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aelaer · 4 years ago

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Uhh can I ask for BBC Sherlock fic recs? (Preferably friendship and/or familial fics, but romance is okay too)

Ooohh boy are you in for a list. I know you asked this like, at the start of quarantine or at sometime where I decided that I was no longer interested in communicating with the wider world, but hopefully this will still be of interest to you?

Throughout 2018 I did very little writing because I was busy consuming everything offered by the Sherlock fandom produced over 7-8 years. I definitely read well into the millions of words. A lot of them were from specific collections on both ff.net and AO3. I recommend looking in “collections” on ff.net in particular (as I still can’t really figure out how collections work on AO3 and how to find them easily... it’s really easy to find them on ff.net).

To my knowledge, these are all complete.

If there is any romance tagged here, it’s because it’s really, really fucking good as romance is my least favorite genre. I cannot remember all of them, but there’s a lot of angst, definitely humour, and definitely some great canonical bits. Also whumpy ones that are either really really good or a bit ridiculous but there you go.

It’s long, so under a cut. If the cut doesn’t work, I have tagged it as well.

From ff.net (alphabetical order) - NOTE: I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because the list was already too freaking long! But be sure to check out the authors, you can sort by “category” on ff.net on their author page and then go down to “Sherlock” to find their works:

Anything by A Wandering Minstrel (sooooo many genres)

Most anything by chappysmom (tons of genres, some are excellent, some I could take or leave, overall good stuff)

Most anything by Dayja (she writes in a ton of genres, so some I *adore* while others aren’t my cup of tea, but overall good stuff)

Anything by Gwen's Blue Box if you want angst up the wazoo.

Anything by ivywatcher for fantastic character studies.

Most anything by Jennistar1 (another multi-genre writer, both friendship and slashfic)

Anything by Radon65 - a mix of stuff. Canon IIRC.

Anything by Richefic for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

Anything by StillWaters1 for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

A Brief Account Of Life With Zombies by Silver Pard Sherlock thinks it's all a bit of a nuisance, John is having the time of his life, and Mycroft is Not Impressed. With anything, but mostly his minions' inability to provide a good cup of tea. Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,384 - Complete

A House is not a Home by selenityshiroi This is a prompt fill from the LJ Fic Meme. John and Sherlock got a flat share because they needed to split the rent. But when John comes into money, people wonder 'why hasn't he found a place of his own' The actual prompt is inside the story Rated: T - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,190 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Annie's Song by Berouge She has a second engagement with a man and his violin, in the park, at night. Sherlock's not going for it! ONESHOT! Rated: K - English - Romance - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,869 - Sherlock H., Molly Hooper - Complete

Basic Training by chai4anne Summary: A death at a boys' school leads to conflict and revelations among Lestrade's team, Sherlock, and John. Set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall." No slash. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 10,851 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, Sgt. S. Donavan - Complete

Breaking Point by Haelia When Sherlock and Donovan are abducted and Sherlock is grievously wounded, it is up to Donovan to get them both out. "First things first, Freak. You do not give me orders. You are going to do everything I tell you to," Sally said sharply, "because we are getting out of here." Can they both escape with their lives from the most dangerous gang in London? Rated: T - English - Mystery/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 3 - Words: 14,401 - Sgt. S. Donavan, Sherlock H. - Complete

Firestorm by Dustbunny13 Sherlock returns, but his friendship with John is damaged. Nevertheless, they embark on their final hunt to finish off Moriarty's net, but it ends in a catastrophe: Sherlock is shot and lapses into a coma. As John keeps vigil, he reads Sherlock's diary written during the hiatus. Slowly, he begins to understand and finds himself wishing for another miracle. Completed. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Adventure - Chapters: 53 - Words: 133,754 - Complete NOTE: Probably my favorite novel-length multi-chapter you find only on ff.net for this fandom.

How To Accidentally Summon a Demon by patster223 Sherlock is possessed by a demon. A damned, wicked soul that uses the kitchen table for blood rituals and experiments. John doesn't even notice the difference. Rated: K+ - English - Supernatural/Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,411 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

Kidnapped! A Comedy by scuttlesworth Poor kidnappers. Kidnapping John Watson is like pulling on a thread tied to all sorts of crazy. It's enough to make a bloke get a job and go straight. Rated: T - English - Humor/Friendship - Chapters: 2 - Words: 10,758 - John W. - Complete

Mobile Phones, Rubble and Shock by prettybirdy979 In the aftermath of the explosion, Lestrade must work to keep Sherlock Holmes alive and make sense of his communications... with only a mobile phone and Sherlock buried under the rubble of the pool. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,679 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete

Mouth of Babes by Morgan Stuart Several weeks after the explosion at the pool following "The Great Game" episode, Lestrade visits the recuperating Sherlock and John at 221B Baker Street. He brings case files and food... and a visitor in tow. Rated: K - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,495 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete NOTE: This is a whole series. If you like it, look up the rest under the author. It’s super cute.

Of Surgeons and Soldiers by EmRose92 Being a doctor has its advantages. He knows how to put people back together, and he knows how to take them apart. 221B is forced into a hostage situation, and John seems to be the only one who has the power to get them out of it. Includes BAMF John, protective Sherlock, and several unfortunate criminals who mess with the wrong army doctor. No slash. Rated: K+ - English - Adventure/Family - Chapters: 2 - Words: 9,695 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Empty Home by chai4anne Sherlock would always be haunted by memories of one particular case. The first body, its once-so-familiar features blurred by the passing of time and death, moved him more than he would ever have expected. But the worst was the skeleton he uncovered later, bits of hair and clothes still clinging to it—which had no effect on him whatever, until he looked up and saw John's face. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Suspense - Chapters: 28 - Words: 150,773 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The frigid trench by Nova-chan Sherlock is badly hurt. And alone. And incapacitated. Rated: T - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 15 - Words: 13,118 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Hand You're Dealt by Lady Sam Mallory Sherlock, John and several others are trapped in a building when an explosion disrupts the crime scene they are working. COMPLETE. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 12,092 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Secret Identity of John Watson by scifigrl47 Taken out of context, John Watson leads a terrifying life. You have to wonder what those poor women he dates thinks of it, especially if John decides to try keeping one away from Sherlock, and Sherlock decides that it'd be best if he could get rid of her Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 3 - Words: 29,251 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

This Is What He Does For Fun by nyssa123 Sherlock and John go to the pub after a long day and Sherlock realizes that the man sitting next to them is a serial killer. He then proceeds to tell everyone how he knows. Written for a prompt on the LJ kinkmeme.

Rated: K+ - English - Humor/Mystery - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,147 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Totem by IshkabibbleScribble Rescuing Sherlock from the clutches of a violent terrorist cell forces John to rely on a long-unused, lethal skill. Rated: T - English - Friendship/Drama - Chapters: 2 - Words: 8,752 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

War Wound by SoulfireInc Set sometime after Sherlock's return, before John's wedding to Mary Mortsan. An old comrade of John's arrives at 221B Baker St, scared and desperate for the consulting detective's help. Perhaps, had Sherlock known the consequences he and John would suffer as a result of this surprise encounter, he never would have accepted the case ... [Written before season three aired.] Rated: K+ - English - Drama/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 21,319 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, OC - Complete

From AO3 (alphabetical order) - NOTE: Just like the ff.net list, I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because these lists are just ginormous.

NOTE: I did *not* include warnings, pairings, etc in these summaries (too many tags to try and organize in the messy copy/pastes). Read the tags if you have any sensitivities/squicks/etc for all links!

Most anything by CaffieneKitty (over 100 shorts, so some I really love, others I can pass. Well worth checking out)

Anything by dragonnan if you want a huge wallop of angst. Also illustrations. Also writes in the MCU.

Anything by Jolie_Black (You thought stories written in script could only be bad? You thought WRONG. Very very canon-compliant goodness).

Anything by sgam76 (another multi-genre writer)

A Freak Adventure by dioscureantwins Words: 13,719 Chapters: 1/1 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Sally Donovan John Watson Mrs. Hudson Oh Christ, the Freak will be like a dog with two tails if she turns to him for assistance. Sally can feel her hands curling into fists ready to punch the condescending smirk off his face as she glares at the lift panel, willing the lift to go faster. But this is about Susy, Sally tells herself, not about him or Sally’s abhorrence of the atrocious git. She’s still convinced he gets off on it but he can wank himself into a stupor over Susy’s disappearance for all she cares as long as he finds her.

A Smelly Affair by dioscureantwins Words: 13,756 Chapters: 1/1 General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Anthea Mycroft Holmes Sherlock had published an interesting thesis on the splintering of various woods on his website. As well as an equally fascinating treatise on different types of ropes and knots and the best techniques for securing someone. Obviously, his captors had followed those instructions to the letter; thereby disproving John’s theory nobody took notice of Sherlock’s website. A victory, perhaps, but one Sherlock felt he could have done without. Trust his readership to turn the tables on the author. Morons.

Constantly by thesignsofserbia Words: 4,530 Chapters: 1/1 Mature Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes Mycroft and Sherlock have a tenuous relationship at best, but with Sherlock taking down Moriarty's web, they might need each other more than they'd care to admit.

