’m looking for; where other men fail, he invariably prevails. He gives an invulnerable sort of impression, as though nothing could ever knock him down. And yet, here he was, late, unsteady, and feverish. The signs were subtle, but I couldn’t deny their presence.

I didn’t like it. It was awfully feudal of Jeeves to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on through rain or high seas and what not - or whatever the expression is exactly - but for all that I depend on the chap, I could last a day without his services. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could manage it, and for a cause as good as his speedy recovery from whatever it was that ailed him I would do it with pride. But the thought of Jeeves struck ill by some unknown pestilence shook me to the core. I can hardly begin to say how much I value the man and the thought of him wasting away was more than I could bally well take.

I strode out to give him a piece of my mind over breakfast. But where breakfast ought have been, there was nothing in its place.

I made like the cat in the adage, letting I dare not wait upon I would, as Jeeves would say, for but a moment before barging into the kitchen. There, I found Jeeves, a mere shadow of his usually impressive self. He was sitting down on the job before breakfast was out on the table, and he faltered in getting to his feet as I entered his lair. His eyes were undeniably bright with fever and his brow damp with sweat, a few hairs curled out of place. To be seen in such a state, the man was clearly on his deathbed.

“Sir?” he began.

I silenced him with a wave and cut him off besides. This was more than just one of those arguments that inevitably occur with two stubborn chaps living in close proximity; Jeeves’s very life was on the line and I daren’t falter.

“Not a word, Jeeves. You are plainly ill. Even a fool could see it, and I know you are no fool. Even I can see it.” My voice took on something of a pleading note all on its own accord.

“Sir,” he attempted to protest, but even his words came out weak.

“Dash it all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, startled by my own vehemence. “I won’t have you working in such a state. Call for a doctor!”

He straightened his posture and seemed to strain against the fever. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but hardly necessary.”

I refused to hear a word against it. “Not another word, Jeeves! I’m going to get a doctor and I expect you to go straight to bed and rest until you’re back to your implacable self.”

“Sir, there is no need to call for a doctor; it’s nothing that a little rest won’t cure.” It pained me to see his resistance failing even as I chipped away at it.

Jeeves’s word is usually taken as law, but this was too serious a thing to trust to his stubborn insistence. “No, Jeeves, rest. I’ll be back with a doctor before you know it.”

Jeeves let out the barest suggestion of a sigh. His breathing seemed laboured. “If you must, sir, then permit me to recommend my family physician. I have his London address.”

I stared at the address Jeeves provided. “Are you sure? I could certainly find you a better man on Harley street.”

“He has my absolute trust, sir. I would see no other.” There was something steely in his manner, even glassy-eyed as he was, that made it clear he would make no further concessions, and I didn’t have time to argue. The man has an iron will when challenged and that I had managed to push him so far as I had was evidence of how far he’d fallen.

“Very good, Jeeves. And you’ll rest while I’m gone? None of this working rot?”

“Yes, sir.” He almost sounded relieved, which only confirmed my darkest fears.

He saw me to the door despite my instance to the contrary. I could see his mask cracking all the while. His air of exhaustion would not have looked out of place on me the morning after a night of revelry, but on Jeeves, it looked horribly wrong. I had half a mind to carry the man to bed myself just to be sure he kept his word, but then I doubtless would have had a revolt on my hands, and so I contented myself with finding him a doctor.

The place was easy enough to find. A shiny new plaque by the door boasted the residence of “Dr. John Watson, M.D.” With a name like that, a fellow can only think of Sherlock Holmes’s pal, but there must be countless men with the name John Watson in the metrop., certainly plenty of them doctors, and all tired of being asked how Sherlock Holmes is doing. For my part, I didn’t very well care if the man was the prince of Persia or a patch-coated street kid like one of the Baker Street Irregulars as long as he had the stuff for Jeeves.

I gave the door a pounding that could have been considered frantic, and a maid soon swung it open and ushered me into a parlour. I believe I managed to impress upon her the urgency of my visit, because it wasn’t long before a doctorly fellow came down to see me. He was a broad-built mustachioed sort, regarding me with the utmost seriousness.

I have been quelled by lesser gazes than his, but I had my mission and didn’t even let him get so far as bidding me a terse good morning before I exclaimed, “It’s Jeeves! He’s ill!”

A glint of recognition struck the fellow’s eyes. “Reginald Jeeves?”

“That’s the one! He said you were his family doctor.”

The doctor smiled a little at that, but quickly turned serious. “Then I expect we have not a moment to waste.”

We hurried back to the flat as fast as feet could fly and wheels could spin.

On the way, Dr. Watson asked, “Am I correct in presuming that you must be Mr. Wooster?”

“Right-o!” I exclaimed. “I mean to say, yes, I’m him.”

The doctor nodded as though everything was just as he expected. “I doubt Jeeves would have sent you to me unless it was something serious.”

I twiddled my fingers a little, suddenly realizing something awkward about my position. “It wasn’t Jeeves who asked for you - well, he said he wouldn’t see anyone else - but I was the one who insisted. You see, he was all out of sorts this morning!”

“What were his symptoms?” Dr. Watson asked, his manner suddenly businesslike.

“Well, to start with, he was late with the tea in the morning, and then I swear I could actually hear him walking around, when, well, you know how he usually appears and disappears here and there. And then when it came time for breakfast, I found him sitting in the kitchen before anything was out on the table, and his eyes looked absolutely feverish!”

I’m afraid I made a muddle of the telling of it, but Dr. Watson nodded along as though it was all clear to him.

It felt like ages, but finally we arrived back at the flat. The place was silent and to all appearances empty. I half expected to find Jeeves collapsed on the floor, overcome by a sudden spell of weakness, but I bravely led the doctor on, through Jeeves’s lair, into his quarters. And there the man was, lying obediently in bed, though I noted with some displeasure that he was already sitting upright when we arrived. Jeeves made to struggle to his feet, but I waved him down with the firmest look I could muster.

So he contented himself with a quiet, “Sir,” and “Dr. Watson,” each accompanied by a respectful nod.

