Sherlock has been asked to help at a murder scene and all evidence points in the direction of John. Sherlock doesn't want to believe it, but facts are facts. Or aren't they?
Innominate [1/1]
anonymous
September 14 2010, 12:52:44 UTC
I'll just leave this mini!fill here, and back away very slowly... connection aprods? really, captcha?
-
It starts when the knuckle of Sherlock's forefinger grazes along the small of his back. It's a light brush, a dismissible sensation not quite reaching past fabric to skin, so John barely registers it in a moment of distraction, promptly forgets it within the next passing second.
The second touch is more purposeful, objective - leather slides against the dip of his spine, eases the hem of his shirt over the line of his belt. John turns his head, slackens his mouth to voice some kind of complaint, some kind of exclamation, but then Sarah's fingers curl against the crook of his elbow and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, useless. Sherlock's gaze is directed towards the stage, unwavering. John drops his chin to his shoulder, swallows, then drags his head back in front of him.
His thoughts are a frantic litany of what- and I don't- and this can't be actually happening, he's clearly not even left the flat, must have fallen
( ... )
This is actually my personal canon (specifically that he went to uni, perhaps more than one, but it was all so BORING and POINTLESS so he just left. Probably in a grand and fabulous manner too.)
Oh yes, I believe it too. xD After two or so years and solving Victor Trevor's case, he just goes 'WHELP, this is boring. Time to study detective stuff~' and skips off to do that.
Of course, he probably could've finished a chemistry degree easily in that time. Silly rigid structures~
Short Fill: The Necessity of Atheism 1/1
anonymous
September 12 2010, 22:34:49 UTC
In 1811, Percy Shelley was expelled from University College, Oxford for writing a heretical pamphlet. In 1893, they erected a statue to his memory; the students of the college used to rub its penis before exams for good luck, until the great poet’s member shown signs of erosion and the college constructed a fence to protect the memorial
( ... )
Anderson/Mycroft. This suddenly makes perfect sense. Particularly if Mycroft and Anderson met as the result of a Sherlock clash with Anderson, making fleeting dislike turn into something with a little more staying power.
Comments 9688
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
connection aprods? really, captcha?
-
It starts when the knuckle of Sherlock's forefinger grazes along the small of his back. It's a light brush, a dismissible sensation not quite reaching past fabric to skin, so John barely registers it in a moment of distraction, promptly forgets it within the next passing second.
The second touch is more purposeful, objective - leather slides against the dip of his spine, eases the hem of his shirt over the line of his belt. John turns his head, slackens his mouth to voice some kind of complaint, some kind of exclamation, but then Sarah's fingers curl against the crook of his elbow and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, useless. Sherlock's gaze is directed towards the stage, unwavering. John drops his chin to his shoulder, swallows, then drags his head back in front of him.
His thoughts are a frantic litany of what- and I don't- and this can't be actually happening, he's clearly not even left the flat, must have fallen ( ... )
Reply
Blew me away...amazingly hot!
Only wish it could have been longer, but great work!
Reply
Reply
Reply
I would love to see a fic using this! Seconded!
Reply
Of course, he probably could've finished a chemistry degree easily in that time. Silly rigid structures~
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment