Letters - BBC Sherlock, PG
Author: Bonnie (soul_bonnie)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 473
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John (if there be squinting)
Warning(s): If you watched Reichenbach, you know what's coming...
Contains: Heavy spoilers for Season 2
Beta:cicerothewriter
Notes: This prompt was taken from a "A-drabble-a-day-challenge" which I naturally failed, but I did get one ficlet out of it. And maybe some more soon, we'll see... Once more, I have to thank my amazing beta Cicero two thousand times for pointing out mistakes, making suggestions and encouraging me. *hugs*
Disclaimer: I'm just a little girl, playing with someone else's toys. (Which is in official speak: I did not have a hand in the writing of any Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle nor in the adaption by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.) Plus, I write those things out of malice, not for profit.
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It is obsolete, old-fashioned and ridiculous as a means of communication in this day and age. He has only ever really written a letter to a distant aunt, and that had not really been his idea. But then, he cannot say that the opposite was true this time.
There was a piece of paper in front of him - it had come with the hotel room - and before he really knew what he was doing, the cheap pen was in his hand.
Dear John,
How are you? I'm not dead-
Cross that out.
John. I'm in Tibet. I've made a brilliant discovery. Do you still read the papers? It will probably be in there one of these days-
Oh, great start there. Cross that out.
John. Mycroft tells me that you- No, no, no, no.
He stares at the sheet and his failed attempts stare back at him. Yes, he is terrible at this. Damn this John Watson, anyway, and damn his own dependence on the man. He usually doesn't care about side glances being thrown his way, but recently, he's been looked at strangely for talking to thin air and handing things to nobody. It makes him look like an idiot. And not the good, making-John-smile kind of idiot. With a suppressed curse, he tosses the papers off the desk and buries his hands in his hair. This is not good. He will have to get his hands on a skull.
After heaving a sigh that resembles a huff too much to actually deserve that name, he grabs a new piece of paper. Why the hell did he ad-lib that stupid “conductor of light” line back in Grimpen village? He's never been able to get it out of his head ever since. Never does a candle shine so brightly then when a mirror reflects its light. And at no time has he felt so keenly that he is just a candle in the dark.
In a sudden move, he takes up the pen and scribbles without looking.
John. Victim is male, in his mid-thirties, medium-built. He has been found dead on the village path, obviously on the way back from the well. As can be seen from his hands, he's a manual labourer and a devoted father of three four. At least one child visits the local school, another is fairly young, about six months. The marriage is unremarkable, not catastrophic, not great. Probably arranged. He has had polio as a child, and his doctor was an alcoholic. Cause of death was asphyxiation. Remarkable are the victim's foetal position, a piece of violet cloth in his left hand, and a black smudge on his right cheek, which-
He starts. “Black smudge,” he murmurs. “Of course!” Coat, scarf, the door slams.
The white sheet of paper shines in the falling darkness.
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Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 473
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John (if there be squinting)
Warning(s): If you watched Reichenbach, you know what's coming...
Contains: Heavy spoilers for Season 2
Beta:cicerothewriter
Notes: This prompt was taken from a "A-drabble-a-day-challenge" which I naturally failed, but I did get one ficlet out of it. And maybe some more soon, we'll see... Once more, I have to thank my amazing beta Cicero two thousand times for pointing out mistakes, making suggestions and encouraging me. *hugs*
Disclaimer: I'm just a little girl, playing with someone else's toys. (Which is in official speak: I did not have a hand in the writing of any Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle nor in the adaption by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.) Plus, I write those things out of malice, not for profit.
--------------------------------
It is obsolete, old-fashioned and ridiculous as a means of communication in this day and age. He has only ever really written a letter to a distant aunt, and that had not really been his idea. But then, he cannot say that the opposite was true this time.
There was a piece of paper in front of him - it had come with the hotel room - and before he really knew what he was doing, the cheap pen was in his hand.
Dear John,
How are you? I'm not dead-
Cross that out.
John. I'm in Tibet. I've made a brilliant discovery. Do you still read the papers? It will probably be in there one of these days-
Oh, great start there. Cross that out.
John. Mycroft tells me that you- No, no, no, no.
He stares at the sheet and his failed attempts stare back at him. Yes, he is terrible at this. Damn this John Watson, anyway, and damn his own dependence on the man. He usually doesn't care about side glances being thrown his way, but recently, he's been looked at strangely for talking to thin air and handing things to nobody. It makes him look like an idiot. And not the good, making-John-smile kind of idiot. With a suppressed curse, he tosses the papers off the desk and buries his hands in his hair. This is not good. He will have to get his hands on a skull.
After heaving a sigh that resembles a huff too much to actually deserve that name, he grabs a new piece of paper. Why the hell did he ad-lib that stupid “conductor of light” line back in Grimpen village? He's never been able to get it out of his head ever since. Never does a candle shine so brightly then when a mirror reflects its light. And at no time has he felt so keenly that he is just a candle in the dark.
In a sudden move, he takes up the pen and scribbles without looking.
John. Victim is male, in his mid-thirties, medium-built. He has been found dead on the village path, obviously on the way back from the well. As can be seen from his hands, he's a manual labourer and a devoted father of three four. At least one child visits the local school, another is fairly young, about six months. The marriage is unremarkable, not catastrophic, not great. Probably arranged. He has had polio as a child, and his doctor was an alcoholic. Cause of death was asphyxiation. Remarkable are the victim's foetal position, a piece of violet cloth in his left hand, and a black smudge on his right cheek, which-
He starts. “Black smudge,” he murmurs. “Of course!” Coat, scarf, the door slams.
The white sheet of paper shines in the falling darkness.
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