Generally, as you would expect, I spend very little time in my man’s quarters. Therefore, I was a little surprised by the cramped spareness of it all. The fellow constantly rescuing me from all manners of soup deserved rather better than what could have passed for a closet furnished with a cot, some drawers, and some shelves laden with all manner of tomes. But alas that was a problem for another day. For the time being, the three of us crammed in to the best of our ability; Jeeves in bed, of course, Dr. Watson on a chair brought in from the kitchen positioned at the bedside, and I hovering at the foot of the bed by the drawers.

“My apologies Dr. Watson, I am afraid there has been something of a miscommunication,” Jeeves said, somehow projecting the very image of a valet, even though he was abed in his brown dressing gown, looking only a little less feverish than when I left him. “Mr. Wooster’s gentlemanly spirit demanded that my recovery be overseen by a doctor, however I assure you that my condition is not at all serious and I find it to be much improved even after a brief respite.”

“Dr. Watson will be the judge of that!” I insisted, drawing myself up to a considerable height - with Jeeves incapacitated, I was by far the tallest chap in the room.

The doctor glanced between Jeeves and myself, no doubt weighing our words, though the only expression I saw cross his features was the suggestion of a smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wooster. May I have a moment alone with my patient?”

“Oh, certainly! I’ll biff off then, toodle-pip!” I hastily ducked out of the room with a final glance at a less than pleased Jeeves, and settled myself in the sitting room for the long haul.

I lit a gasper to ease my rattled nerves and let the soothing aroma wash over me. You may be asking why I would prefer a gasper when I have Italian and Turkish cigarettes close at hand, and to that I can only point to the fact that Jeeves always smokes gaspers, and so I find them to have a similar reassuring effect when the man himself is absent, though certainly nothing equal to the real article.

I confess, I was rather far gone. I kept glancing back at the door to the kitchen, expecting Dr. Watson to emerge at any moment with news that I could only imagine inevitably got worse with every passing second. I felt rather like those Greek chappies; like Damon wasting away in his cell waiting for his pal Pythias - or rather Pythias racing back to wherever it was, absolutely frantic about Damon wasting away in that cell of his, only hoping he wasn’t too late. Not that I had any illusion that Jeeves saw his mentally negligible young master as anything even approaching his Damon or Pythias.

It was difficult not to envision Jeeves like one of those damsels in the pictures, slowly and inevitably wasting away in the sickbed as her family cried around her. I thought I heard a distant cough coming from the other room; the first innocuous symptom before consumption set in. I was just beginning to compose a fitting eulogy for such a great man with a few tears in my eyes when at long last I heard a door swing open and shut, and a steady gait that could only belong to Dr. Watson approached through the kitchen.

I jumped up to greet him, almost as fast as Jeeves when I interrupt him when he’s reading. “Is he…?”

The doctor smiled. “Don’t worry, Jeeves will be all right. He merely has a fever.”

“It’s not consumption?”

“No,” Dr. Watson said gently.

“Right-o!” I exclaimed, significantly braced.

“He should recover completely in a day or two, but I’ve given him an order to rest until then.”

“That’ll be just the thing!”

I hastily bade Dr. Watson take a seat and offered him a drink to toast to Jeeves’s health and what not and the kindly doctor obliged.

I downed my glass perhaps a bit too quickly, but a bracing drink really was the thing to take the edge off of my lingering fears and the jitters of relief.

Just as the need for further conversation began to make itself known - I had some mind to bring it around to Jeeves - the doctor remarked, “Has Jeeves been working himself particularly hard of late?”

“I haven’t been giving him any more work than usual,” I said with some righteous indignation. This chap may have been a friend of Jeeves, but that didn’t give him licence to critique how I ran my household.

“No, I would think not,” Dr. Watson said with just a touch of exasperation. “It is only that I have often had the occasion to observe that when a gentleman is particularly intelligent, he may have difficulty recognizing his own limits and the limits of others.”

“And overwork himself, you mean?” I asked, a bit taken aback.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think Jeeves ever does that. He’s as hardworking a chap as any, of course, but I don’t think he’d over do it.” I hesitated. “Really, he always seems so infallible, like nothing’s too much for him to handle. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to get ill.”

Dr. Watson nodded sagely. “Jeeves has done his best to appear infallible for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You knew him growing up, what?”

“No, Jeeves was a young man by the time I made his acquaintance.”

“Jeeves’s cousin Bunny said he was always particularly intelligent.”

“Yes, he was a very personable young man, but always at something of a distance.” After a moment’s pause, Dr. Watson forced himself to his feet. “I should get on with my rounds, but it was a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Wooster. Jeeves is fortunate to have a friend such as yourself.”

“I say!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet after him. “You mean it?” I’m usually not met with enthusiastic approval so much as weary disdain by the older element.

“Certainly. Jeeves was a friendless young man, but he seems to have taken a liking to you.”

I may have flushed at his words even as I protested, “What about his cousins? Bunny told me about the games they used to play. I’m just the hapless young master.”

To my surprise, the doctor frowned. “I wouldn’t call them friendly.”

I wanted to protest in Bunny’s defense - he’s not only a cousin of Jeeves’s, but a pal of mine - but then I remembered Jeeves’s cousin Dorian and his airy teasing that had a cruel edge to it, and instead, I asked, “Did Jeeves really say all that?”

“Not in so many words, but I’ve learned to observe a little over the years.”

“Well, I say! It’s really me who’s lucky to have Jeeves, with all he does for me. I only wish I could do enough to repay him.”

“I’m certain that you repay him in your own way.”

If my dubiousness showed, Dr. Watson didn’t comment on it as I showed him to the door. I bid him a cheery “Toodle-pip!” and retired to the sitting room.

Abruptly left to my own devices with no urgent mission at hand, I found myself rather at a loss. I puttered about for a bit, lit another gasper, finished off my s. and b., and even gave the book I had been reading the night before a cursory flip, but all the while my thoughts lingered on Jeeves. The words on the page meant nothing compared to the looming fear of Jeeves’s condition taking a sudden turn for the worse.

Finally, I decided enough was enough.