Croatia-Water-Blue by hollyesque Words: 12,117 Chapters: 1/1 Not Rated Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes “I…” John licks his lips, twitches his fingers as though he wants to reach out, “I’m here, Sherlock,” he says; “I know I haven’t been, but…but I am now.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Haven’t been—? “What on earth do you mean, you haven’t been here?” he asks, “You’ve been living here.”

Getting to Know You by Dimity Blue (Arnie) Words: 4,605 Chapters: 1/1 General Audiences Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes John picked up the kettle. "Nothing from Lestrade?"Sherlock flipped himself over on the sofa and presented John with his back; John sometimes felt he was living with a cat.Clicking the switch on the kettle, John grinned to himself and, keeping his tone casual, said, "Maybe you could send him an owl."There was silence for a few seconds, then Sherlock asked, "Why would I send him an owl?"

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus by CaitlinFairchild Words: 4,572 Chapters: 1/1 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes John Watson Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows himself a brief swell of feeling--let’s not put a name on it, just call it a feeling--for his big brother. He knows that when Mycroft opens that steel door again, every man now inside will be a fresh corpse.The East Wind will take them all, Sherlock thinks fuzzily, before the curtain of sleep descends.

London Orbital by merripestin Words: 13,642 Chapters: 1/1 General Audiences Greg Lestrade Sally Donovan Sherlock Holmes John Watson "I'm driving first," Sally said. "Guv can take over after me. If we're all still mad enough to be at this after that, John can drive third shift. Then the freak, if we decide we can risk it.""John doesn't drive," said Sherlock."Then what's John along for?" Sally protested. Which Greg reckoned had to be just Sally trying to wind Sherlock up. She knew better. All night in a car with Sherlock was bad enough. All night driving round and round the M25 looking for a killer, with Sherlock deprived of John Watson, sounded like a new circle of hell.

Official Recruiter by Captain_Author Words: 49,469 Chapters: 21/21 General Audiences Clint Barton Phil Coulson Sherlock Holmes John Watson Stephen Strange Crimes were so simple before aliens, gods, and supernatural abilities made themselves known. But Sherlock Holmes never enjoyed simple and these inhumans and mutants provided quite a challenge. SHIELD needed someone to find the superpowered. Funny how both their needs can be met.

Rigging screws, size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised by AJHall Words: 15,250 Chapters: 6/6 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson "How's a woman supposed to prove her husband's a murderer, dammit?" On the eve of a planned voyage to Brittany, Marjorie Jameson starts her day with no problems more pressing than forcing a boatyard to do an emergency repair to the family yacht. A chance encounter at the Cowes hi-speed ferry terminal begins to unravel a web of conspiracy and murder, with her charming, untrustworthy husband Julian right at the centre and Marjorie as the next intended victim.But no-one's going to trust the word of an aging housewife whose complaints of abuse the police have previously dismissed as delusions.

Somewhere in the Dinaric Alps by drpepperdiva91 Words: 1,735 Chapters: 1/1 General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Sherlock is caught off-guard by a flashback to his time in Serbia, just before John arrives home from work. Sweet, but still semi-realistic, hurt/comfort.

The Case of the Missing Bus Ticket by Unsentimentalf Words: 10,543 Chapters: 1/1 General Audiences Dirk Gently Sherlock Holmes Richard MacDuff John Watson Mycroft Holmes When Dirk and Richard's new client inexplicably fails to stay alive long enough to pay them, their ailing finances mean that a certain amount of subterfuge is required to get them back to London. The sudden death of their client has, however, attracted the attention of another rather more famous (if less holistic) detective and the stage is set for a long distance bus ride of suspense…

The Green Blade by verityburns Words: 72,929 Chapters: 15/15 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Lestrade (Inspector) Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Anderson (Sherlock) Mrs. Hudson As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit... WARNING: COMMENTS CONTAIN SPOILERS!

The Holiday by Scriblit Words: 18,962 Chapters: 9/9 Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes Mrs. Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Mary Morstan ACD Canon Characters A month following an horrific, sadistic attack during a case, Sherlock is still physically incapacitated and emotionally damaged. A holiday is suggested, but even stuck out in the middle of nowhere, he and John happen upon a case that could make Sherlock begin to feel like his old self again - or could kill him.BBC Sherlock Reworking of ACD's Devil's Foot, with Illustrious Client in flashbacks. Scenes of violence and implied "off screen" sexual violence/sexual assault.

The Shallow End by hollyesque Words: 6,923 Chapters: 1/1 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes "I told you once that I don't have friends," he says to John's back, "Now you know why."

The Silence of the Bees by trappedinathoughtbubble Words: 14,169 Chapters: 7/? Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mary Morstan Mary Watson Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes A kidnapped teenage girl. A political conspiracy. Bees. And somehow in the midst of it all, John learns a few things Sherlock forgot to mention about those two years. Note: Not completed, but the author's around and one of the sweetest people ever if you want to give encouragement to take a look again at this story!

The Triple Bluff by SarahKnight Words: 28,331 Chapters: 8/8 Mature Sherlock Holmes Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Philip Anderson Sherlock annoys his landlord at Montague street, grows to hate Donovan and gets into trouble a lot on a kidnapping case involving a woman who bullied him as a child.The events leading up to A Study In Pink. A case fic that answers questions from the first episode such as why Sherlock had to leave Montague Street and find a new flatmate, why he and Lestrade both quit smoking but didn't know the other had, why there's so much animosity between Sherlock and Donovan, and why Sherlock hates traveling in a police car.

Welcome Home by thesignsofserbia Words: 3,435 Chapters: 1/1 Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs. Hudson Mycroft Holmes "All my nightmares escaped my head. Bar the door, please don’t let them in. You were never supposed to leave. Now my head's splitting at the seams."

And of course I have my own Sherlock/Doctor Strange crossover up on AO3 if that tickles your fancy, illustrations and all. :D

But if you haven’t delved deep into the fandom, this should tide you over for some time.

This list is by no means an exhaustive list of recs. I didn’t really include anything that concentrated on a romantic pairing, for instance. I left off anything explicit as well. But yeah, here’s a small amount of the overall goodness produced by the BBC Sherlock fandom over the last 10 years.

#neutronstardust13 #long post #bbc sherlock #fic rec #sherlock holmes #john watson #gen fic #genre: humor #genre: angst #genre: fluff #crossover #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes #martha hudson #ask #answered

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love-in-mind-palace · 8 years ago

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Hi Ankita! Could you please tell me which are the MUST READ Johnlock fics of this fandom??the most famous, Possibly not AU.. thank you very much!!

No AU leaves out quite a number of must read fics. But still, as you wish.

Long post alert!

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes by ivyblossom (62k, Explicit) : A beautiful, beautiful fic from Sherlock POV. Difficult relationship issues, miscommunication. Ohh what a fic.

A Cure For Boredom by emmagrant01 (81k, Explicit) : They’d never talked about sex in the year they’d known each other. Well, that wasn’t quite correct: Sherlock had never said a word about sex; John had bemoaned his personal dearth of it on many occasions. One hell of a sexy fic.

and stand there at the edge of my affection by coloredink (2.6k, General) : Sherlock asks for John’s expertise on writing a love letter. Who is it for? You have no points for guessing it right. But John is an idiot.

A Quiet Murmuration by cathedral_carver (4.6k words, Teen) : Just pay me back with one thousand kisses. My go to fic whenever I am feeling down. Fluff, fluff and more fluff. Did i mention fluff?

Alone On the Water by Mad_Lori (7.7k, General) :Sherlock Holmes never expected to live a long life, but he never imagined that it would end like this. Fair warning, look at the tags and think for at least 10 times before reading this okay.

State of Flux by Atiki (24k, Explicit) : John’s marriage is over and he is finally back home (i.e. at Baker Street, where he belongs). Sherlock is awfully insecure and John is awfully hesitant, and they’re both awkward idiots, of course, but they figure it out. Many First Times happen. Ever wonder what a no-angst perfect johnlock fic looks like?This is it. Series 3 fix-it fic.

Hitting the Water at Sixty Miles an Hour by what_alchemy (30k words, Explicit) : “You love your mother, Sherlock?”John watched the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw jump. He nodded in one sharp jerk.“Then we’re going to her party and making her happy.” John let out a resigned sigh. “As a ruddy couple, you bastard.” Fake/pretend relationship. Thank me later.

Electric Pink Hand Grenade by BeautifulFiction“If Sherlock’s brain is a hard drive, then these attacks are an electro-magnetic pulse.” Sherlock Holmes does not do anything by half, not even a migraine. It falls to John to witness one of the greatest minds he has ever known tear itself apart, and he must do his best to help Sherlock pick up the pieces. I’ve got one word to describe this. “Sickfic”. You are welcome.

A Waste of Breath by Chryse (95k, Explicit) : John had always assumed Sherlock was uninterested, untouchable, married to his work. He was wrong on all counts. But when Sherlock embarks on a relationship, John worries that he is in over his head...and this time he might be right. Sherlock picks up Sebastian Moran as a fuck buddy and things go kinda wrong.

The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (157k words, Explicit) : “Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?” What can I say about this one? Post reichenbach fic in John POV. You can guess how it is.

A Study in Intimacy by doodle (5k words, Teen) : People don’t touch Sherlock Holmes, not like they touch other people.Then he meets John Watson. I won’t say anything else.

