If you've found your way here it is likely because you think Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are one of the hottest pairs in Western literature. My stories explore how their great and inevitable love came to fruition, and while I specialize in first-time fics, I do occasionally wander into the realm of an already-established relationship. I ( Read more... )

Sherlock had never used the word love in direct application to anyone he knew. “Not really my thing,” was something he made a point to reveal up front to any potential partners, though he usually followed with equal vehemence about his enthusiasm for unattached sex. When he moved in with Sherlock, John Watson was completely amenable to this ( Read more... )

Mary Morstan’s early life was lonely and drab. Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father spent most of his life stationed in India. During her formative years, Mary attended Stonyhurst Boarding School which seemed to exist only in shades of grey, from the stiff woolen uniforms and perpetually overcast skies, to the dour, unfriendly ( Read more... )

Back on the street, Watson looked frantically about for Henry Baker.

The man seemed to appear out of nowhere, leaning solemnly against a lamppost, his round profile haloed in a cloudy yellow beam.

“I tried to go home,” Watson panted when he got within Baker’s earshot, “but Mrs. Hudson didn’t know me, and the place was filled with-”

“But you never ( Read more... )

The snowfall was beginning to ebb when Watson and Baker regained the sidewalk. It was getting late, and they would have a difficult time finding a tavern that hadn’t already closed down for the holiday.

Being carried upon two strong, sturdy legs was such a long-forgotten privilege that Watson did not initially observe that the streets had changed ( Read more... )

But when Watson returned to St. Bart’s that afternoon, Mrs. Winchester’s bed was empty. The doctor went in search of the attending nurse, and finally found her in the children’s ward.

“Miss Lindstrom, may I have a word?”

“Certainly, Dr. Watson.” She instructed her patient to keep the thermometer under his tongue until she returned, then met Watson ( Read more... )

Sherlock Holmes stood silently at the window of Baker Street watching the last snowflakes sifting down from the sky. The pane was thick with ice, and winter’s frosty breath reached in just beyond the glass. Behind him, the sitting room was a warm cocoon, a tall fire snapping against the hearth and a fresh cup of tea steaming expectantly on his desk ( Read more... )

It was nearly two when I climbed the stairs to my room. I passed by Holmes’s door, which was slightly ajar, and saw there was a faint light coming from the hearth. I decided to check in on him.

“Holmes?” I rapped softly and pushed the door open. He was draped across the settee at the far end of the room, his dressing gown crumpled around him, his ( Read more... )

The house was dark when I arrived home that night, and I presumed Holmes had gone to bed. I lit the fire in my room and changed out of my clothes. Before I retired for the night, I went downstairs to retrieve a glass of milk. On my way back upstairs, I heard a crash in the sitting room.

I pushed the door open. At first I could see nothing save a ( Read more... )

Trelawney-Hope wasn’t the only one with whom Holmes held congress, as I soon came to find out. He had scads of lovers, all of whom occupied Europe’s most elite ranks. I began to recognize when they called at Baker Street for personal reasons and not cases. The married ones would arrive during odd times of day when their presence at home would not ( Read more... )