The floorboards creaked more than they’d ever before had the gall to creak as I toed it through the kitchen, toward Jeeves’s quarters, doing my best not to wake the man from his much needed slumbers. It was only as I stopped at the door, a hand upon the knob, that I realized the bally rumminess of it all. Whether Jeeves had really taken something of a liking to me or not, I couldn’t very well go peeking into my man’s quarters, ill or the very image of health, without a good reason.

And just as I was dithering at the door, my stomach came roaring to the rescue. It wasn’t so much a roar as a gurgle, but it made itself known and the next moment I had a plan of action fully formed. The first order of business was tea. The morning’s oolong had long since gone cold, and so I set about fiddling with the stove.

Perhaps thanks to my Aunt Agatha - that horrible aunt who howls at the moon and drinks the blood of the innocent - you may be under the impression that I have no ability to take care of myself without Jeeves acting as my keeper. That is not entirely true. I am certain I would waste away to nothing without him for a week, but, as I have said, for a day or two with just cause, I can manage. And to whomever has given you the impression that I cannot operate my own stove, I say “tinkerty-tonk.”

That is not to say that I am an expert tea-brewer or have in any way mastered the arts of the home at which Jeeves excels, but I can very well pull together a cup of tea. After a rather lot of prodding and waiting and prodding and waiting again, I emerged with a piping hot cup of just the stuff. It smelled about right, though it was difficult to tell after the steam burned my nostrils. It was with some measure of pride then, that I carried it ho, into Jeeves’s quarters, careful not to spill a drop - I shook some droplets off the saucer for good measure, before gently propping open the door.

Jeeves was, of course, alert and awake upon my arrival, greeting me with an ever formal, “Sir?” his tone just barely beginning to question what I was dashed well doing there.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I proclaimed, gesticulating somewhat more than I ought with the precious cargo in hand - I hastily put a stop to it before all the tea splashed out onto the floor. “Just come with a spot of tea, what?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding a little confused, the poor sick lamb.

Once the cargo had been carefully rested upon the bedside table, I took a good look at my man. His state was greatly deteriorated from his usual strength, propped up on a few threadbare pillows, his dark hair in wild disarray, and his eyes drooping. It took him a bit of effort just to push himself far enough upright to have a drink of tea.

I hastily bent over to assist him, but I’m afraid I rather more got in the way.

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said softly, giving the cup a tentative sip.

Despite all the chaos around them, his features remained impassive, those dark eyes with their inscrutable infinite depths, regarding me just a foot or so away from my own baby blues - a shiver ran down my spine.

It jolted me into self-awareness and I jumped the rest of the way upright. “Just thought I’d hop by and see how you’re coping, what?”

“Very kind of you, sir.”

“Is there anything else you need, what? A book to read, or any extra blankets or what not?”

“No, sir. As Dr. Watson instructed, all I require now is rest.”

“Oh, yes, right-o then! I’ll let you get back to that, what? I’ll just be popping down to the Drones for lunch then, unless you’d rather I stayed here, that is.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Right-o!”

After bumping into the wall, I backed out the door and closed it behind me before taking a moment to regain my bearings. I had half a mind to wonder where Jeeves kept the cooking sherry, in the hope that it might quell my firing nerves, but thankfully it soon passed, my head righted itself, and I set off for the Drones post haste in search of a more appetizing apéritif.

You may be thinking that being overwhelmed with gratitude when Jeeves miraculously lifts victory from the soup of defeat is one thing, but it doesn’t become a fellow to get all in a tizzy like this over something so simple as bringing his man some tea, but it must be understood that the circs. were rather far out of the ordinary. For one, it was me bringing Jeeves the tea, rather than the other way around. And for another, this was no ordinary man, but Jeeves, the paragon of a valet who had gotten me out of the soup more times than I could count and was an inimitable man besides, and so I dashed well wanted to do right by him in his hour of need, even though it had me well out of my usual depths.

Under the aforementioned circs., it was a somber, serious Bertram Wooster that lunched at the Drones that afternoon. I tossed a bit of bread about with the lads, but my thoughts lingered back in the flat with Jeeves. As I finished my lunch - more picked at rather than devoured, as would have been expected of a Wooster short one breakfast - I asked for some soup to bring back to my indisposed man. As it so happens, the cook at the Drones is acquainted with Jeeves and happily obliged, and so I was sent home bearing his sympathies and a tureen of his own special recipe.

I hurried back to the flat with the precious tureen and carefully ladled out a bowl of still warm soup. With a lot of slow, awkward movements, I managed to maneuver the door to Jeeves’s quarters open, soup in hand, without making a spill, only to find the man himself fast asleep in bed. I felt a small pang of disappointment, shortly overcome by relief that he was finally resting. He looked awfully peaceful; every muscle usually kept at stiff attention, for once allowed to relax. The teacup I had left with him before departing for the Drones now sat empty on the bedside table, and so in its place I put the bowl of soup, ready for whenever he woke.

Just as I was tiptoeing out, I heard Jeeves stirring in the bed behind me. I glanced back to see him hastily drawing himself to attention - as much so as he could manage.

“Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely.

“Not at all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, my voice too loud for the sickroom. “Bon appetit, what?” And with that, I stumbled back out into the kitchen.

With nothing more to be done - my bearings quickly regained - I returned to sulk about the sitting room with a gasper in one hand and a glass in the other. I’m not usually a terribly busy chap. I live a life of leisure and I, for one, am content not to be running about at all hours of the day and night, as much as my Aunt Agatha and her ilk may believe I do too little of the former and too much of the latter. No, it’s the quiet life for Bertram W. on all fronts. But on this occasion, I was downright preoccupied and rather wished I had something else to hold up my mind.

I lay about, did a spot of pacing, and lay about some more. I would have poked at the keys of the piano, but if my light tread was enough to awaken Jeeves, the instrument would have been a sure thing. And I couldn’t very well leave the flat in case Jeeves’s condition took a sudden turn for the worse.

I threw myself back down upon the sofa a bit more loudly than I ought and made a half-hearted attempt to reimmerse myself in the mystery that had seemed so captivating the day before. Today, however, each clever remark made me think of Jeeves’s sly, understated wit, each foolish mistake of how he would have doubtless done better, and each description of a corpse inevitably called to mind the image of him huddled beneath the sheets, fighting off death’s icy grasp as I sat reading, whiling away the hours.