The Important Bit by Solshine (9.9k. General) : Just where exactly is the line between “to love” and “to be in love”? What difference is required between “flatmate” and “husband”? (Besides the rings, obviously.) No, the important bit is that they have each other. Thirty years, give or take, in an atypical marriage. Basically a long bit of platonic domestic fluff.

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (32k words, Explicit) : Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John’s head. This is the fic where John finds out Sherlock has slept with four-hundred people.

Dear John by wendymarlowe (23k words, Explicit) : With Sherlock dead, John eventually (under duress) makes a profile on an online dating site. And falls into a long-distance relationship with an enigmatic partner who reminds him of Sherlock in all the right ways.Post-reichenbach epistolary fic. Online romance? Check. Cybersex? Check. Sherlock is so screwed.

Curious Case by Cleo2010 (44k words, Explicit) : After burning his hands, Sherlock’s unable to release his ‘tension’ in the usual manner. Who should he turn to? His totally, completely straight friend and flatmate who’s totally not into Sherlock or his boy parts at all. Definitely. Basically a PWP. Oh my.

echoes through time by chellefic (21k words, Explicit) : Mummy sends a trunk from the Holmes cottage in Sussex to 221B. Its contents alter the way John and Sherlock see themselves and one another. What’s in the trunk you ask? A diary written by a John Watson about the adventures of Sherlock’s great grandfather. Another Sherlock Holmes. The diary is quite explicit in nature.

Applied Linguistics by what_alchemy (4.8k, Mature) :“He wants to shake John by the shoulders, wants to open his mouth and swallow John whole. Wants to marry him.” Sherlock searches for the right words.

To Light Another's Path by BeautifulFiction (128k, Explicit) : Teaching John to observe seems to be a losing battle, but when Sherlock falls ill and submits himself to John's care, will he realise that there is more to life than the science of deduction? Meanwhile, there is a murder to solve, and John must try and convince Sherlock not to sacrifice his own health for the sake of the case. Eventual John/Sherlock Hurt/Comfort case fic. Post the Great Game . Sickfic. Yay!

Acceptable Behaviour by bbcatemysoul (3.4k, Mature): Sherlock isn’t really sure why John wants to shag him, but he’s certain that if he’s careful to behave properly about it, John can be persuaded to keep doing it.In other news, John is a good boyfriend and Sherlock is an idiot. When aren’t they idiots?

Midnight Blue Serenity by BeautifulFiction (151k, Explicit) : “This was like nothing John had ever thought to associate with Sherlock: stubble, skin-tight jeans and three small silver rings gleaming at the crest of one ear. It was unbelievable, like stepping into an alternative universe, and John couldn’t stop staring.” Sherlock working undercover as a sexy-bartender. Not just John, I died too. Did I mention eyeliner?

Corpus Hominis by mycapeisplaid (47k, Explicit) : John knows the human body intimately. He’s had plenty of opportunity for study as a doctor, soldier, and lover. There’s one particular body, however, he knows very little about. When Sherlock launches himself head-first into a new obsession and they get sent on a case in an unlikely location, the pair discovers each other’s bodies with confusing yet delightful (and sometimes hilarious) results.

Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (36k, Explicit) :When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting. This was the first johnlock fic I read. So this has a pretty special place in my heart.

Best of Three by SilentAuror (17.4k, Explicit) : “You want to have sex with me,” Sherlock announces one evening about a year after John's divorce. John's vigorous denial sparks a three-day wager wherein Sherlock is determined to prove his point, and John is determined to hold onto his heterosexuality. Set well after HLV. And as the author states it “Porn. With feels”. Hot. Very hot.

Let’s Make a Bed Out in the Rain by theimprobable1 (17k, Mature) : John is devastated after his long-term girlfriend leaves him. Sherlock helps him through it. Pining, Angst, unrequited love, first kiss. Yeah the package.

Just a Kiss by emmagrant01 (19k, Explicit) : Five times John and Sherlock kissed because of a case and one time they kissed for real.

To Sleep, Perchance to Smother Your Flatmate with a Pillow by Linpatootie (5k words, General) : Sherlock wants to conduct a sleep study of sorts. John contemplates smothering him with a pillow. One word. Fluff.

Evening Ride by LapisLazuli (8.6k, Explicit) : John has a series of unexpected meetings with a stranger on the Tube. Not an AU. Just alternative meeting. And one of the hottest fic I have ever read. Keyword? Public sex. Thank me later.

I Just Had Sex by pennydreadful (916 words, Teen) : Sherlock just had sex and he's going to make sure everyone knows. One of my favourite crack fics.

The Great Sex Olympics of 221B by XistentialAngst (58k, Explicit) : John Watson thinks Sherlock Holmes should admit that he, Watson, is more of an expert on sex than Sherlock is. But Sherlock refuses to concede the point. He comes up with an experiment plan that will resolve the issue. The results will determine who wins the prize. But sometimes even the best thought-out scientific study has unexpected consequences. Lots of sexual experimentation.

Praise Me by testosterone_tea (11k, Explicit) : In which Sherlock has an interesting physical reaction to compliments and John discovers it. Praise kink!

Sink Like a Stone by pennydreadful (4k, Teen) : After defeating Moriarty at the pool, life isn't quite the same around 221B Baker Street...it's more peaceful. And stranger.

What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal by hyacinth_sky747 (58k, Explicit) : Molly gave me a magazine. It has one hundred tips for figuring out your man. She said it is a bible amongst women. I will use it to solve the mystery that is John, or, as I like to refer to him, that mad-hatter who sits on my Union Jack cushion until it is flat.I can’t actually describe this one.You need to read it.

The Norwood Love Builders by flawedamythyst (47k, Teen) : Sherlock and John go undercover to solve the murder of Joanna Oldacre, but things are complicated by the many feelings John has been repressing in the wake of Sherlock's faked death and return. Fake/Pretend relationship.ahahahaha.

The Detective and the Pin-Up by XistentialAngst (15k, Teen) : Sally Donovan discovers an old secret John Watson considered long buried - a ten-year old "Men of the Armed Forces" calendar, which has John as a very enticing pin-up for August. The image of John might just change the way everyone sees the unassuming sidekick, even Sherlock Holmes.

Thirst by bittergreens (122k, Explicit) : When John realizes he has feelings for Sherlock and decides he must keep those feelings secret at all costs, the resulting tension might bring Baker Street to the ground. Check the tags. Every element possible to be in a fic.

On the Losing Side by missselene (8k, Explicit) : After Mary's death, John moves back into Baker Street, but is still upset at the loss of his wife and child. Eventually, he and Sherlock stumble into a sort of relationship, but it's more physical than anything and they don't talk about it.They especially don't talk during sex. If they are going to have sex, Sherlock notices the signs hours beforehand, and he prepares carefully. The lights are off, they're under the covers, he prepares himself using lots of lube so he can make it feel as much like a woman as he can, and he doesn't let himself make any noise so that, if John wishes, he can pretend that he's still with Mary.Misunderstanding, Pining. *sigh*

And if you say the word, I could stay with you by CaitlinFairchild (12k, Explicit) : What Sherlock thinks is, On the day I die, be it in a dirty alley at forty or in my bed at eighty, the last thing I will remember is tonight, the way you looked at at me on the snowy pavement, cheeks pink with the cold, breath puffing in frosty white clouds, your heart in your eyes and snowflakes in your hair. I will remember that single perfect moment in my life, that moment I knew I had everything I ever wanted, and whatever happens next, I will die content.What he says is simply, "Marry me."

That’s it for now. But it doesn’t mean these are the only Must-read fics.It means the list got quite long already. Guess I will make a separate post for those then.

#fic rec #johnlock fic rec #my fic rec #johnlock #Anonymous #ask #ankita talks #fuck this is already too long #i wanna make a fic rec with just AU fics now

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antmanandthewasp · 8 years ago

Text

sherlock/john fanfic recs!

“You can file it in our archives, Watson. Someday, the true story may be told.” Sherlock Holmes

Waking You Up by brbsoulnomming (T)

John dies and Sherlock blames himself, so much so that the guilt begins to affect his life. However, he keeps getting dreams of John talking to him and assuring him that he's not dead.

Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M)

The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness', and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.”One of these lists is not John Watson’s.

If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts' now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

The River Variations by withoutawish (T)

John Watson never knew that he wanted a ‘no toast in the mornings’ normal until he realized what an honor it is to be destroyed by Sherlock Holmes.

What John Doesn’t Know (Won’t Hurt Him) by blueink3 (presumably T)

Five people who see Sherlock's scars before John Watson. But Sherlock's secrets were never something he could keep from his blogger for long.

Leave the Signs and the Sirens by out_there (Gen)

After John's released and back home at Baker St, Sherlock still feels it. Down the centre of his chest there's an ache like a healing wound. A physical awareness of a body he usually ignores as much as he can. It's psychosomatic, nothing more interesting than that.

(Post-S1 AU)

A Quiet Murmuration by cathedral_carver (T)

Just pay me back with one thousand kisses.

Cornish Cottage by flawedamythyst (T):

In the wake of John's divorce, Sherlock tries to cheer him up with a trip to Cornwall. Adaptation of ACD's The Adventure of the Devil's Foot.

