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Missing, InactionI catch sight of him in the big mirror in the hall, and for a moment I think he is smiling. Time, which has been moving with geological slowness, halts as the world and I take a breath.Missing, Inaction by vladimirsangel
Dead men don't smile. I've seen him many times over the past few months, that memorable face splashed over the newspapers, that unique name on everyone's lips.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.
And dead men don't smile. Holmes doesn't smile much either, I wanted to say to those who came to me constantly, plying me with questions, always with a numbing, past-tense certainty. What was he like? What had been the greatest part of his life? They walked around our rooms, endless streams of them, until I felt myself at the end of my patience and forced them back out. Baker Street had started to feel more like a crime scene than any locked-room mystery we'd ever encountered. People were everywhere, scrutinising everything, missing no scrap of paper or scuff on the skirting board.
But I - I in my grief noticed n
John Watson | HomeJohn Watson | Home by yoshiina
A distant muffled of thunder, it was almost too faint for John to hear. Gradually the rumbling become more distinct, growing louder and louder. In the next few seconds that had passed by, rain was upon him, pounding recklessly against the window. The roar becoming deafening and ear splitting, the sound was quite unsettling. Flashes of lightning lit up the darkened sky followed by cracks of thunder as though in replied. Some flashes roaring dangerously closed to his flat, John made no effort to move from his sitting position.
The storm blustering outside, John remained nonchalant. Not even the pounding rain pouring against the window, roof, and down the ceiling stirred a reaction. Not even the lightning flashing and thundering bellowing in the distance shook him. Not even the wind whistling through the flat and shook it all like perhaps it was a hurricane out there instead of a storm was enough to pull him out of the state he found himself in. Arms resting against the sides of the chair
Curls (Mycroft x Reader)"Darling, what on earth do you think you're doing?" Mycroft appears from behind you, a cup of freshly brewed tea resting in his hands.Curls (Mycroft x Reader) by LocaMikiMocha
You groan, "I'm about to cut my hair 'cause I can't stand it anymore...."
In your raised hands is a pair of shears ready to chop away.
He shakes his head disapprovingly at the shears.
"(y/n)...." He drags on, settling his cup on the headboard of your bed.
Your shoulders slump when he manages to ease the tool out of your grasp and returns them to the drawer where they belong.
He takes you by the hand and guides you back to the living room, sitting you next to him.
"Now, explain to me why you don't like your wonderful hair, love." He says, twirling a (h/c) curl with a slender finger.
Rolling your eyes, you catch his hand and pull it towards your chest.
"I can name a few."
His azure blue eyes urge you to start the list.
"Well, for starters, I shed like a freaking dog..."
Mycroft nods thoughtfully, "Uh-huh..."
"When I wake up, my hair looks like King Kong,
The Eye of the Crow - OneWith the benefit of hindsight, I am forced to admit that the howling heart of a winter storm might not have been the most well-considered moment to run away from home. Of course, adolescents have never been renowned for their unerring wisdom, and I was no exception. All I knew then, the one thought running continuously through my mind as I belted on my dressing gown, stuffed my feet into layers upon layers of stockings and then into my brother’s over-sized boots, and threw a heavy woollen coat over all of it, was that I had to get out. It was all my fault, I had ruined everything, and the only thing left was to run.The Eye of the Crow - One by QuiEstInLiteris
And so I ran.
I had no plan – as I have said, this was not an intelligent decision. It was an impulse born of powerful emotion, fierce, chaotic, unpleasant, as thoroughly divorced from the guidance of intuition as it was from that of reason.
Divorced from self.
There was a bizarre sensation of separation. I felt I was barely in control of the hands that fumbled
Sherlock: Outside the schemeThe sunlight fell into the room through the open window. John stretched and looked at the alarm clock. He woke up 10 minutes before the set time of the alarm. There was no point to lie back, so he went downstairs to make breakfast.Sherlock: Outside the scheme by MushiAkki
This morning seemed to be a different. No sounds of the violin, or fumes coming out of the kitchen. Instead smell various kinds of experimental vapors, John felt pleasant smell of coffee and freshly made toast.
“Mrs. Hudson, what are you ...?” Interrupted, because she was not there and the only person who was in the room was Holmes. He has making just a second cup of coffee.
“Sherlock? What ...?”
“Good morning, John” he said, putting cups on the table.
“Morning” muttered, looking up in a daze on clean table and lying on it, plates of toast with cheese. He sat down, glancing once at Sherlock, then again on sandwiches. Holmes sat down, spreading the newspaper which he held under his arm. He began to browse it, ni
Mr. Holmes is a new twist on the world’s most famous detective. 1947, an aging Sherlock Holmes [Ian McKellan] returns from a journey to Japan, where, in search of a rare plant with powerful restorative qualities, he has witnessed the devastation of nuclear warfare. Now, in his remote seaside farmhouse, Holmes faces the end of his days tending to his bees, with only the company of his housekeeper [Laura Linney] and her young son, Roger. Grappling with the diminishing powers of his mind, Holmes comes to rely upon the boy as he revisits the circumstances of the unsolved case that forced him into retirement, and searches for answers to the mysteries of life and love – before it's too late.
The Proms salutes a crime-fighting violin virtuoso who wrote a pioneering study of Dutch sacred music, tussled with a contralto from the Warsaw Opera and used Offenbach to outwit a pair of jewel thieves. This Proms matinee celebrates music that conjures up the world of Sherlock Holmes: works by Paganini, Lassus and Wagner which Conan Doyle tells us Holmes loved, and the film and TV scores written for him – from Miklós Rózsa’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes to David Arnold and Michael Price’s music from the BBC’s Sherlock series starring Benedict Cumberbatch. Special guests include Sherlock co-creator Mark Gatiss, as well as mezzo-soprano Christine Rice, who explores the repertoire of Holmes’s nemesis, the opera singer Irene Adler.
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