I could stand it no longer. I tottered through the kitchen to Jeeves’s quarters just to be certain he was getting his requisite rest and hadn’t been calling out to me, his hoarse voice too quiet to be heard through the walls.

Jeeves lay in bed, to all appearances fast asleep, not at all like a fellow fighting off the icy hand of death. The soup, now lukewarm, sat untouched on the table where I had left it. Jeeves’s eyes fluttered open upon my arrival.

Met with his sharp gaze, I hastily cast about for an excuse. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you need, what? Any blankets or water or anything?”

“No, sir.” More gently, Jeeves insisted, “You are very kind, sir, but as you said yourself, what I need now is rest.”

“Oh, right-o.”

“Sir, if you would be more comfortable, I would have no objection to you remaining here.”

“I say! Rather! If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

“Certainly, sir. It would be preferable by far to the current arrangement.”

“Right-o! I’ll just get my book then.”

I dashed back to the sitting room, and in two blinks of an eye, I was back in Jeeves’s quarters, perched on the kitchen chair Dr. Watson had left by the bedside, book in hand. Jeeves regarded me a moment with something approaching a smile, before letting his head fall back upon the pillow and his eyes fall shut.

I sat silent and still, not daring to move lest the noise reach his acute senses and jar him from the dreamless. But I didn’t mind the stillness so much. There was something soothing about the sight of the man, peacefully at rest. I fancied I saw the trace of a smile lingering across his finely chiseled features. Even in sleep, there was something undeniably remarkable about the chap. You could see him gleaming with intelligence from miles away, his head sticking out a little in back just to accommodate all of that grey matter.

His eyelid flickered and I hastily turned my attention to my book.

It was much easier reading with Jeeves there beside me, sleeping soundly. I just made sure to turn the pages quietly and on a few occasions had to bite back exclamations, but on the whole, it was smooth sailing. Whenever a corpse showed up, all I had to do was glance down at Jeeves to be sure he was as life-like as ever, and looking healthier every minute for all the rest he was getting.

I don’t know exactly when I dozed off too, but the next thing I knew, I felt a warm hand on my wrist pulling me back into awareness, my back and neck sore as the dickens from sleeping where I sat, in that dratted uncomfortable kitchen chair.

“You may find a chair in the sitting room more to your liking, sir,” Jeeves remarked.

“You don’t say, Jeeves,” I retorted, still a bit groggy as I rolled out my neck and shoulders, and strained my back.

“Yes, sir.”

I rubbed open my eyes, still struggling in the bright light of day. Jeeves was still there in the bed beside me - not that I was so lucky as to have slept in the bed; I having been consigned to that dashed uncomfortable chair. He looked well, less feverish, I mean, his eyes back to their usual luster and what not, though he still seemed a little worse for the wear, tired and worn.

“Sleep well, what?” I asked.

“Yes, very well. Thank you, sir.” He certainly seemed refreshed.

Jeeves regarded me with a sort of rummy soft expression, if you get my meaning, nothing bad, just unusual for the chap, like he was amused by something, but without the amusement, or like I had somehow caught him off his guard, but with none of the startled look of having been caught.

“Feeling back to your old self, what?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeeves pushed himself upright, looking like he was about to get out of bed.

I hastily gestured him back down.

“Sir, your concern is gratifying, but I assure you that it is unnecessary.”

“Not necessary? Now see here Jeeves, you’ll get as much rest as Dr. Watson said if you know what’s good for you! I won’t very well have you suffering a re- what is it, Jeeves?’

“A relapse, sir?”

“I won’t have you suffering a relapse just because you’re fool enough to go back to work before you’re properly recovered and I’m fool enough to let you. And that’s final,” I added, seeing an argumentative glint in his eyes.

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves relented at last.

I was feeling rather pleased with my latest victory and it was with a bit of a Jeevesian flourish that I asked, “Now, is there anything I can get for you?”

“If you will not permit me to get it for myself, I believe a spoon for the soup would be called for, sir.”

“Oh! Yes, of course! Right on it, Jeeves!”

I hopped over to the kitchen, rummaged around a bit, and hopped back with the called for utensil.

I lingered by Jeeves’s sickbed for a few ticks longer, chewing the fat and what not, before finally biffing off to the Drones for dinner and leaving my man to his belated meal - the soup had gone cold, but he stubbornly refused my every offer to reheat it for him on the stove. Dinner was much like lunch; quiet and brief, occupied with thoughts of Jeeves. I saw Bingo and some of the other fellows, but I didn’t have the heart for more than a round or two, before hastening back home.

The flat was quieter than I had left it - silent, in fact - but the mouth-watering smell of something cooking wafted in from the kitchen. However, I found nothing simmering on the stove and, as far as I could discern, not a thing had been touched since I left for the Drones. Jeeves was awake, but not upright when I slipped into his quarters, looking still fitter than when I had left him mere hours before. I noted that the dishes on the bedside table were gone without a trace.

I beamed at the chap and proclaimed, “What ho, Jeeves!”

“Good evening, sir,” he answered with some suggestion of a smile.

“Rested and comfortable, what?”

“Yes, sir. I take it that your dinner at the Drones was satisfactory?”

“Rather!” Back in Jeeves’s company, everything took on a rosier tint, even my hasty supper. “But it’s good to be home, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Outside of Jeeves’s cozy little room, the sky was rapidly darkening. It wasn’t nearly a late enough hour for Bertram W. to consider calling it a night under usual circs., but these were hardly the usual circs. I was feeling a bit drowsy myself and I thought I saw Jeeves’s eyes beginning to droop. The chap needed all the rest he could get to make a full recovery.

“Do you need anything for the night?” I asked on a bit of a delay. “I can bring over some blankets from the spare bedroom. Or I could put up another pot of tea.”

After a moment’s consideration, Jeeves replied, “An additional blanket would not be unwelcome, sir.”

“Right-o!”