Parallel by brbsoulnomming (M)

There's a case at a secondary school/University, some series of threats or string of bizarre murders that has the entire campus shaken. In the course of the investigation, Sherlock and John meet two students. One is well liked if not popular, athletic, intelligent without showing off, involved only because they were close to a victim or witnessed something important. The other is a loner with no regard for social norms, an insufferable genius, always in the chem lab, and involved because everyone, including teachers/professors, think they're behind everything.

Sherlock and John are responsible for these two meeting. And, because they both want to help with the investigation, they get to watch them become friends and fall a little in love. And that makes them feel things about themselves that they've been working very hard to not feel, thank you.

Break My Step and Relent by geordielover (T)

The kidnapper looks completely startled, staring up at John with wild eyes. John understands; he’s a small man, himself, and while some would consider that to be a hindrance in a fight, John thinks of it as a tactical advantage.

What if John Watson had a Tumblr? by honeywolf (T)

He could keep a diary, of course, but the chance of Sherlock finding it some day, and reading it, would be even higher than this way. He even created a new e-mail address for this blog and uses a password which consists of upper and lower case letters, numbers and special characters. And he refrained from using his birthday or something relatable to him. So how on earth could Sherlock find this blog?

The Poster Girl by stardust_made (M):

A seemingly straightforward case has Lestrade calling for Sherlock's help. Written from John's POV, this story takes place two months after the events in "The Great Game" and follows the investigation of the murder of Veronica Havisham: seventeen, popular—and murdered in Hainault Forrest on a Friday night in June.

(Note: this fanfic isn’t explicitly johnlock, but there are some moments that hint to it being a thing in the future. The case itself is so very well-written that I had to include it on this list!)

Folder Name: John H. Watson by watsonholmes (T)

Create New Folder Folder Name: John H. Watson Filed under: Flatmate …loading… Entry: >Ex- RAMC >Shot: Left Shoulder; invalided home >PTSD; psychosomatic limp-fixed >Crack-shot >Drink: Tea; Milk, no sugar >JUMPERS

Notes by Kryptaria (G)

It had begun innocuously enough, when Sherlock had found a scrap of paper under the armchair that had become reserved solely for John’s use. Sherlock Holmes, it read, with 221B Baker Street underneath.

A Winter Walk by cathedral_carver (T)

Time is the longest distance between two places.

Just a Kiss by emmagrant01 (M)

Five times John and Sherlock kissed because of a case and one time they kissed for real.

Points by lifeonmars (WIP) (M)

What if His Last Vow never happened?

This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction.

Scrutiny by lifeonmars (presumably T)

What is it like to live with someone who can nearly read your mind? John's life comes into focus under the magnifying glass of Sherlock Holmes.

Bent by lifeonmars (M)

Sherlock straightens a poker. Something in John's mind snaps.

For all fans of The Speckled Band.

Senza Catene by MadLori (G)

Sherlock has a secret hobby. One night John follows him to find out what his flat mate is up to and gets the surprise of his life.

Suite for Violin and Clarinet by AwkwardAnnie (G)

John finds a clarinet in a charity shop and discovers that some things are better said with music. Eventual Sherlock/John.

Dear John by WendyMarlowe (M)

With Sherlock dead, John eventually (under duress) makes a profile on an online dating site. And falls into a long-distance relationship with an enigmatic partner who reminds him of Sherlock in all the right ways. (Hint: it turns out to be Sherlock.)

and stand there at the edge of my affection by coloredink (T)

"You've written love letters," Sherlock asserted.

Speaker for the Bees by antietamfalls (M)

It isn't always easy assisting a deaf detective. Luckily for John, they make a pretty good team.

Unconventional Decor by coloredink (T)

Sherlock makes a list of all the things in his room that might be causing John to not want to sleep there. It is very long.

Five Times John Talked to Mummy (and one time he didn't) by coloredink (T)

Sherlock thrust his phone into John's jaw and growled, "You talk to her."

Seventeen Letters by out_there (G)

"I love Sherlock," John says out loud, testing how the words feel in his mouth. It doesn't change anything. Sherlock's still the pillock who fiddled with his computer password.

Heart on a String by AngelSpirit (M)

John and Sherlock got married with Cracker Jack rings when they were 7 yrs old. It wasn’t official, but for their whole lives they took it very seriously.

Lines Written In Kensington Gardens by CaitlinFairchild (M)

Thirty-five was the established boundary, Sherlock decided after extensive calculations. He would be dead by thirty-five. That was the kind of man he was. That was the kind of life he lived.

At thirty-four, a year before his appointed rendezvous with oblivion, Sherlock met a man. Nobody special, or so he thought, an ordinary man--who soon proved extraordinary, a man who killed without hesitation to protect a life Sherlock cared nothing about.

This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes lived long enough to grow old.

A Beginner’s Guide to Apiology by VictoryCandescence (M)

John and Sherlock meet for the first time as old men in Sussex.

The Love Song of Two Idiots by SkipandDi (T)

The eighth time Sherlock proposed to John, it was on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of a Tesco. And like the seven times before, he got rejected.

walk through ghosts by augustbird (M) (ambiguous ending)

The thing is: Sherlock thought that the two of them would have forever to figure it out.

What Are You Going To Do About It? by brbsoulnomming (M)

So, for whatever reason Sherlock steals John's clothes.

John, BAMF that he is, decides he's not going to take this lying down and wanders around the flat completely naked because he doesn't want to play Sherlock's game.

I want John making tea, cooking, reading a book (legs uncrossed, of course), watching telly, randomly bending over to pick things up, etcetera. JUST GOING ABOUT HIS DAY, BUT IN THE NUDE.

Sherlock now has a major problem: John's nudity is DISTRACTING.

He expected John would be all modest, or at least wear a towel or something, but things aren't going as planned.

Bonus points if there's a drug bust.

Renegades by augustbird (M)

Sherlock Holmes takes down Moriarty’s syndicate. He also takes John Watson with him. AU of The Reichenbach Fall.

A Very Sherlock Musical by flawedamythyst (T)

So, you know how musicals are set in a world where people just burst into song every five minutes, and everyone around them automatically knows to join in with the tune and choreography? This fic is set in that world.

John finds it extremely frustrating that Sherlock won't sing their theme song with him.

Untitled by shadowpenguins (Gen) [Tumblr ficlet]

Sherlock Holmes graced the quiet room with a ballet.

Where I Cannot Find You by withoutawish (M) (ANGST!)

When Hamish is diagnosed with cancer, his parents have two entirely separate ways of coping.

Sink Like a Stone by pennydreadful (T) (ANGST!)

After defeating Moriarty at the pool, life isn't quite the same around 221B Baker Street...it's more peaceful. And stranger.

BONUS: Johnlock Fan Songs

Pressure Point by Justine Benoit (leiaorganax)

it’s the start of a story the first written words you and I against the world our hearts racing in our veins the two of us, the thrill of the chase

I Believe in Sherlock Holmes by Vatican Cameos

In those eighteen months, you changed my life and my perception Of this world I live in now without you Baker Street won’t be the same Without your goddamn deductions Can I ever move on, Find someone new?

Morning Light by Justine Benoit (leiaorganax)

running through city lights you took my hand gave me someone who understands what it’s like to be empty what it’s like to be me

Ex-Girlfriends’ Lament by Vatican Cameos

You were nice, you were charming, You were handsome and sweet, But you cared more about, your flatmate than me, I wish you, the best, With Sherlock Holmes.

(Likely) more fan fictions to come! Enjoy!

Tagging those who may be interested: @alexxphoenix42 @sherlockgayaturgy @sherlcckholmes :)

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #johnlock #jl #johnlock fic recs #johnlock fic rec #jas' fic recs #fan fiction masterpost

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consultthisdick-blog · 8 years ago

Text

The Beginning

Or, A Study in Pink, Part II

Read on AO3

Summary: After being invalided home from Afghanistan, John Watson was only looking for some peace. Instead, he managed to get himself caught up in a whirlwind of serial killings, car chases, and awkward dinners, and it was all thanks to a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes.

After the tragedy of Series 4, let’s take some time to rewind back to the beginning, back to when John and Sherlock first met. ‘Back to Baker Street’ tells the story of BBC Sherlock, the way it always should have been

Part I

Later that afternoon, after John returned to his bedsit with the groceries, he fished his phone out of his pocket and sat down on his bed. He couldn’t help but be curious, so he checked his sent messages to read what Sherlock had been texting. He had hoped that it would provide some explanation to his character, but all it did was confuse him even more.

If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH

‘Arrest brother’ couldn’t be interpreted in many different ways. Arrest meant arrest. Arrest can’t mean anything other than arrest. But why was Sherlock Holmes calling for an arrest?

After several minutes of pondering the text, John shoved his phone back into his pocket, sat down at his desk and pulled out his laptop. He closed the webpage showing his blog, and only hesitated for a moment before typing ‘Sherlock Holmes’ into the search bar.

The search results showed a single website: The Science of Deduction.

John read through the site, which was apparently Sherlock’s own blog. He skimmed through most of it, but was able to come to one logical conclusion about him: he was absolutely mad. And for some bizarre reason, John felt compelled to write about him.

He entitled the post ‘A Strange Meeting.’

I don’t know how I’m meant to be writing this. I’m not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn’t because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened.

John paused for a moment and bit his lip before continuing.

I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Bart’s and he introduced us.

Except, he didn’t. He didn’t introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I’d served in Afghanistan and he knew I’d been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn’t get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn’t told him.

It didn’t occur to John that this was the most he’d ever considered posting on his blog. But he kept writing, as if writing this post was going to somehow make sense of everything that had transpired.

I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website, The Science of Deduction.

It’s mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quire rude and he looks about 12 and he’s clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.

So tomorrow, we’re off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.

John posted it before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, let out a deep breath, and leaned back in his chair. So, perhaps he wasn’t entirely honest; saying that Sherlock looked about 12 was slightly unnecessary hyperbole. It was better than the alternative. John couldn’t afford to like someone like Sherlock Holmes.

His head somewhat clearer, John closed his laptop and placed it back in the drawer, ready to prepare himself a cup of tea before bed. John closed the drawer, and didn’t give his gun a second glance.

When John opened his laptop the next morning after brewing his usual cup of coffee, he found that Harry and Bill Murray had taken to conversing in the comments. Again.

What the...?!?! Harry Watson

Mate, have you gone gay? Bill Murray

Hahahahaha!! He can’t be! The way he used to look at Clara! Harry Watson

Any word from her? Bill Murray

Nah. It's fine. Anyway we're talking about my brother!! Harry Watson

John downed the rest of his coffee and brought his fingers to his temples. He re-read his post from the night before and grimaced, knowing that it sounded more like something found in a purple diary under a pillow than on the public blog of a retired soldier.

Can’t you two email each other or something? This is meant to be for me to record my thoughts John Watson

He knew that his response wasn’t going to do anything; it would take more than that to get Harry off of his back. John wished quite frequently that he was an only child, and Harry, as the years went on, had only fuelled this desire, uncouth as it might be. Harry had to know that John had never looked at Clara like that, that he wasn’t jealous of Harry for having Clara. It was far more complicated than that, and sometimes John wished that it was as simple as quietly pining for his sister-in-law. Ex sister-in-law, now. Clara was lovely and kind and witty, and deserved so much more than Harry could give her, even Harry knew that.

But what Clara had represented to him…that’s what John had wanted: a place to find comfort and support and love, someone to care for. John was a doctor. Caring for people was his job, it was his purpose. And now, as he gazed around the dingy room, he knew that he couldn’t even care for himself.

His cane felt heavy in his hand and John remembered the gun in his drawer.

Turning away, John made his way into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, his cane leaning against the sink. He stared at himself for a while, his mind somehow drifting back to Sherlock Holmes and wondering how a man could read his life story just by looking at his face.

John stood there for a long while, looking, trying to see what Sherlock saw. He didn’t understand; the man must be mad. When John looked at his reflection, he didn’t see his military records or his doctorate or his history of unsuccessful therapy. John saw tired eyes and thin lips and worry lines that weren’t carried by most young men. He saw simple clothes shielding a body that wasn’t as strong as it looked. Flexing his shoulders and straightening his back John stood to attention the way he used to, in the hopes of once more seeing the soldier he had been. For a moment, John thought that he could see Captain Watson in the mirror, but it faded before he could get a closer look.

He shook his head and splashed his face with water, trying to shake the sound of gunfire from the back of his mind.

Back in the other room, John’s laptop sounded a notification. He sighed and sat back down at his desk to view the new comment on his blog. It was from Bill, not Harry.

Not denying it then? Bill Murray

John frowned at the comment and tried not to retaliate too hard. He wasn’t gay, that much was true, but if Sherlock was, he didn’t mind at all. So that’s what he said.

I'm not gay. He might be. I don't know. It doesn't matter. John Watson

It wasn’t a lie. But it certainly didn't feel like the entire truth. Bill didn’t need to know that. Neither did Sherlock, as far as John was concerned.

That evening at seven o’clock, John walked past the final few houses on Baker Street before number 221. 221B was a black door with a gold knocker next to a shop with a red banner that read ‘Speedy’s Lunch Bar & Café’ in strong white letters. John knocked on the door of 221B and heard a car pull up on the kerb behind him.

“Hello.”

John turned to see Sherlock thanking a cab driver, wearing a different suit but the same coat as he had been the day before.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John said, extending his hand in greeting.

“Sherlock, please,” he replied, taking John’s outstretched hand and shaking it.

John immediately dropped his gaze and gripped at his cane. “Well, this is a prime spot,” he stated. “Must be expensive.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady – she’s given me a special deal. Owes me a favour,” Sherlock explained, speaking to what must have been a very interesting spot over John’s left shoulder. “A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?” John asked, stunned.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock replied, finally catching his eye. “I ensured it.”

Before John could make heads or tails of it, the door to 221B opened and Sherlock stepped up to tightly embrace the woman behind it, whose arms had opened graciously when she saw him.

“Sherlock,” she smiled, releasing him. “Oh, hello, dear.”

Sherlock stepped down from the doorstep to let John into view. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “this is Doctor John Watson.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson said, this time her warm smile directed at John. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” John nodded at her and stepped over the threshold, with Sherlock close behind.

Once they were inside and the door closed behind them, Sherlock looked at John and gestured at the stairs. “Shall we?”

John nodded and his cane was a deadweight in his hand. He gazed up the stairs after Sherlock, who had bounded up them to the first floor landing. With a clenched jaw, John followed him up the best he could, willing his leg to be kind to him today.

Once he made it up the stairs, John found Sherlock waiting patiently for him by the door to the flat. John nodded appreciatively and Sherlock opened the door for them both, and John watched as he stepped proudly into the centre of the room.

John looked around the living room and nodded to himself. It was more spacious than he had expected, with tall bookshelves framing either side of a large fireplace, in front of which sat two large armchairs. Opposite the fireplace on the other side of the room was a large couch and coffee table, and separating the two was a hardwood desk. Above the desk, a strange animal skull was mounted to the wall between two grand windows. John turned around to take in the rest of the flat, first its odd wallpaper, and then the snug kitchen that branched off the near side of the living room, and then of course the monumental amount of clutter that really had to be sorted. Despite its eccentricities, John liked it.

“Well,” he said, “this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

Sherlock smiled and breathed what John was class as a small sigh of relief, had it been anyone else. “Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely.”

There was a comfortable pause, and then the two began to speak.

“Just as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up…”

“So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

John paused, realising that he had just mistaken all of Sherlock’s belongings for boxes of rubbish, and shifted in his place. “So this is all…?”

Sherlock, clearly embarrassed, stepped across the room and began to shuffle his things around, trying to minimise some of the mess. “Well, um,” he said, throwing some folders into a box, “obviously I can, uh, straighten things up a bit,”

John moved to protest but Sherlock, with his back to him, didn’t notice. Instead, John watched as Sherlock moved in a haste of billowing coats, taking a small pile of unopened envelopes from the coffee table on one side of the room over to the fireplace on the other, before placing them on the mantelpiece and stabbing them through with a penknife. Next to the mutilated letters, John noticed something else.

“That’s a skull,” he said, gesturing to it with his cane.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock smiled back, before pausing to revaluate. “Well,” he continued, “when I say ‘friend’…”

Anything John might have asked about Sherlock’s ‘friend’ was cut off by Mrs. Hudson, who had come up the stairs behind them.

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson?” she asked, picking up a teacup and saucer from the coffee table as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who had is back to them, and then back to Mrs. Hudson. “Well, of course we’ll be needing two…”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear!” Mrs. Hudson fussed. “There’s all sorts ‘round here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” She said ‘married ones’ in a strong whisper as she gestured to number 223. It dawned on John a second too late that she thought he and Sherlock were together. He looked over to Sherlock again, expecting him to confirm to Mrs. Hudson that they weren’t involved in that way, but Sherlock simply continued his awkward mission to tidy up. John wondered for a moment if Sherlock actually knew what was being insinuated.

He decided that he wasn’t going to question it, and so he brushed off the armchair closest to the kitchen, fixed the cushion, and sat down, resting his leg after climbing the stairs. While Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, John watched Sherlock for a brief moment, before deciding that it was time for at least a partial explanation, or, at the very least, conformation that Sherlock Holmes was as mad as a hatter.

“I looked you up on the Internet last night,” John said.

This apparently sparked Sherlock’s interest, as he turned to face him, the movement smooth and elegant. “Anything interesting?”

“I found your website. ‘The Science of Deduction.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quipped upward. “What did you think?”

John said nothing and raised an eyebrow, still not convinced of Sherlock’s honesty on the blog. Sherlock’s face fell into a frown.

“You said that you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,” John said, in the belief that this was enough to justify his scepticism.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John asked.

Sherlock simply turned away, smiling to himself, and John still felt like there was a joke that he wasn’t in on.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson came back into the living room, this time holding today’s newspaper. “I thought that’d be right up your street. Three! All exactly the same.”

John heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the flat, and Sherlock moved over to the window and pushed back to curtain to look.

“Four,” he said, voice grave as he peered out to Baker Street. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asked, glancing between Sherlock by the window and the paper in her hands. John stared at Sherlock, only breaking his stare from the elegant silhouette at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

A young yet silver-haired man wearing a dark coat strode into the room, and John watched as Sherlock whirled around to face him. The intruder made no move to acknowledge either John or Mrs. Hudson, but looked at Sherlock right in the eyes, his shoulders tense and his face morphed with regret.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, not seeming to bother with introductions.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man replied.

