THE STARRY MESSENGERTHE STARRY MESSENGERJohn Watson liked everything about Sherlock Holmes, though some things a tad more than others.John Watson liked everything about Sherlock Holmes.His hair, which was now too long and hung flapping by his long neck (oh, that long neck,) his pale skin and his high cheekbones, his shit attitude which Watson still found arousing (when Sherlock found out the consequences his ranting had on his poor doctor, he'd blabbered about idiocy before pulling him along to an alleyway,) and even his sullen moods, where dear John would just stare at his sweetheart's pouty lips and fantasize about licking them.In short, everything. But mos
Just a Normal Day...Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes to be a strange man. He was hard to draw out, and if one managed to do that, only the strangest (and sometimes, the most dangerous) cases interested the consulting detective. His way of deducing clues from the smallest grain of sand impressed many. When the police were lost (which was, in his opinion, most of the time), they consulted Sherlock Holmes. Though despite being so effective in his ways, his attitude sometimes put many a person off. For his deducing abilities did not stop at the crime scene. He can tell what a person has done for that day, and their general attitude, just by a single glance. A genius in
RumIt burnt his throat. It was thick and hot and the once-adored, now-putrid odour of alcohol singed the hairs of his nose and the bristles on his chin. Jack slumped against the cell's wall, the stray trickles of water snaking down the barnacle-encrusted bricks and worming their way down his shirt collar, dribbling onto his skin and shoulder blades beneath. He sat in the salty brine, head tilted to the ceiling, neck exposed to the minimum light that seeped in through a slit in the cell above. In a rhythmic motion he see-sawed the bottle, neck gripped in his grubby hands that concealed ancient dirt beneath the nails , up to his mouth. He fitted h
33 Minutes EarlierI am not a man who enjoys being bored or even at all the slightest bit idle. It makes my brain rot and will eventually slow down the rotation of my earth. I do not understand why anybody who walks these Roman streets finds sitting slouched in front of a television set, glaring for hours at mind-numbing monstrosities that the media call 'entertainment', enjoyable. It is beyond me how so many people can get so much pleasure out of a box. Not even proving machines wrong on those lie-detector shows interests me anymore; and even my violin fails to amuse me. I know myself how unpredictable and sulky I can become when my mo
BBC Sherlock- Sink TeethThe skull is small in his hands, the eye sockets barely big enough for his fingertips to press through and the gnashed bone teeth able to lock around his smallest finger with only a tinge of strain. It's the tiniest bit of bone he's ever examined, as it's only slightly bigger than a pound, and he's only doing it for the bits gashed at the top. The mouse had been captured by an animal first, and he doesn't know if it's supposed to be important or not, but it's fascinating enough to stop the slow crawl of boredom from settling into the base of his skull. He's moved over the sink now, the fluorescents better there than in the main room, and he t
IRREPLACEABLEIrreplaceableSherlock Holmes did not trust. He did not trust and he shouldn't have trusted and he was never wrong. But, most of all, Sherlock did not feel.3:14"And what do you think?"Sherlock raised an eyebrow when he didn't receive the answer he'd hoped for."Traitor," he mumbled, discarding the discussion with a wave towards the skull sitting next to him on the coffeetable.He flopped around, turning his back on the empty, accusing eye-sockets."Well, what do you know," he mumbled into the queen-and-country pillow he'd movedstolen from that chair.He sat up with a start and moved towards the window.He'd thought it was a bluff.