I yanked the blanket off the bed in the spare bedroom, gave it a quick fold, and carried it proudly back to Jeeves. It was a bit of a joint effort getting the blanket all set up and making sure Jeeves was comfortable for the night. I popped back into the kitchen to bring him a glass of water, and then I lingered, hovering by the bedside, unsure what else to do, but reluctant to leave the man’s side.

“Need anything else, what?”

“No, sir. Thank you sir.” He looked up at me, his usually keen or alternatively empty gaze again strangely soft and earnest, a gentle smile playing across his features.

I could only beam back. I had half an impulse to bend down and brush a stray hair from his forehead, which I hastily restrained, pocketing my hands to keep them from acting of their own accord as they are wont to do.

All was quiet, the square outside the window dark and still. We seemed to be very much alone in the world.

“Good night then, Jeeves,” I said at last.

“Good night, sir.”

“‘Till tomorrow, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good night, then,” I said again, and bumped into the door frame on my way out into the kitchen.

I paced about the flat a bit, picking things up, putting them back down, and what not, feeling rather at a loss - what Jeeves does in the evenings after seeing me to bed is one of life’s great mysteries. But the trials of the day were enough to wear down even the Wooster spirit, and so, with a great yawn, I retreated back into my own bedroom and hastened to bed, hoping the next day would herald a return to normalcy in the Wooster abode.

Part of The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves

#v writes #Jeeves and Wooster #The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves #Jeeves Gets Sick #Dr. John Watson

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punny-till-death-do-us-part · 5 years

Text

WHO NAMES BEES AFTER RANDOM ALPHABETS

John and Sherlock are old. They have grey in their hair and they need glasses to see clearly. Their bones are weary and groans are not limited to the confines of their bedroom now(bedroom ones are different though). The game has been done with a long time ago. The only game which matters now is Who can still remember all periodic elements and their atomic numbers. Sherlock wins always, obviously. Sometimes he loses too, when John is wearing the jumper Sherlock bought him for Christmas and Sherlock is too distracted by the way the blue in John's eyes shines too much in that Burgungdy jumper.

Sussex is fine. More than fine actually. Here they are not The Detective and His Blogger. Here people know them as the Husbands who are inseperable, whose Love puts fairytales to shame. It's how both of them want to be known as, belonging to each other, till their last breath so no complaints here.

Sherlock keeps bees. Obviously. Most of the mornings, Sherlock spends lying in the garden of their Cottage, until John wakes up and then Sherlock goes to tell him He missed him and John laughs and shakes his head and says, "IDIOT I LIVE WITH YOU. YOU JUST SAW ME LAST NIGHT" to which Sherlock tells him the exact hours and minutes he has spent without talking to John since last night and John kisses him to shut his smart mouth.

Sherlock has exactly 11 number of Bees. No more No less. He lets them go and make their home somewhere else if they exceed the number he's supposed to keep. Ofcourse He could keep more. But He doesn't. And He knows each one indivdually and even has names for each of them. Some Random Alphabets.

John thinks Its weird and adorable at the same time. Weird because Somedays Sherlock goes like, "I THINK "N" IS FALLING ILL JOHN. DO WE KNOW ANY DOCTOR OF BEES?"

One morning Sherlock is lying in the garden. Sunlight crisp on him. John wakes up early and He knows where his Madman is. He goes to garden and kneels just before Sherlock's face and plants a kiss on his Nose. Sherlock smiles,eyes still closed. John notices Sherlock's bees around and asks, "SO WHO IS "Y" AMONG THEM?

Sherlock replies, "WHY WOULD THERE BE A 'Y' AMONG THEM JOHN IF I DIDNT NAME ANYONE 'Y'?"

John scrunches his nose and asks, "WAIT! DID YOU NAME THEM STRATEGICALLY?I THOUGHT YOU JUST WENT ON A WHIM AND CALLED THEM WHATEVER CAME TO YOUR MIND"

Sherlock sighs audibly and turns to nestle his head in John's lap,where he is sitting besides him in grass. "REALLY JOHN WHEN I HAVE DONE ANYTHING ON A WHIM?DO I LOOK LIKE A TEENAGER TO YOU?

Then Sherlock goes through all of 11 names, one of each bee, which John thinks sound like random alphabets still.

N, S, O, H, W, J, I, A, L, T, M, E.

John tries to think of a pattern, a code but Its too damn early in the morning and He hasn't have his tea yet so He doesnt really try his best.

They breathe in serene silence for some moments until Sherlock asks him out of nowhere, "JOHN ARE YOU OKAY?". There is worry in Sherlock's eyes and John lets himself be dragged out of his thoughts and focuses fully on Sherlock. "YES I AM GOOD. EVEN BEST. WHAT'S WRONG HONEY?"

Sherlock relaxes marginally but goes on to ask, "THEN WHY CANT YOU REMEMBER YOUR OWN FULL NAME?". And if John sees a bit of mischief in his eyes, then well Who is Sherlock if not mischeavious.

"I REMEMBER MY NAME, YOU GIT", John says with playful fondness, "JOHN HAMISH WATSON HOLMES. SEE?NOW YOU KNOW I AM NOT DEVELOPING ALZEIHMERS AND I AM NOT FORGETTING TO NUDGE YOU TO EAT DAILY ANYTIME SOON"

Sherlock locks him with a look of satisfaction and something reverent, and Suddenly It clicks into John's mind

JOHN HAMISH WATSON HOLMES

N, S, O, H, W, J, I, A, L, T, M, E

J O H N H A M I S H W A T S O N H O L M E S

His eyes go wide for a moment while he contemplates how every alphabet of his name corresponds to the alphabets Sherlock's bees are named upon.

Then He is laughing, and laughing more and laughing some more until there are tears running down his face and he is flush red from laughing.

Sherlock named his bees after every alphabet which comprises John's name.

Thats why He doesnt keeps more or less than 11 bees. Because there are 11 different aphabets in John's full name, while other repeat themselves one or two times in his name.

John cant breathe. He dips his head and puts his lips on Sherlock's forehead. He keeps them there for as long as Sherlock brings his hands backwards on John's dipped head and guides John's lips down on his lips and whispers against them, "IF NOT JOHN HAMISH WATSON HOLMES THEN WHAT ELSE?" before closing the distance between their lips.