Sherlock frowned. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

John watched the exchange intently, soaking up every word.

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded.

“This one did. Will you come?”

This had apparently sparked Sherlock’s interest, and John watched as the excitement danced on the corners of his mouth and his eyes.

“Who’s on forensics?” he asked.

“Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant!”

“But I need an assistant!” Sherlock protested.

The man ignored him. “Will you come?”

For a brief second, John’s heart leapt wildly in his chest and he momentarily hoped that Sherlock would ask him to fill that position; the near promise of being useful again – of some kind of adventure – was fare more tempting to him than wasting away alone in a dingy bedsit. But Sherlock did no such thing, and John sat in silence.

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll be right behind.”

John saw the tension in the man’s shoulders release as he let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said, before leaving the apartment and going back down the stairs.

At the sound of the front door slamming, a wide grin spread across Sherlock’s face and he leapt into the air, clenching his fists in excitement.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed, twirling around the room with the most enthusiasm John had seen in a very long time. “Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

He picked up his coat and scarf headed for the kitchen, not sparing John a second glance. John supposed that he had been right all along: Sherlock Holmes was barking mad.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late,” Sherlock continued. “Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson quipped.

“Something cold will do! John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

John couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach as Sherlock left the apartment without him.

“Look at him, dashing about!” Mrs. Hudson said pleasantly. “My husband was just the same.”

Not knowing how to reply, John said nothing.

“But you’re the more sitting down type,” she continued, turning toward the kitchen. “I can tell. I’ll get you that cuppa and you rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” John said, with much more force than was necessary. But, in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t seem to control himself. His bloody leg was the reason he was in this mess. He was supposed to be a soldier, he was supposed to be in Afghanistan, and not sitting in a chair while his madman of a flatmate was gallivanting around London doing God knows what and his landlady made him a cup of tea.

Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman, had gasped at his outburst and turned back to him shock.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” John said, immediately apologetic. “It’s just that this bloody thing…” He trailed off and hit his bad leg with his cane.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and waved it off. “I understand, dear,” she said. “I’ve got a hip.”

“A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,” John nodded, picking up the newspaper that she’d left on the arm of his chair.

“Just this once, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got them.”

“Not your housekeeper.”

She left the flat and went downstairs, and John folded the newspaper in half, skimming the headlines. His eyes narrowed at the story on the front page, ‘Transport Minister Third Suicide.’ It was the third suicide that he’d heard about on the radio, the ones he’d written about on his blog just the other day. But it wasn’t the large picture of Beth Davenport that had caught his attention. No, underneath the headline was another picture, one of the man that asked Sherlock to come with him to Brixton. And underneath this picture was a small caption:

DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation.

Detective Inspector Lestrade. What would a Detective Inspector want with Sherlock Holmes? Before he could read more, Sherlock’s voice interrupted him.

“You’re a doctor.”

John put down the paper and looked to Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway putting on his gloves and had apparently been waiting outside for Mrs. Hudson to leave.

“In fact, you an Army doctor.”

“Yes.” John staggered to his feet as Sherlock walked toward him.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then?” Sherlock asked. “Violent deaths?”

John frowned. “Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I’ll bet.”

“Yes, of course,” John said quietly. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock smirked. It was almost seductive. “Do you want to see some more?”

“Oh, God, yes!”

Grinning broadly, Sherlock spun on his heels and lead the way out of the door and down the stairs. John followed him as fast as his leg would allow, and called out to their landlady.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea,” he said. “Off out.”

She was there when he and Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs. “Both of you?”

“Impossible suicides? Four of them?” Sherlock gushed, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her loudly on the cheek. “There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”

Mrs. Hudson looked from Sherlock to John and tried not to smile. “Look at you, all happy,” she chided. “It’s not decent.”

“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock opened the front door and gestured for John to follow him, which he did, eagerly. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

John followed Sherlock out onto Baker Street and closed the door to 221B behind them. Sherlock hailed a taxi and the two got in, the air between them thick with anticipation. John, still feeling uncomfortable staring at Sherlock for too long, divided his attention between the busy roads outside the cab window and Sherlock, who was studying his smartphone intently.

They sat in silence for a long while and a million and one questions floated in and out of John’s mind, each more complicated than the last. Sherlock, however, seemed completely at ease leaning elegantly against the cab door, his face illuminated by the light from his screen.

Just when the silence was becoming almost unbearable, Sherlock lowered his phone and turned to John. “Okay, you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah, where are we going?” John asked, every other question he had come up with suddenly evaporating.

“Crime scene,” Sherlock answered. “Next.”

“Who are you?” John continued. “What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

John thought for a moment, hesitant. “I’d say private detective…”

“But?”

“But,” he continued, “the police don’t go to private detectives.”

Sherlock smiled, apparently pleased with this answer. “I’m a consulting detective,” he explained. “I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

This still didn’t explain much but, at this point, John didn’t find that surprising at all. “What does that mean?”

“It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as John found him subjected to a very poignant look, so tastefully executed that he wondered if Sherlock had practiced it in front of a mirror.

“When I met you for the first time yesterday I asked you ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’,” Sherlock stated. “You looked surprised.”

“Yes,” John affirmed. “How did you know?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I didn’t know; I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious.”

John stared at him and opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sherlock paid no attention and continued.

“Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing.” Sherlock looked down to John’s cane and then to his bad leg. “Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Lost for words, John racked his mind for something to say. “You said I had a therapist,” he managed.

“You have a psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock stated. “Of course you have a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

“What?”

“Your phone.” Sherlock held out his hand and John fished it out of his coat, handing it to him. “It’s expensive. E-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for flatshare; you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.”

Turning the phone over in his hand, Sherlock ran his fingers against the back. “Scratches,” he said. “Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pockets as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving,” John supplied, watching Sherlock tap the words with his forefinger.

Harry Watson From Clara xxx

Sherlock hummed in agreement and resumed his monologue. “Harry Watson…clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. It could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s romantic attachment and the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months on and he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do; sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, and that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation but you’re not going to your brother for help? That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How could you possibly know about the drinking?” John asked, completely baffled.

“Shot in the dark,” Sherlock smiled. “Good one, though. The power connection: tiny scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.”

He handed John back the phone, who took it and placed it back into his pocket.

“There you go, you see – you were right,” Sherlock said.

“I was right?” John asked. “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” He turned away from John, who gazed at him in amazement. For a moment, they lapsed into silence.

“That…” John began, his mind buzzing as he tried to comprehend even a small percentage of what had transpired. “That was��amazing.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at him, and he stared at John so intently that he wondered if he’d said something wrong. For the first time since they’d met, Sherlock Holmes appeared to be struck dumb.

“Do you really think so?” he asked, after a long stretch of silence.

“Of course it was,” John gaped. “It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock admitted.

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off.’”

John laughed and shook his head, and Sherlock chuckled along with him before turning to gaze out of the cab window.

“We’re here,” he said, the cab slowing down and stopping a few hundred feet away from a road barricaded by police tape. The street was illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights from both the police cars and an ambulance, and Sherlock thanked and paid the cabbie before leaping out, bounding around the back of the cab, and opening the door for John before he could even reach for his cane.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, leading John toward the police tape.

“Harry and me don’t get on,” John admitted. “Never have. Harry and Clara split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce. Harry’s a drinker.”

Sherlock looked mildly impressed. “Really?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

John smirked. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Realisation dawning on his face, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and groaned. “Harry’s your sister.”

“Look,” John said, diverting back to the situation at hand. “What am I supposed to be doing here?”

“Sister!”

John looked around uncomfortably, noticing that they were at the receiving end of quite a few dirty looks from the officers surrounding the scene.

“No, seriously,” he said, much quieter should any of them be listening. Vulnerability wasn’t very attractive at the current moment. “What am I doing here?”

“There’s always something!”

Sherlock, still apparently hung up on his mistake (and quite an understandable one, at that), ignored him and marched up to the police tape, where he was met by a dark-skinned police officer with sharp eyes and a disapproving mouth.

“Hello, freak,” she jeered.

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice cool and scarily monotonous. It struck John that this was Sherlock being professional.

“Why?” the officer interrogated.

“I was invited.”

“Why?”

“I think he wants me to take a look.” John could tell that Sherlock had very little patience for this woman, and he wondered if she always taunted him like that; it was obvious even without Sherlock’s deductive genius that the two did not get on.

“Well you know what I think,” she chided, “don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled pleasantly and lifted the police tape, ducking under it. “Always, Sally,” he said, then taking a dramatic breath in through his nose. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t…” she began, before finally noticing John. She jabbed a finger in his general direction and turned back to Sherlock. “Who’s this?”

“Colleague of mine,” Sherlock replied. “Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Sargent Sally Donovan. Old friend.”

John smiled, but it was lost on her.

“A colleague?” she asked. “How do you get a colleague” Then, she turned to John. “Did he follow you home?”

Caving under the tension, John turned to Sherlock. “Would it be better if I just waited and–”

But Sherlock lifted the police tape defiantly and John, who apparently had no other choice, stepped through.

Donovan scowled at Sherlock and John stepped between them, defensive of his new…colleague.

