Fanfic Memeage (I am such a sheep sometimes.)
Got this from methylviolet10b :
FAN FICTION MEME: Choose five lines of description/non-dialogue and five lines/exchanges of dialogue from your stories that you consider to be favourites, or that are especially meaningful/important to you. Don't agonise over this: go with your first instincts!
Since I've only posted Holmesian fics on LJ (and since it would take eternities to narrow down a list out of ALL my fanfic), I'm only going to pull from those for the meme. Also, added links since if you've not read the fics, some might be a bit spoilery.
Description/Non-dialogue
Home
Over the years, much has been written and said of London's thick fogs. Of how they blind the eye and muffle the ear and clog the throat. Little has been mentioned, however, of their aroma. They carry the scents of soot and sea, of tar and Thames, of horses and hansoms, and of the living and the lost. It is, in short, an aroma entirely unique in my experience, and entirely English.
Storm Warning
By 6:26p.m., Sherlock flung the door open and swooped down on John like an angel with plaid wings, enveloping him in a heavy tartan blanket, heedless of the soggy snow that was rapidly melting on John's clothing.
Foxhole
Lestrade cursed the day he volunteered for this ass-eating mission. He hadn't questioned his choice until twenty minutes ago when the op had gone ass-over-tits. At least he had the subject secure. Now if he could just get him off of this hell-hole of an asteroid and hand him over to Doc for downloading.
However Improbable
Every sense on alert, he skirted the area and continued on.
A breath of chilled air ruffled the hairs at the back of his neck and he turned swiftly.
Nothing but blue-lit darkness and stone.
A scuffling sound reached his ears, but with the strange acoustics he couldn't tell what direction it came from. Sherlock and he had split up early on, their plan to either corner the culprit down here or drive him up to where D.I. Marquardson's team waited at either entrance. John took a best guess and hurried toward the sound.
He hit a wall of chilled air as he passed a gated corner, but he didn't slow down. He smelled the sour stink of stale breath and cheap whiskey. Then something hard struck him dead centre of his chest, knocking the air out of him, and he fell. His head hit the cold, hard ground, and everything went black.
Friday
John looked up.
Sherlock looked up.
Stars and planets. Not many, but the few that were visible were bright. The clouds had blown off, clearing the moonless night sky. There was just enough space here to look directly upwards and see the sky without a power line or a roofline crowding one's eyes. The ambient light of the city was unavoidable, but here was one place, on open place where Sherlock could see the stars.
Lines/Exchanges of Dialogue
Enough
When Holmes once more stood tall, I looked into his face and saw the small smile that turned the corners of his mouth. When he spoke it was a whisper barely as loud as a moth might flutter its wings. "I trust you'll be better able to focus now that you're more relaxed."
Not trusting myself to speak yet, I could only nod in affirmation.
"Good." Holmes looked away, peering out once more through the slatted door of the cupboard.
At last, I managed a word. "What about you?"
His head didn't move, but I saw the flicker of his eyes as he glanced my way. "You'll have your answer to that upon our return to Baker Street."
And I am happy to say that I did.
Textus interr--
11:20am
What are you wearing?
11:20am
Are we really doing this?
11:20am
What. Are. You. Wearing?
11:21am
We *are* doing this. All right. Deduce it.
11:21am
Nothing.
11:22am
You went into my closet and figured I went to work naked, did you?
11:22am
Yes.
11:22am
All right. I love your idea of foreplay. [/sarcasm]
Invective
"Silence! I work for no one but myself."
"My arse! You're clearly not clever enough to out-smart a pot noodle. You never could've thought all this up. Except maybe the crossbow. I mean what the mother fuck is that about? A fucking crossbow? You've got to be shitting me! It's the twenty-first fucking century, you shit-witted moron. Get with the modern age, why don't you?"
However Improbable (Yes, I'm pulling from this fic twice. I like it that much.)
Where he'd expected a blossoming bruise was instead a perfectly formed, harshly red handprint. Sherlock held up his own hand and placed it over the impression. "Male, approximately five feet and eleven inches tall, roughly seventy-nine kilos, approaching at--"
"God, Sherlock, shut up."
Little Games
"I'm going for take-away." He went to collect his coat and wallet. "Do you have a request?"
"No."
"Do you have any cash?"
"No."
"All right. Lutefisk curry it is and I'll put it on your card."