In which I actually get some writing done.

Later today I'll post the first Baker Street interlude, and as this snippet will atest, I am busy writing another half dozen of them. The story continues!

*****

Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, and his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and back at Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”

John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”

“It hurts.”

“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused. “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”

Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.

John was removing the pad and the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.

“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”

More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Oh, what the bloody hell, he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

In which I actually get some writing done.

Later today I'll post the first Baker Street interlude, and as this snippet will atest, I am busy writing another half dozen of them. The story continues!

*****

Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, and his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and back at Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”

John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”

“It hurts.”

“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused. “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”

Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.

John was removing the pad and the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.

“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”

More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Oh, what the bloody hell, he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

Jumping ship

I refuse to use photobucket for one second longer. I haven't investigated the alternatives yet, but this is simply not negotiable.

I swear to all of you that at some point my ROM entry looked right and the entirety of every picture could be seen, but at the moment most of them are being cut off and they're appearing on AO3 at their original size though I very carefully re-sized them on pb.

I am absolutely enraged - bizarrely, for once my instinctive choice is an available mood.

Jumping ship

I refuse to use photobucket for one second longer. I haven't investigated the alternatives yet, but this is simply not negotiable.

I swear to all of you that at some point my ROM entry looked right and the entirety of every picture could be seen, but at the moment most of them are being cut off and they're appearing on AO3 at their original size though I very carefully re-sized them on pb.

I am absolutely enraged - bizarrely, for once my instinctive choice is an available mood.

The Address is 221B Baker Street - January

A special note of thanks to quarryquest for expert intel regarding London Waitroses.

This can be read as a standalone piece, but it will make a lot more sense if you've read The Scottish Play.

*****

John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Alive Club, was nobody’s fool. He knew all too well that the sentiment which had led Sherlock to offer him the Christmas gift of one trip to the shops was to be exploited immediately in order to ensure that it actually occurred.

In preparation for this, when they arrived home at Baker Street he cleaned out all the cabinets. He tossed anything which was even near the expiration date, and merrily served up omelettes for dinner in order to use up the last of the eggs. Once the cupboards were bare and the refrigerator contained one lonely jar of pickled pancreas, he sat down to make a list.

Decisively, he wrote down: Milk.
( Pop out to the shops with Sherlock. )

The Address is 221B Baker Street - January

A special note of thanks to quarryquest for expert intel regarding London Waitroses.

This can be read as a standalone piece, but it will make a lot more sense if you've read The Scottish Play.

*****

John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Alive Club, was nobody’s fool. He knew all too well that the sentiment which had led Sherlock to offer him the Christmas gift of one trip to the shops was to be exploited immediately in order to ensure that it actually occurred.

In preparation for this, when they arrived home at Baker Street he cleaned out all the cabinets. He tossed anything which was even near the expiration date, and merrily served up omelettes for dinner in order to use up the last of the eggs. Once the cupboards were bare and the refrigerator contained one lonely jar of pickled pancreas, he sat down to make a list.

Decisively, he wrote down: Milk.
( Pop out to the shops with Sherlock. )