“Freak’s here,” Donovan said into a radio, deciding not to pick a fight. “Bringing him in.”

She turned away from them and began to walk toward and old house swarming with police officers and people in protective clothing. Sherlock walked beside him, and John found the gesture oddly comforting. He watched intently as Sherlock’s eyes roamed over their surroundings, analytical and inquisitive as they approached the façade of the old house.

The door to the house opened and from it emerged a small team of forensic investigators, all wearing the same protective coveralls. One of them, a sour-faced man with thin lips and dark hair, approached them, glaring a Sherlock with obvious distaste.

“Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock said, addressing him pleasantly. “Here we are again.”

Anderson pursed his lips. “It’s a crime scene,” he sneered. “I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” Sherlock smiled. He then took in another deep breath through his nose, just like he had next to Donovan. “And, uh, is your wife away for long?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out,” Anderson scoffed. “Somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that.”

“My deodorant?” Anderson took a step toward Sherlock and crossed his arms, his glare never once wavering.

“It’s ‘for men’,” Sherlock dramatized quirkily, as if he were speaking to a child.

Anderson blinked. “Well, of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it.”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said, and John looked over to see that Donovan’s eyes had widened in shock, confirming the accusation. John tried to hide his smile as she and Anderson shared a panicked look, and Sherlock bounced on his heels proudly.

Sherlock sniffed the air again and didn’t look Anderson in the face. “Ooh, and I think it just vaporised,” he said, glancing over to John. “May I go in?”

“Now whatever you’re trying to imply…” Anderson began, angrily pointing a finger at Sherlock.

“I’m not implying anything.” He strode up the path to the front door of the house, his eyes wide and innocent. “I’m sure Sally came ‘round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

John ducked his head and tried not to laugh, following Sherlock through the door and into the house and made sure to take a quick glance at Donovan’s knees as he passed her.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” he whispered to Sherlock, who lead him into a small room on the first floor.

Sherlock shrugged. “I know. But my way’s more fun, don’t you think?”

John didn’t reply, as the room was uncomfortably full of officers and investigators, including Detective Inspector Lestrade. They were all wearing the same blue coveralls.

“You need to wear one of these,” Sherlock said, pointing to a pile of the coveralls on a table, and John nodded, leaning his cane against the wall and picking one up.

Lestrade looked at him, confused, and turned to Sherlock. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock answered, curtly.

“But who is he?” Lestrade pressed.

“I said he’s with me.”

John, despite this constant reassurance from Sherlock, really didn’t feel like he belonged beside him at a crime scene. He was very out of place — more so than Sherlock would be at Sunday mass — with his limp and his cane and his wary eyes. For a moment he wished that he was back at Baker Street drinking tea and doing crosswords with Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock appeared to be the only one who wanted him here and, by the looks of things, Sherlock wasn’t even wanted here.

He looked over to Sherlock, who had bypassed him and Lestrade and had picked up a two pairs of latex gloves, handing one over to him.

“Aren’t you going to put one on?” John asked, noting Sherlock’s lack of coverall.

Sherlock shot him a look, and John rolled his eyes and accepted the latex gloves, making no further comment.

“So,” Sherlock said, turning once more to Lestrade. “Where are we?”

“Upstairs,” Lestrade replied, moving over to the staircase.

Sherlock followed him and looked back at John, making sure he was still close behind. John’s cane clunked on the old stairs and he grimaced, wishing that old houses didn’t sound so hollow.

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade said as they reached the second flight of stairs.

Sherlock looked up at the winding staircase and put on the latex gloves. “May need longer.”

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards,” Lestrade continued. “We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

He stopped once they reached the second landing, and John’s bad leg thanked him. Lestrade opened the door and lead them in, Sherlock following quickly and John not too far behind. The air in the room was musty, and the floor was ridden with dust. John looked around, the muted grey of the walls reminding him of his bedsit, and he didn’t find the comparison terribly comforting. The room itself was devoid of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Old scaffolding poles braced the far part of the ceiling, not too far from where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls. Everything else John assumed had been brought in by the police; portable lighting had been set up, illuminating the room with a weak glow. In the middle of the floor, a beacon within the monochrome walls, lay a woman’s body, face down on the bare floorboards, and dressed head to toe in bright pink. Next to her hand, five letters had been scratched into the floor: RACHE.

First as a doctor, then as a soldier, John had seen many corpses in his life, but the harrowing shock was the same every time.

John looked over to Sherlock, and was surprised to see that, as he stared at the corpse, his face was twisted with regret. The three of them stood in silence, all focused on the body of Jennifer Wilson, before Sherlock whipped his head to look at Lestrade.

“Shut up.”

Startled, Lestrade shook his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking,” Sherlock clarified. “It was annoying.”

Lestrade then looked back at John, and the two shared a surprised look. John didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know if he could say anything without disturbing Sherlock, and so didn’t say anything, watching, intrigued, as his flatmate stepped slowly toward the corpse. He moved swiftly, moving around the body with smooth, lithe movements, his coat pooling around his ankles as he crouched down for closer examination. John didn’t know what he was looking for, or if there was anything to be looking for, but, somehow, he knew that if there was, Sherlock Holmes would be the one to find it.

This carried on for another minute before Sherlock abruptly stood up, appearing to have finished his investigation.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged, nonchalant. “Not much,” he admitted. He peeled off the gloves, reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone, and began typing.

“She’s German.”

John turned around to see Anderson leaning casually against the doorway.

“‘Rache’,” he elaborated. “It’s German for ‘revenge’. She could be trying to tell us something—”

He was cut off by Sherlock, who had walked briskly over towards the door and closed it in Anderson’s face, not glancing up from his phone.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he said. The door slammed loudly and John watched as Sherlock moved to stand in the middle of the room, once more beside the corpse of Jennifer Wilson.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course she’s not,” Sherlock replied, not offering anything else on the subject. “She is from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…” He smiled smugly, turned off his phone and pocketed it. “…before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”

“Sorry,” John said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. “Obvious?”

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade urged.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to John, who faltered slightly at the intensity of his stare.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?”

“Of the body,” Sherlock clarified. “You’re a medical man.”

Before he could move to get a closer look, Lestrade stepped forward. “Wait, no, we have a whole medical team right outside.”

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock said, repeating his words from back at Baker Street.

“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here!”

Sherlock smiled through his teeth. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Because you need me.”

Lestrade stared at him defiantly, before lowering his eyes in defeat. “Yes, I do,” he said. “God help me.”

Smiling, much more genuine now, Sherlock turned back to John. “Doctor Watson.”

“Hmm?” John glanced from Sherlock to the body, then from the body to Lestrade, silently seeking his permission to comply with Sherlock’s request.

“Oh, do as he says,” Lestrade muttered. “Help yourself.”

He turned and opened the door, stepping outside and leaving Sherlock and John alone with Jennifer Wilson.

“Anderson, keep everyone out of a couple of minutes.”

Sherlock took that as his cue to move, and he ushered John to where he had stood beside the corpse, squatting down beside it. John followed the best he could, his leg twinging in protest as he awkwardly lowered himself onto one knee, using his cane to support himself the best he could.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, eyes bright and triumphant.

John glanced at the closed door and leaned over the body so Sherlock could hear him.

“What am I doing here?” he asked softly.

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock answered, mimicking his whisper.

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun?” John questioned. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis,” Sherlock noted, “but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

Well, it was too late to back out now. John dragged his bad leg into a kneeling position and saw Lestrade reenter the room as he leaned in to closer examine the body. First: cause of death. Swallowing and trying not to think about the number of times he had done this in Afghanistan, John put his head close to hers, sniffed, and pulled away, then examining the skin on her right hand before looking again across to Sherlock.

“Yeah…” he began. “Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was,” Sherlock said. “You’ve read the papers.”

John had only read one paper, the one back in 221B, but he knew to what Sherlock was alluding. “What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted. “Two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock stood, and John followed, albeit much less gracefully, and leaned once more on his cane.

“Victim is in her late thirties,” Sherlock began. John recognised that voice; Sherlock had used it twice on him already. That was his deduction voice. “Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked, eyebrows furrowed.

John, sharing his confusion, looked around the room in search of such suitcase. He found none. Sherlock, however, was too wrapped up in his own head to notice.

“Suitcase, yes,” he continued, distractedly moving about the room, his coat flouncing behind him in a dark wave. “She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lestrade moaned. “If you’re just making this up…”

“Her wedding ring,” Sherlock interrupted, pointing down to the woman’s left hand. John saw the wedding ring, and it looked completely unremarkable, exactly like every other wedding ring he’d seen his entire life. “Ten years old at least,” Sherlock stated. “The rest of her jewelery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside — that means it’s regularly removed; the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work. Look at her nails! She doesn’t work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant.” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before he could catch himself, and he awkwardly smiled as Sherlock paused to look at him, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he said, urging Sherlock to continue his explanation.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock frowned. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s not obvious to me,” John admitted, knowing he spoke for both himself and the Inspector.

Sherlock looked between the two of them, baffled. “Dear God, what is it like inside your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” And, before either John or Lestrade could get another word in, Sherlock was off again. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just win, strong wind — too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have coma decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So,” he paused, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff.”

He held out his phone to show John and Lestrade the webpage he was looking at earlier; it displayed today’s weather for southern Britain.

