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Literature Text
5 unacceptable names for baby and 1 which was just perfect
They lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The Baby had been asleep in his crib for nearly two hours.
"What do you think of Mark?" John asked.
"No. It somehow reminds me of Mycroft."
"How? Mark has nothing to do with Mycroft!"
"The first letter is the same." Sherlock eyed him in the gloom. "It's enough."
John rolled his eyes. "What about Martin--No. First letter, right."
"Yes. And I don't want our child to grow up obsessed with aeroplanes. So Martin is out. As are Douglas and Arthur."
John giggled. Sherlock was impossible.
"Steven?" the good doctor asked, after few minutes filled with quiet snoring from the crib.
"Name me a Steven who isn't a troll! Come on, John, use your imagination!"
"Hey! I'm trying to! I've given you at least twenty names in the last two--"
He was cut short by a wail. Oh, so it was already two hours and twenty-one minutes? The Baby worked like a Swiss watch. John watched Sherlock--thank God it was his turn--with a smile. Sherlock was good at this. Hell, he was good at anything he put his gigantic mind to.
"There, there, my little cucumber patch, daddy is here..."
"Benedict," John snapped.
Sherlock smiled, long fingers teasing out a halo of blond curls.
"So he is... Benedict."
They lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The Baby had been asleep in his crib for nearly two hours.
"What do you think of Mark?" John asked.
"No. It somehow reminds me of Mycroft."
"How? Mark has nothing to do with Mycroft!"
"The first letter is the same." Sherlock eyed him in the gloom. "It's enough."
John rolled his eyes. "What about Martin--No. First letter, right."
"Yes. And I don't want our child to grow up obsessed with aeroplanes. So Martin is out. As are Douglas and Arthur."
John giggled. Sherlock was impossible.
"Steven?" the good doctor asked, after few minutes filled with quiet snoring from the crib.
"Name me a Steven who isn't a troll! Come on, John, use your imagination!"
"Hey! I'm trying to! I've given you at least twenty names in the last two--"
He was cut short by a wail. Oh, so it was already two hours and twenty-one minutes? The Baby worked like a Swiss watch. John watched Sherlock--thank God it was his turn--with a smile. Sherlock was good at this. Hell, he was good at anything he put his gigantic mind to.
"There, there, my little cucumber patch, daddy is here..."
"Benedict," John snapped.
Sherlock smiled, long fingers teasing out a halo of blond curls.
"So he is... Benedict."
Literature
Sherlock- Reunion
ATTENTION: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 2. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE REINBACH FALL. Or, you know, do. If you don't care about spoilers.
Sherlock Holmes was…
John couldn't finish the sentence.
His hand curled and uncurled, the nervous tick that used to ail him returning. It had been doing that almost without stop since that day. The day that replayed in his memory over and over, each time bringing an overwhelming wave of emotion, mixing from disbelief to horror to pain that stabbed him in a place no bullet could ever puncture. Sherlock's arms pinwheeling, his iconic coat tails billowing like wings… oh if on
Literature
IRREPLACEABLE
Irreplaceable
Sherlock 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.
Literature
Sherlock- Social
Sherlock Holmes was not a social person.
Watson had realized this rather quickly after meeting the Consulting Detective, and that fact had been only proven with time. As far as social norms or etiquette went, the man was clueless, and many times didn't seem to care. Only on rare occasions when he insulted someone he actually got along with (as much as a sociopath can get along with anyone), did he ask a shy 'not good?' after a mishap.
This came to John's mind as the two sat in relative silence on either side of a café table.
They were awaiting a client, somewhat. Sherlock had insisted on arriving nearly an hour and a half early to
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awww ,very short but absolutely adorable , thank you