#bbc sherlock #johnlock #tjlc is endgame #sussex boys #sherlock john #bee keeping #retirementlock

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teledild0nix · 6 years

Text

okay here is the thing i wrote of sherlock’s diary. it’s not all that long but i hope y’all enjoy it.

29 Jan 2010

23:46

Found a flatmate. Probably. He seemed keen enough (though one never can tell with these things). Mike S introduced us in a lab at Barts. He’s a good sort and distinctly unuseless (medical and military). And is generous with his things. He leant me his phone. At the very least, will be extremely pleasant to look at over breakfast (as such). Lovely.

Lestrade helped me bring my things to the new flat and bought me chips and a coffee from the cafe downstairs. Also a sandwich, but the sandwich doesn’t count because he forgot I’m a vegetarian again. People always forget. Do I not look like one?

And he still won’t consult on the serial suicides thing. Idiot. The longer he waits, the stupider and stupider he looks.

23:55

He’s called John Watson, by the way. Doctor Captain Handsome is. That’s his proper name. John Watson.

30 Jan 2010

10:17

Every decent shirt I own is packed!!! Ripped apart my luggage, then begged Mrs Hudson to iron for me. She clucked at me for fussing (hark who’s talking). Told her I was bringing someone round to look at the flat later, which was a mistake.

She grew about ten extra eyes and came over all sly and smiling, “A man?”

Yes, of course a man. She’s worse than M when she gets like that. Mummy, that is. Not Mycroft. No one is worse than Mycroft. Wonder if there’s anyway to stop him poking his nose into this. Not likely (lop it off?)(maybe can enlist Doctor Captain Handsome).

Anyway, have now got a decent shirt. Or will, when Mrs Hudson has finished with it. Which will be soon hopefully.

Got some dashing about to do before I meet up with Doctor Captain Handsome (the more I say that the more convinced I become that I was very enamoured of a video by that name at some not very distant point in my misspent youth)(it may have been a book, actually).

11:41

For clarity’s sake, since it seems to be in doubt in all quarters, my only plans for Doctor Captain Handsome are to half the rent with him.

11:46

Realise nicknaming him Doctor Captain Handsome suggests otherwise, but it is purely a descriptive and factual handle. Not predictive of any sort of moist entanglements.

18:23

Brought DCHJW along on a crime scene, because he’s definitely the type (he’s going to be such good fun) (GL FINALLY had me in on the suicide thingy). Got overexcited and left him behind at some point. Or he wandered off. Anyway, called for him to help me out of a skip, and was surprised to find he was nowhere around. He wasn’t at the flat, either. Have texted him.

Have got an idea. Think I’ll bring him to Angelo’s as a sort of sorry/thank you/I’m not always rubbish gesture.

31 Jan 2010

3:41

Brilliant night with John!!!!!! In other news, I’m completely fucked.

12:14

Stumbled into the kitchen at the crack of mid-morning with mad hair and probably dragon breath, and Doctor Captain Handsome was there. Fully dressed and freshly shaved, putting me to shame. He asked me to put the coffee on and read aloud from a newspaper. Am annoyed at how not annoyed I was. Empirically it was annoying. Though actually it was nice. He has a nice voice.

#it ain't getting finished lol #sherlock stuff #liddy's ficlets

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pendragonfics · 6 years

Text

In Love Or Something

Paring: Sherlock Holmes/Reader

Tags: female reader, writer’s block, writer, angst, roommates, Sherlock being Sherlock, idiots in love, fluff.

Summary: A young writer living with Sherlock is the new John 2.0 when there's a spare room available in 221B. This also means she's the one who puts up with Sherlock, and gets in close to life as he knows it.

Word Count: 2,992

Current Date: 2017-12-14

There was an idea that writers could just pick up a pen, and whenever they wished, the words would come forth. That idea was, sadly, just an idea, and ever the mundane human you were, there was nothing that could make it get any better. Tea did nothing. Meditation, well, that was out of the question. You stayed in the room above the flat of the Sherlock Holmes, asshole supreme, and, notorious noisy man. Whenever your fingers would poise to write the fictional story you were destined to (or taught to, after five years spent at a very expensive university where you studied novels and deconstructed them to buggery), the tall man would shoot the wall, would call your name, would bang the door on his way out to solve a crime.

You see, the was your plight. Middleclass, female. Owner of a diploma in the arts, or really, a fancy paper that failed to get you into a publishing house two years ago when you graduated with honours. Your uncle, a policeman at the Scotland Yard knew you were soon to be penniless and had no problems shaking up anywhere until you found a job, and pulled strings to allow you to stay in the spare room in 221B Baker street, prime real estate in London. Well, that was a month ago. You now worked as Sherlock Holmes’ new Watson, since the other man could not run around to corpses and crime scenes after becoming the primary caregiver of his daughter.

But your story…!

“_________, I need you to look at something,” Sherlock called your name, that baritone tenor getting to your nerves like tears when gas comes.

You barely grit your teeth, and pushing the computer from your lap, you march down the stairs to see what’s wrong in the land of Holmes. Sherlock stands in the middle of the lounge room, holding his head like it’s a football, or perhaps, on fire. He’s wearing pyjamas, yet, it’s after ten o’clock on a Tuesday and he’s usually elbows-deep in a bag of thumbs from Molly Hooper or finding someone’s amnesiac step-grandmother.

“Yeah?” You ask, hands upon hips akimbo. “Don’t tell me you need an idiot’s perspective on something.”

He releases his hands from his head, giving you a small smile. “You’re not an idiot…” He goes to protest.

You raise a brow at his claim. “Just last week you yelled it at me before I went to bed. And threw a slipper at me.” You say bluntly, staring him directly in the eyes. “So, what is it? I’m not telling you where your cigarettes are.”

His eyes look bleary, come to see it, and there’s a slight stumble in his step when he moves back to sit in his favourite chair. He’s not using, you’re on him like a hound about that, and there’s no way he’s drunk, he absolutely loathes day-drinking when the days of the week don’t begin with an S. You’re not an idiot, he’s right, but even an idiot could see that Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, was –

“You’re sick.” You say.

