My two first Sherlock Holmes fics
For mini-fill challenges! I have never written any Sherlock fics before for any Sherlock incarnations, and these are from Sherlock BBC.
Challenge 1: Write a fic based off of one of these words which do not translate to English.
(I have never written any Sherlock fic ever, for any incarnation, despite ACD's books being some of the first I remember reading as a kid. Here we go...)
The first few weeks after Reichenbach, nothing could persuade John to leave the flat. He'd ordered delivery food, and on occasion a worried Lestrade would bring him by takeaway and no news whatsoever. Mrs. Hudson would come up and check on him periodically, make him tea, straighten the place up a bit. Most of the Yard, even Donovan, had come by at some point to check on him.
He hadn't seen Mycroft since it had happened.
The fourth week had hit him with a sort of manic injury, the likes of which he hadn't felt since he was still confined to bed after his injuries in the war. He still didn't go out much, only traipsing down to the Yard, once a week to see if any news of Sherlock had come to them. He'd tried to get ahold of the older Holmes brother, to no avail.
John understood it though, the need to be alone to mourn.
By the 10 week mark, he'd taken to hearing things, scratching at the door. He felt no one would believe him if it weren't for the little packages left behind. Nothing of any importance. Tea, little stationary pads, and on one occasion, a rather comfy sweater. Lestrade and Donovan seemed extremely suspicious of them, but after Watson allowed them to test all of the objects (save the sweater, as he wasn't quite sure how one would go about testing one), they found them perfectly normal and just chalked it up to a well-meaning fan of John's blog, if one with personal boundary issues.
After a few weeks, these gifts stopped without explanation. John would still trudge down the to door though. Everyday at the same time for three months.
And then one day, he opened to door and instead of tea or paper or clothing, he saw exactly what he wanted standing bruised and bleary eyed skinnier than ever on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street.
"I'd say you missed Christmas, but...." and he tugged a little on the hem of the sweater that had been left on his doorstep, three months ago, one cold December morning.
Sherlock just smiled.
Iktsuarpok: Inuit - “To go outside to check if anyone is coming.”
Challenge 2: Using a quote from a famous movie or song, write a Sherlock fic where this quote is a plot point.
Sherlock was standing staring at a letter, when John got back from the physical therapist's. Technically, Sherlock should have been going with him, but ever since Moriarty's last little...escapade, he'd been uncharacteristically stubborn, even by Sherlockian standards.
The detective didn't even look up when John entered, only responding when John cleared his throat. Sherlock shook his head and looked at him as if he'd come out of an hours-long daze. John's eyebrows knitted together.
"Are you all right, Sherlock?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock snapped, with more impatience than usual. "I just..." He realized he was still holding the letter. Throwing it down as if he'd been burned by the realization, he stormed passed John and grabbed his long coat from it's hanger.
"I'm going out." It was a statement that left no brokering from John, especially as his friend had left to quickly for him to respond. The doctor stared at the discarded letter. Thick, expensive cream colored stationary with a slightly raised texture. Typed except for a blurry signature, where he'd guess the oils in Sherlock's skin eventually rubbed off the ink. He didn't have to be a genius to know who could upset his friend like this after their last escapade had almost resulted in them both dying.
My dear Sherlock,
You must be healed by now... on the outside at least, I hope you're not too ugly. What a collection of scars you have. Never forget who gave you the best of them, and be grateful, our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real. We live in a primitive time, don't we, Sherlock? Neither savage nor wise. Half measures of the curse of it, any rational society will either kill me or put me to some use. Do you dream much, Sherlock? I think of you often.
Your old friend,
James Moriarty.
John crumpled it up and threw it in the waste bin.
Hope they are at least decent ^^
Challenge 1: Write a fic based off of one of these words which do not translate to English.
(I have never written any Sherlock fic ever, for any incarnation, despite ACD's books being some of the first I remember reading as a kid. Here we go...)
The first few weeks after Reichenbach, nothing could persuade John to leave the flat. He'd ordered delivery food, and on occasion a worried Lestrade would bring him by takeaway and no news whatsoever. Mrs. Hudson would come up and check on him periodically, make him tea, straighten the place up a bit. Most of the Yard, even Donovan, had come by at some point to check on him.
He hadn't seen Mycroft since it had happened.
The fourth week had hit him with a sort of manic injury, the likes of which he hadn't felt since he was still confined to bed after his injuries in the war. He still didn't go out much, only traipsing down to the Yard, once a week to see if any news of Sherlock had come to them. He'd tried to get ahold of the older Holmes brother, to no avail.
John understood it though, the need to be alone to mourn.
By the 10 week mark, he'd taken to hearing things, scratching at the door. He felt no one would believe him if it weren't for the little packages left behind. Nothing of any importance. Tea, little stationary pads, and on one occasion, a rather comfy sweater. Lestrade and Donovan seemed extremely suspicious of them, but after Watson allowed them to test all of the objects (save the sweater, as he wasn't quite sure how one would go about testing one), they found them perfectly normal and just chalked it up to a well-meaning fan of John's blog, if one with personal boundary issues.
After a few weeks, these gifts stopped without explanation. John would still trudge down the to door though. Everyday at the same time for three months.
And then one day, he opened to door and instead of tea or paper or clothing, he saw exactly what he wanted standing bruised and bleary eyed skinnier than ever on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street.
"I'd say you missed Christmas, but...." and he tugged a little on the hem of the sweater that had been left on his doorstep, three months ago, one cold December morning.
Sherlock just smiled.
Iktsuarpok: Inuit - “To go outside to check if anyone is coming.”
Challenge 2: Using a quote from a famous movie or song, write a Sherlock fic where this quote is a plot point.
Sherlock was standing staring at a letter, when John got back from the physical therapist's. Technically, Sherlock should have been going with him, but ever since Moriarty's last little...escapade, he'd been uncharacteristically stubborn, even by Sherlockian standards.
The detective didn't even look up when John entered, only responding when John cleared his throat. Sherlock shook his head and looked at him as if he'd come out of an hours-long daze. John's eyebrows knitted together.
"Are you all right, Sherlock?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock snapped, with more impatience than usual. "I just..." He realized he was still holding the letter. Throwing it down as if he'd been burned by the realization, he stormed passed John and grabbed his long coat from it's hanger.
"I'm going out." It was a statement that left no brokering from John, especially as his friend had left to quickly for him to respond. The doctor stared at the discarded letter. Thick, expensive cream colored stationary with a slightly raised texture. Typed except for a blurry signature, where he'd guess the oils in Sherlock's skin eventually rubbed off the ink. He didn't have to be a genius to know who could upset his friend like this after their last escapade had almost resulted in them both dying.
My dear Sherlock,
You must be healed by now... on the outside at least, I hope you're not too ugly. What a collection of scars you have. Never forget who gave you the best of them, and be grateful, our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real. We live in a primitive time, don't we, Sherlock? Neither savage nor wise. Half measures of the curse of it, any rational society will either kill me or put me to some use. Do you dream much, Sherlock? I think of you often.
Your old friend,
James Moriarty.
John crumpled it up and threw it in the waste bin.
Hope they are at least decent ^^