Ceri-chan123

Dear Jim, I'm sick of this childish feud you have with Holmes. Watson and I are out for a pint. We'll be back when you two can get along. Love, Seb xx - - - - - Dear Sherlock, I'm tired of this crazy game you have with Moriarty. Moran and I have gone to the pub. Don't pick the lock until we get back, which will be when you two can agree to be friends. —John - - - - - Jim stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at Jim. Neither of them blinked, nor looked away, until their eyes were watering and it was either blink or suffer from dried-out eyeballs. Neither of them spoke for quite some time. They had both been occupied with reading

Jim Moriarty was a posh, cocky bastard, Sebastian Moran decided upon their first meeting. But he was an interesting posh, cocky bastard, and Sebastian was bored, so he agreed to the terms of employment. The first job was an assassination—routine, simple, requiring very little brainpower—and Sebastian worried for a moment that this would be dull, just like every other job, and that Jim Moriarty didn't actually have anything to distinguish him from other, more ordinary criminals. Then there was the second job, which was decidedly the very opposite of boring, and Sebastian figured he might as well stick around, see just how interesti

It has taken a remarkably short time for the two of them to settle back into a routine after Sherlock's return. Admittedly, there isn't much in their day-to-day lives that ordinary people would consider routine (miscellaneous body parts in the microwave; violin at three in the morning; toxic chemicals in the kitchen; mad dashes after criminals over rooftops and down alleys and, on one memorable occasion, through a party), but neither John nor Sherlock can really be considered ordinary. The one regular piece of their lives that doesn't involve some form of chaos is the long evenings spent in the sitting-room of 221B Baker-street, John typing

NOTE: CONTAINS MINOR SPOILERS FOR THE THIRD EPISODE OF THE SECOND SEASON OF SHERLOCK, THE REICHENBACH FALL. 1) Sherlock—god, Sherlock. It's hard to believe it. I just—I don't want to believe it. [a humourless laugh] Be specific, John—I can just hear you saying that. By it,, I mean—well, everything. That you weren't real. That—none of it was real. That you're—that you're— [his voice cracks] That you're dead. [a rush of static; a sigh, then a deep breath] I just—I believe in you, Sherlock. [a click; he hangs up] - - - - - 2) It's been a while, hasn't it? [a chuckle] Just a few months, really.

"Molly, Molly, Molly!" Molly glanced over at little Adrian, who was looking up at her with the huge eyes he used when he wanted something. She smiled fondly and picked him up to set him on top of the stack of finished paperwork on the kitchen table. "Yes, Adrian? Isn't it your bedtime?" The six-year-old scowled at being treated like a baby. "I wanna bedtime story." "All right, then," Molly agreed. Babysitting Adrian had never been a trial, and she was always happy to do her friend a favour. "What sort of story do you want? Snow White? Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty?" Adrian shook his head. "Nuh-uh. An adventure story! With dragons an' knight

Jim Moriarty's brain is (to use an outdated simile) like a runaway carriage, all spinning wheels and mad-eyed horses, with the promise of death or serious injury at the end of whatever path it takes. He thinks faster than anyone else he's ever known (except Sherlock Holmes, but that's why they're archenemies), which makes complicated, organised, intricate crime the only thing that can occupy him for long. He's good at his job, loves doing it, loves the thrill of the tangled plot and the adrenalin rush after a big scheme. Sometimes, however, the pace is too much. Sometimes, his brain spins and spins and spins with nowhere to go, and if it wer

When Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson, Sherlock thinks he's never met anyone so interesting. On the surface, John is unremarkable, but there's so much hidden beneath what's outwardly shown that Sherlock can't help but be drawn in, fascinated by the mystery wrapped in an oatmeal-coloured jumper. In a very short amount of time, John has become an unremovable part of Sherlock's life. The two of them are always together, whether the backdrop be 221B Baker-street or a crime scene or dashing across rooftops in pursuit of a killer. John is Sherlock's friend, possibly his first real one, and though Sherlock doesn't notice it, John's presence is sta

In all my years recording the adventures of that consulting detective known as Sherlock Holmes, I have seen many peculiar cases. This one is not so strange, but I have decided to write it down so I may remember it. It began one Boxing Day morning, some three hours before noon. As it was a holiday, my friend and I had risen late, and the two of us were eating the delicious breakfast prepared by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, when that same woman came bustling into our sitting-room. "A visitor for you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "She's brought you a case." In an instant, my friend was on his feet, his mousecoloured dressing- gown flapping about him.

There were many things that Matthew Williams associated with the holidays—laughing at Alfred's attempts to ice-skate, chasing Kumaboo through the snow, picking out a Christmas tree and bringing it home in his truck—but what he came home to on the day before Christmas eve had to be his favourite. The smell of freshly-baked cookies filled the small flat he shared with Francis, his boyfriend of some years and assorted months. Several cooling-racks of those cookies sat enticingly on the kitchen counter, tempting Matthew with their obvious deliciousness. His hand crept toward them; surely Francis wouldn't notice if one or two went missi