le wip meme.
Shamelessly stolen from fuyu_no_fuhei: Posting the names of all the files in my Sherlock WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Choose one (or a few, I don't care), and I will post a random line or two.
In no particular order of completion, importance, or capitalization:
In no particular order of completion, importance, or capitalization:
- The Light Discontinued
- Our Hugest Home
- writer!john
- Derringer Sky; android ( Read more... )
Comments 60
Also, episode one, episode two, episode three, episode four :)
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John.txt:
Sherlock makes a study of compromise. John is not averse to touching but he will be skittish if unwarned, temper frayed after work days; sometimes he is unselfconscious to the point of carelessness, regardless of the star like angry starbursts on his shoulder. Likes long, hot baths (luxury; after the army's communal showers; hot water shortage; necessity), does not care for being interrupted, once lobbed the soap at the opening door. But he bustles busily into Sherlock's shower without so much as a blush, helps him scrub the grit and the dirt of Thames water from his hair. Sherlock catalogues their touches - he learns the brush of fingers on his sleeve, he learns the shape of John's palm against his spine, coursing upward like an electric shock.
angst-ridden pre-reichenbach epic which will probably make a lot more sense if you know that it's meant to be a fill for this promptSherlock was curled in the windowseat, wedged tightly into a coil that bore no mathematical sense, ( ... )
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He remembers Afghan stars: the patterns were strange and nameless, and they never took a map to them. When he doesn't dream of rifle fire he dreams of them, and the names he and the mates invented for them when they were smashed on the rooftops: the Bear and the Furbelow, the Cooking Pan, the Northern Wolf for the only Swedish boy in the regiment. They couldn't see the North Star, couldn't see Venus from where they were. John remembers glory from these nights, colour, juggling bottles that smashed and shook apart upon landing. The Swedish kid got killed in the morning, shoulder bones shattered, too much blood for keeping; John had his hands deep in his chest by two in the afternoon and couldn't save him at all.
Heart!verse, which is something of a prequel and sequel to i carry your heart with meOne rainy week Sherlock keeps sixteen hearts in jars on the kitchen table, and John navigates around them - John maps out the table like a naval chart, sets down cups of tea around them like guiding stars. They're the hearts of ( ... )
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i am so proud of my indirect contribution to this ♥
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I'll blame you foreverrrrr. It's going to be far longer than I'd imagined :/
TA SO MUCH AND ALL
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John is caught at the typists' - rows upon rows of secretaries on ancient typewriters, each looking up a fraction as he passed. He is transporting information from one office to another that night, and his heels clack too hard on the parquet slats, his nerves rattled by the last four white, flushed nights. He feels uneasy, overwrought, recently longing for sleep: he has been fully, absolutely awake for twenty-four hours. He is expecting the hand on his arm and the breath on the back of his neck, has been expecting them for one day and a half now, but they come as a surprise yet, a fierce electric jolt traveling his body.
:D your icon is amazinnnng
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You're welcome! :D
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In the afternoon of May 20th, 2015, Sherlock Holmes starts down the steps of the British Museum and walks neatly into the arms of a dead man.
John Watson is wearing a green pullover and a pair of faded jeans, comfortable and solidly unremarkable dark shoes. John Watson is carrying a duffel bag over his uninjured shoulder, resting fingers upon the straps, looping in the metal buckles; his skin is tanned, more so than before, his hair sun-streaked - longer around the temples. John Watson will be thirty-eight in a matter of six weeks, and the crinkles around his eyes draw whiter lines into his skin. Two years and eleven months ago, John Watson toppled over a cliff and into a waterfall in Switzerland.
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Reichenbach!AUs are a guilty pleasure of mine, heh.
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:D
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One day, John Watson wakes up and shifts effortlessly into something new. He stands in front of his mirror, examines his body: 5'7'', blue eyes, tired face, left shoulder shattered into starbursts, sweet leg, dusty blonde hair. Good chest, better hands - surgeon's hands - nails, neatly trimmed, square fingertips, slightly calloused, mostly ambidextrous but favouring his left. Good. Had better, but had worse.
221B is a real place again, and it is familiar and warm; there is a kitchen now, and the living-room is smaller, rectangle, two windows stretching up on the far wall. It sits purring in John's ribcage like the word home.
"Ah, there you are," says Sherlock Holmes, framed in the bow window, and dear god the man is tall again. Looking brilliant again. He keeps his hands in his pockets, appraising John with a quick, sharp glance, and oh but he's missed this. "Mm. Yes, that'll do ( ... )
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/wants more than 'more than a paragraph'
and, hm, i've heard lots of good things about downton abbey, but never got around to watching it. :\ busy with life and trying to catch up with my korean dramas, haha. /says this while watching the doctor who special of never mind the buzzcocks for the... third time. but you certainly make me want to abandon homework and watch it :D
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:D :D :D
DO. it's fantastic in every way, and heartbreaking also in every way - it will take your heart and make it think everything will be alright and the couple who are clearly in love will live together happily forever after; and then it brutally smashes it to pieces. it's bloody brilliant. you recall our long interminable talk back in january when we were waxing lyrical about the bbc!miniseries of austen's books, yeah? it's pretty much the same level of gorgeous everywhere.
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