He goes to protest, “No, I’m not,” he exclaims, wincing at his own tone. “I – I didn’t call you down here to mother me, I need a hand on – on –,” he repeats the word once more, and then, sneezes into his pyjama sleeve. “How am I sick?”

You shake your head, moving toward the kitchen. It’s a mess, as always, but some of it is your mess, so you do not complain. You flick the kettle on, and tidying up the dirty dishes into some semblance of a pile, you ruminate on how Sherlock got sick. “It could be because of that time you went out and didn’t bring an umbrella, you know, the night when all the taxis were on strike,” you call out, pulling down two mugs and tea bags. “…or that night when you didn’t bring your coat and we went into the sewer to follow a lead on foot,” you gag at the memory, remembering how cold it was underground, and how lucky you were for wearing one of Uncle Greg’s knitted jumpers. “Or –,”

There’s another sneeze, and a splutter, “Okay, I get it. I’m the idiot.”

You bring the tea to the lounge, and handing Sherlock his cup (a mug with a picture of a panda on the centre), you take yours to the window, far away from the germs he’s giving off. “I wish I recorded that, it would be so nice to hear you say that phrase over and over,” you laugh to yourself, blowing the steam from your chipped blue and white mug. “But I wasn’t called down here to fuss about and make tea out of goodwill. I am an author.”

“You will be if you ever write something,” he says into his mug.

You decide right then to ignore what the asshole of the year has muttered, and take a deep chug of your tea. If your mouth was full, you couldn’t spar with him with insults and mockery.

“So?” you prompt, with an air of irritation to your tone. “Do I have to sniff a cadaver, or look at a case file…?”

Sherlock is silent, cradling his tea in his lap. If he wasn’t six-foot-tall, and owned a handgun, you could have no problem picturing him as a small, sick boy, nose red and eyes bleary and breathing congested. “It’s…it’s nothing.” He finally says. “Forget about it.”

You place your half-drunk mug on the windowsill, and take your leave.

When you come down six hours later, it’s almost afternoon tea time, and having written fifteen words shy of a thousand into your word processor, you decide it’s time to stretch your aching back, work out the kinks that found their way into your smooshed buttocks, and get more tea. You hardly look around, but when you see the milk’s all gone, and there’s no orange juice, and none in the cupboard either, you grab your wallet, and prepare to take leave to the Tesco’s around the corner.

But before you call out to say where you’re going, you see him. Face pressed into his shoulder, sitting upright in his sofa seat. Legs out like they were full-length broomsticks, and not appendages, a hand dangling over the side of the armchair in a way that could never be comfortable. You’re not a heartless woman, just a killjoy realist, and instead of just turning and going to get milk and juice, you go to Sherlock’s room. The one he said never to go into, even if the world was ending.

Selecting a spare blanket, you drape it over your roommate’s sick body, and retreat to the outside world to complete the chores.

---

You’re over a thousand words on your story now, and having told Sherlock you’re taking the day off, it’s now a week after he got sick, and now better, he’s back to being an asshole about everything and anything. Thus, while he goes around solving policemen’s unsolvable puzzles, you’ve got your head down in a silent zone block, typing away madly before the inspiration leaves you. It’s been a hard week, and hardly getting to type around the lifestyle as Sherlock’s new blogger, you’re down about your progress. Thank goodness it isn’t November, because otherwise you’d doubly punish yourself, and try and do the writing challenge where people write 50,000 words in a month.

There’s someone sitting beside you in the next cubicle, impeccably dressed. You peer over at him, and narrow your eyes. You’ve met Mycroft Holmes before, and like you don’t like Sherlock at the best of times, you most certainly don’t like the eldest Holmes brother at the worst. He’s nothing but a pencil-pushing moral compass, and you’re nothing but a keyboard-tapping writer with a slight anger problem.

You deserved a holiday. Perhaps Berlin was nice this time of year? Somewhere the lifestyle of the Holmes wouldn’t follow you.

In Morse Code, he clicks a pen against his leg.

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K.

You roll your eyes. You wonder if there was a possibility that one day, you could roll your eyes so hard, they’d roll backwards into your head. Or out, and roll away to their heart’s content onto the sidewalk. You look through your laptop bag, and finding your loyalty card for an ice creamery, you tap against the desk.

P-I-S-S—O-F-F—M-Y-C-R-O-F-T.

He chuckles dryly, and goes on.

N-E-E-D-S—A-N—EYE—ON—H-I-M.

You reply, T-A-L-K—O-U-T-S-I-D-E.

Taking your time, you tuck your laptop into its bag, with now a thousand words, and four hundred and thirty on top of that. You fold the cord into itself, and slip your phone into your pocket. You do this all while knowing that the elder brother of your roommate is watching, and while your time is not worth money, his is, and wasting it is as sweet as the petty squabbles you win against Sherlock.

But once you’re outside the library, and you’ve bought yourself a coffee with extra sugar and cream, you take a seat under a monument, and listen to what bargain that Mycroft has intended to strike.

“So, Sherlock needs an eye on him?” you say, inhaling your coffee. “What else is new? Is the show Doctor Who British government propaganda to hide the fact that there is alien life?” He doesn’t say anything to that. “Ooh, no news is good news, I’ll tell all my friends that gossip…”

Mycroft sighs. “He’s volatile still. Getting over the whole ordeal of losing his close friend, finding his sister…ah, there’s so much trauma in his life you just have to close your eyes and point, and there’ll be one there to choose from.” He eyes your coffee, seemingly jealous of your sweet dose of caffeine. “And don’t tell your friends that that show is real, you’ll just sound crazy.”

You laugh to yourself. “I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman, sitting on a bench on her day off, and yet, still talking to a Holmes. I am a writer. I am a lackey to whatever Sherlock gets up to! I talk to myself when I’m writing to get an idea of what the words will sound like when read! Crazy? Oh, man, you don’t know crazy until you’re where I am.”

Mycroft doesn’t contest on that. Instead, he hands you a note. It’s handwritten, in a curly font that makes you think it’s from a woman. The paper is nice, a soft yellow cardstock, bought probably at a newsagency. You’re no idiot, yes, but you’re smart enough to deduce that this note is from his mother, and not a woman he works with. Or maybe, just by reading the first few words gave it away.