“That’s fantastic!” John gaped, stunned in utter awe at this brilliant madman.

Sherlock turned to him and leaned in. “Do you know you do that out loud?” he asked.

“Sorry,” John apologised. “I’ll shut up.”

“No,” Sherlock countered, quickly dismissing him. “No, it’s…fine.”

John stared up at him in surprise and saw Sherlock give him a brief, shy smile. He realised that Sherlock was pleased with the compliments, he liked the compliments. Then, he remembered earlier in the taxi when Sherlock had deduced him; Sherlock had said that people didn’t usually react well to his deductions. John wondered if there was anyone else at all who thought them to be brilliant, and if Sherlock had ever heard them say it. With that thought in mind, John told himself that, throughout the night, he would remind Sherlock at every possible instance of his mad brilliance. If he got to see that shy, private smile again, it would be worth it.

Lestrade coughed loudly, and John looked away from Sherlock and down and the floorboards.

“Why d’you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade asked.

As if he had just remembered that they were at a crime scene, Sherlock spun around in a circle looking around the room. “Yes,” he muttered. “Where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “She was writing ‘Rachel’?”

“No,” Sherlock retorted sarcastically. “She was leaving an angry not in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question it: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

Sherlock pointed down to the corpse. “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.” He squatted down by the body, fingers ghosting over the backs of her legs as he examined them more closely. “Now,” he said, “where is it? What have you done with it?”

Lestrade shook head and said, “There wasn’t a case.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade repeated. “There was never any suitcase.”

At this, Sherlock immediately stood up and headed for the door, walking straight past John and Lestrade and called out to the police officers standing outside. “Suitcase!” he shouted, hurrying back down the stairs. “Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called out behind him. “There was no case!”

“But they take the poison themselves,” Sherlock said, slowing down and looking up the stairwell at them. “They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

“Right, yeah, thanks,” Lestrade grumbled. “And…?”

“It’s murder!” Sherlock expressed, gripping the railing. “All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings — serial killings.” He clasped his hands together in front of his face in delight. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

Lestrade looked to John who shook his head, having no clue what Sherlock was talking about. “Why are you saying that?” Lestrade asked, shouting down the stairs.

“Her case!” Sherlock gasped, almost having reached the ground floor. “Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.” Then he spoke more quietly, talking to himself rather than John and the baffled Inspector. “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel,” John supplied. “Left her case there.”

“No, she never got to the hotel,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…Oh!”

Sherlock stopped, realisation dawning on his face, and John for the life of him couldn’t understand what it could be.

“Oh!” He spun around in pure delight.

“Sherlock?” John called down to him.

Lestrade leaned over the railing. “What is it,” he asked. “What?”

“Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade said.

Sherlock began to hurry down the last flight of stairs. “Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” He reached the bottom of the stairs and John watched him disappear from sight.

“Of course, yeah,” Lestrade called, waving the officers around them to follow Sherlock’s instructions. “But what mistake?”

Sherlock ran back into view, his eyes ablaze with excitement. He leapt up the first few stairs and looked fervently from John to Lestrade and back again. “PINK!”

And he was gone again.

Lestrade turned to John, who shook his head, baffled, before going back into the room while Anderson and his team followed closely in his wake.

“Let’s get on with it,” Anderson grumbled, pointedly ignoring John as he passed.

Seemingly forgotten by everyone else, John hesitated on the landing for a moment before deciding to go back downstairs to find Sherlock. He turned to say goodbye to Lestrade but saw that the Inspector was too engrossed with giving stressed orders to his officers to notice John’s awkward fumbling. So, John began the long and painful descent down the stairs. As careful as he was, John was still occasionally knocked about by hurried police officers, who pushed passed him without so much as a second glance. His grip tightened on his cane as his hand threatened a tremor. Slowly, but surely, he eventually made it to the bottom of the stairs, where he removed his coverall and latex gloves, his head bowed so as to attract as little attention as possible. He put on his jacket and left the building, making sure to stay out of the way of the people who were actually supposed to be there. Once he was back out in the street John looked around in search of Sherlock, or for any sign as to where he had gone.

“He’s gone.”

John looked over to Donovan, who was standing back by the police tape.

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, walking over to her.

“Yeah, he just took off,” she said. “He does that.”

A heavy weight settled in John’s chest, as he realised that he had been, once again, forgotten. “Is he coming back?”

Donovan shook her head. “Didn’t look like it.”

“Right.” He looked around the street, trying to think of what to do from here. “Right, yes. Sorry, where am I?”

“Brixton.”

“Right. Er, do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er…well…” John glanced down at his cane, “my leg.”

Donovan’s face softened slightly and she lifted the police tape. “Yeah,” she said. “Try the main road.”

“Thanks,” John smiled curtly, ducking under the tape. He was about to walk away when Donovan spoke again.

“But you’re not his friend,” she stated, and John turned back to her, confused. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

“I’m…I’m nobody,” John said. “I just met him.”

“Okay, a bit of advice then,” Donovan offered. “Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Do you know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be good enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

John stared at her and tried to process her words; they didn’t really make sense. Sure, Sherlock was a bit mad and wasn’t exactly the most tactful of people, be he didn’t seem to be violent. “Why would he do that?” John asked finally.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” Donovan said, so nonchalantly that it made John uncomfortable. “And psychopaths get bored.”

Back from the entrance of the house, Lestrade called over to her.

“Donovan!”

“Coming!” she said, before turning back once more to John. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

John watched as she walked toward the house, mulling over what she’d said. From what he had seen, Sherlock was no more than a strange young man with an even stranger mind, but these people had known him for longer than he had and they all hated him, tolerated him at best. Perhaps it was best if he just went home — to his bedsit — and forgot that this had ever happened.

Sighing, John turned away from the scene and began to limp down the street in the direction of the main road. It wasn’t too long before he came to a telephone box, which began to ring as he passed it. John stopped and looked at it for a few seconds, wondering if he should answer it, but decided against it and continued down the road. The phone stopped ringing.

It wasn’t long before John made it to Brixton High Road, and he tried (and failed) to hail a taxi three times before stopping on the corner outside of a busy restaurant. He stood there, defeated, as the wind picked up and nipped through his too-thin coat. As he was about to walk off again, the payphone on the wall of the restaurant began to ring. John looked over at it cautiously, watching as one of the waiters from the restaurant moved to pick it up, but it stopped ringing before the lad had the chance. Shaking his head, John continued on down the road, weaving in and out of the crowd.

He walked firmly past another telephone box determined not to look at it, but it too began to ring. Mystified, John stared at the phone and wondered whether or not he should answer it. Curiosity got the better of him, it always did, as he pulled open the door and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

The line was filled with static, and a man’s steely voice spoke to him. “There is a security camera on the building to your left,” it said. “Do you see it?”

John frowned at the odd message. “Who’s this? Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

He froze when he heard his name, and immediately recognised that he had stepped into something much larger than himself. He looked through the left window of the phone box and scanned the building for the camera. He saw it, a CCTV camera high up on the wall, and pointing straight at him.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “I see it.”

“Watch.”

John complied and watched as the camera, which had been pointing straight at him, swiveled away to point at an unremarkable part of the road.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you,” the man said. “Do you see it?”

John looked across the road to the second camera, which was also pointed toward the phone box. He hummed his acknowledgment, staring. The camera immediately swiveled away, just like the first one.

“And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

Like the first two, this camera also turned away, and John was completely off the record. He could disappear right now and no-one would be able to tell what happened to him…

“How are you doing this?” John asked into the phone, growing slightly panicked. He tried to keep himself calm, steadying his balance, but it was months since Afghanistan and he had forgotten what it felt like to be in danger.

A black car pulled up at the kerbside by the telephone box. It was clean and sleek and expensive and obviously well looked after. John’s grip on the phone loosened as the driver got out and opened the door to the back seat.

“I would make some sort of threat,” said the man’s voice on the other end of the line. “But I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

The phone went dead and John put it back down, weighing his options. He could make a run for it, but running was completely out of the question given his leg and, even if he could run, he didn’t think that it would do much good. If whoever had called him was able to watch him from CCTV, then he could be under surveillance anywhere in London; trying to hide seemed quite foolish. Knowing that there wasn’t much that he could do, John left the phone box and got into the car.

An attractive young woman sat next to him behind the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry, ignoring him. Sherlock had ignored him too, and that was why he was in this mess.

“Hello,” John said, hoping to start a conversation (and potentially find out where he was going).

The woman looked up from her phone and smiled brightly at him “Hi,” she said, and turned back to her phone.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Er…” The woman contemplated his question for a minute before answering. “…Anthea.”

John huffed. “Is that your real name?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled at him again in the same way that John suspected she would at a small child. Or a dog.

He twisted around and tried to look out of the rear window, but it was darkly tinted and he couldn’t see anything other than muted lights from cars and street lamps.

“I’m John,” he said, turning back to Not-Anthea.

Not-Anthea smiled down at her BlackBerry. “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

John felt like he should have suspected that. And he was growing quite tired of feeling like everyone else knew more than he did.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” he asked, growing impatient.

“None at all…John.”

John nodded, his lips pursed. “Okay.”

He didn’t speak again for the rest of the journey.

#johnlock #tjlc #asip #sherlock #btbs:1 #fanfic

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