WIP Meme.
Nabbed from felisblanco
Post a few sentences from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIPs. With any luck, the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1)
Molly fled the room, door slamming behind her. John could only stare open-mouthed at the closed door before turning to look at Sherlock. “That was uncalled for,” he finally managed to splutter.
Sherlock only shrugged before sitting on the couch, swinging his legs up, then lying down on his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Pesky things, emotions.”
“Normal things, emotions.”
2)
(Sherlock is 13)
“What are you up to now?” Mycroft.
Sherlock sat in a plush chair in his father’s study. He had a book open on his lap. Perfect picture of normality. Except for the blindfold tied across his eyes. Sherlock ignored his brother and turned the page. He caught the softball when it was thrown at his head.
Mycroft didn’t bother to question the how - smell of leather, rustle of cloth as the arm drew back, of course he would go for the head - and stomped over, roughly tugging the blindfold free.
3)
Even if someone didn’t have a fear of water, most people had a bad dream or two about drowning. John had a lot like that. Especially after the war. The water always held him back, kept him from reaching his friends, who bled out on the shore just out of reach. Their looks still haunted him. “S-Sherlock.” The tickling of the water as it reached his chin brought him back to the present and John tried to keep from panicking.
Sherlock walked carefully, to keep from churning the water, and crouched down in front of John. The look on his face made John hate himself, no matter that it wasn’t his fault, Sherlock’s calm façade starting to crumble.
4)
Sherlock was on his knees amid broken glass and colorful liquids, his hands pressed to his face. And the blood. Oh, the blood. He had stopped screaming, but the noise coming from the back of his throat scared the shit out of John. It sounded like Sherlock was in agony.
“Jesus,” John whispered.
5)
“One more miracle...stop it, stop this...”
If only he could. He watched John gain control over his emotions as quick as he had lost them, square his shoulders¸ the pivot to follow in Ms. Hudson’s direction back to the car. Halfway to the car, John paused, froze.
Sherlock stepped further into the shadows as John turned in his direction to look at the woods. Was he looking for his miracle? They don’t grow on trees, John.
Post a few sentences from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIPs. With any luck, the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1)
Molly fled the room, door slamming behind her. John could only stare open-mouthed at the closed door before turning to look at Sherlock. “That was uncalled for,” he finally managed to splutter.
Sherlock only shrugged before sitting on the couch, swinging his legs up, then lying down on his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Pesky things, emotions.”
“Normal things, emotions.”
2)
(Sherlock is 13)
“What are you up to now?” Mycroft.
Sherlock sat in a plush chair in his father’s study. He had a book open on his lap. Perfect picture of normality. Except for the blindfold tied across his eyes. Sherlock ignored his brother and turned the page. He caught the softball when it was thrown at his head.
Mycroft didn’t bother to question the how - smell of leather, rustle of cloth as the arm drew back, of course he would go for the head - and stomped over, roughly tugging the blindfold free.
3)
Even if someone didn’t have a fear of water, most people had a bad dream or two about drowning. John had a lot like that. Especially after the war. The water always held him back, kept him from reaching his friends, who bled out on the shore just out of reach. Their looks still haunted him. “S-Sherlock.” The tickling of the water as it reached his chin brought him back to the present and John tried to keep from panicking.
Sherlock walked carefully, to keep from churning the water, and crouched down in front of John. The look on his face made John hate himself, no matter that it wasn’t his fault, Sherlock’s calm façade starting to crumble.
4)
Sherlock was on his knees amid broken glass and colorful liquids, his hands pressed to his face. And the blood. Oh, the blood. He had stopped screaming, but the noise coming from the back of his throat scared the shit out of John. It sounded like Sherlock was in agony.
“Jesus,” John whispered.
5)
“One more miracle...stop it, stop this...”
If only he could. He watched John gain control over his emotions as quick as he had lost them, square his shoulders¸ the pivot to follow in Ms. Hudson’s direction back to the car. Halfway to the car, John paused, froze.
Sherlock stepped further into the shadows as John turned in his direction to look at the woods. Was he looking for his miracle? They don’t grow on trees, John.