Sherlock, I gave birth to you, raised you and taught you all that you know! It says. You can almost picture his mother scowling writing this, Don’t forget to call your father for his birthday –

You close the notepaper in on itself. “So, am I a carrier pigeon now?”

He considers it, but instead says, “I don’t trust the postal service –,”

You make a noise, “Her majesties own postal service? I should go to Buckingham and tell her myself that the Mycroft Holmes, backbone of the United Kingdom doesn’t trust –,”

He rolls his eyes. “to get there in time. Father’s birthday is in three days.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll keep an eye on your brother,” You chuckle to yourself, eyeing him. “But not for money, and not for your sick obsession of watching people constantly on CCTV to satisfy your strange ways.” You stand, and chugging the rest of your coffee, place the empty cup into Mycroft’s hands. “Until next time, Microsoft Holmes.”

---

You would be at forty words off the next thousand on your creative piece, but instead, you’re standing beside Sherlock with your notepad and recording device at the ready, and looking at a very deceased man.

“Sixty, male, ambidextrous, straight. Woodworker, low education, raised in the country. Lived, still, in the countryside.” He states, examining the corpse that looks like it was either ready to get from the slab and dance in a Michael Jackson music video, or go straight into the furnace to become ashes. “See the dirt under his nails? Callouses on fingers, splinters.”

You nod, doing your best to make sure you weren’t being disrespectful to the deceased man, but also, not show how much the seven-day-old corpse who had once been named Alvin Ludwig was making you feel about the curry you had for lunch (and how much it wanted to make a reappearance).

Your Uncle stood by the door of the morgue, beside the man who had been doing the post-mortem. It was Molly’s day off; she and her friend Harry had decided to take a trip to Bath. But Uncle Greg watched the both of you, perhaps a little too closely.

“So, what’s the verdict?” He asked Sherlock.

He placed his magnifying glass away in his pocket. “He’s a victim of that perp of yours.” He states. “If you see here, by his ear, there are two holes that seem unnoticeable, but appear to be deep enough to pierce the skull.”

The other man at the door’s eyes are wide, and comes the corpse to see it. “Cause of death?”

Sherlock shakes his head of curls, “If you checked the mouth, though, you’d notice a lack of hydration –,”

“This means that Mr. Ludwig had been attacked by the killer,” you say, “but instead of the standard death the others had, he survived it. Starved to death.”

Sherlock smiles to you. “Exactly.”

Later, you’re not in a morgue, but outside it, and Sherlock is off speaking to a detective heatedly about his observational skills. You barely get to get a word in edgeways, and waiting it out, see your uncle alone, pocketing his phone from whoever he was calling at the Yard with the new evidence.

“_________, you look well,” he grins, bringing you in for a hug. “I haven’t seen you in months! How’s everyone going at home?” You talk about your family, and he rants about how your mother would always be on the lookout for trouble. You don’t believe it, but laugh away. He’s her twin, anyway, he’d know her better than anyone. “So, I see you and Sherlock are getting along fine. You’ve even taken up John Watson’s blog, yeah?”

You blush at that. “I’m not replacing him, or anything,” you say, “He’s busy being a father, and I’m busy running around after this one.” You glance to Sherlock, who’s now teaching the Dewy-decimal system or something to another detective. “He is a handful and a half!”

Uncle Greg raises his eyebrows so far up, you wonder if they’ll disappear into his receding hairline. “Understatement of the year, _________, I’m telling you,” he laughs, “no, I thought, you’d get right on like a house on fire, I knew you’d be good together.”

You pause at that. “We’re not…just because we live together and work together and I complain a lot about him and a lot about his brother together doesn’t mean I like him.” You say, crossing your arms. “We’re just…Uncle Greg, honestly? Was this a matchmake from the beginning?”

He shakes his head, holding his hands out. “No, no! I just – I know Mrs. Hudson, and I knew there was a spare room –,”

Sherlock approaches, collar flicked up, cheekbones looking like they were made of cut glass, “What’s going on?”

You punch your uncle’s arm lightly, and tug on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Nothing, we’re leaving. I don’t want to pay for takeout when there’s perfectly good leftovers in the fridge.”

---

Once back at 221B Baker street, you’re thinking of the two thousand six hundred words you could be writing, rather than forcing Sherlock to eat around the clock, and with him at the little dining table, pushing around yesterday’s peas on a plate, you sigh. This story keeps evading you, and slowly, you place your head in your hands, and groan.

“Don’t tell me what’s wrong,” Sherlock states, a pea speared upon his fork, “let me deduce.” You keep your head in your hands, but not protesting, he goes on. “You’ve been on edge about your writing for as long as I can remember, but it isn’t that…it happened recently, so it isn’t something my brother said.” You glance through your fingers, and see him. He’s got his thinking face on, fingers poised under his chin, “Not two hours ago you spoke to your uncle.”

You’re silent as he goes on.

“You’re a headstrong person with a sense for humour and such, so it wasn’t humiliation in the conventional sense, no, he’s an uncle, not a cousin, so he’d naturally ask about the same topics that your parents would, and parents ask about more personal issues, not that I would notice from personal experience…” His eyes meet yours, and slowly his face grows red. “He thinks you’re in love with me.”

You chuckle at the wording. “Sounds more like an inflation of that ego of yours when you put it that way,” you don’t deny the fact. Yes, your uncle thinks you’re in love with Sherlock Holmes. That is a fact.

He quirks a brow. “No denial?”

You place your hands in your lap, and look at Sherlock in the eyes. “You’re right. I am an idiot…” you go to stand, but as you go to walk away, he catches your wrist in his hold, those thin fingers capturing you. “Sherlock –,”

He shakes his head, voice no more than a whisper, “No, I’m the idiot, for not realising that the feelings were mutual,” he says.

You grin to yourself. “Looks like we’re a pair of idiots in love or something.”

Perhaps writing down something fictional when you lived a life alongside Sherlock Holmes would never work. Besides, it was more interesting anyways.

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