The Smirking Magpie

Sherlock Fanfiction Stories
by ~¤Zoffoli

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{UPDATE} - 221B PAW STORIES - Chapter 15

It was surprising how little Sherlock had seemed disturbed by John’s sudden profession of love – clearly it wasn’t something the detective had anticipated in any way, considering he was the one to invite Maggie over for dinner. With a genuinely good intent. For somebody who claimed to be married to his work, his reaction had been mild to say the least. Of course he had looked stunned for a second, but then he hadn’t asked John anything. Not what he meant by that. Not what it meant for them. Not how they should be dealing with this, if at all.
Clearly they weren’t dealing with it. John now realized that he should have been the one to address all those issues. Sherlock had been honest, this wasn’t his area. When they had met he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship and felt fulfilled with his job. What he had offered was a flatshare, which had turned into a friendship. Nothing extraordinary there. Except that this friendship had taken more room in their lives than either of them had ever intended.
There was the rub. They were friends and flatmates. They investigated together. They spent a lot of time together. And they enjoyed it. All of this was fine. But then John had to go and confess. It had seemed so right at the moment, so limpid in his mind. I am in love with Sherlock. He had said it just as he’d accepted to acknowledge it and come to terms with it, not realizing the long-term impact such a revelation could have on their relationship. They should have talked about it. They should have–
"Oh, look Alicia! A cat!"
For an insane second, John thought: a cat? Where? Then he was picked up from the ground by small hands and yelped.
He had just been abducted by a five-year-old; he would never live through this.

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{UPDATE} - 221B PAW STORIES - Chapter 15

It was surprising how little Sherlock had seemed disturbed by John’s sudden profession of love – clearly it wasn’t something the detective had anticipated in any way, considering he was the one to invite Maggie over for dinner. With a genuinely good intent. For somebody who claimed to be married to his work, his reaction had been mild to say the least. Of course he had looked stunned for a second, but then he hadn’t asked John anything. Not what he meant by that. Not what it meant for them. Not how they should be dealing with this, if at all.

Clearly they weren’t dealing with it. John now realized that he should have been the one to address all those issues. Sherlock had been honest, this wasn’t his area. When they had met he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship and felt fulfilled with his job. What he had offered was a flatshare, which had turned into a friendship. Nothing extraordinary there. Except that this friendship had taken more room in their lives than either of them had ever intended.

There was the rub. They were friends and flatmates. They investigated together. They spent a lot of time together. And they enjoyed it. All of this was fine. But then John had to go and confess. It had seemed so right at the moment, so limpid in his mind. I am in love with Sherlock. He had said it just as he’d accepted to acknowledge it and come to terms with it, not realizing the long-term impact such a revelation could have on their relationship. They should have talked about it. They should have–

"Oh, look Alicia! A cat!"

For an insane second, John thought: a cat? Where? Then he was picked up from the ground by small hands and yelped.

He had just been abducted by a five-year-old; he would never live through this.

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Filed under fanfiction sherlock johnlock fluff humor romance

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Illustration by Nero749 to Nutrisco et extinguo, Chapter ΑΩ

Jim Moriarty’s first crime was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and hated Powers because he always made fun of him. So he found the perfect way to kill him without anyone noticing that it was in fact murder – anyone but Sherlock, of course. But Jim didn’t know that. At the time, he only gloated over the fact that they were all idiots, and that they weren’t even worth killing. He was glad Carl Powers was dead, but now he was bored. Killing was so easy, it wasn’t worth it. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn’t be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he’d have to invent himself.
Sherlock’s first case was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and it upset him that the police didn’t take him seriously at all when he told them that the missing pair of shoes was suspicious and that little Carl’s death may not have been an accident after all. He didn’t care about Carl Powers in the least; it was just a name. But the missing pair of shoes troubled him and that’s why he remembered the case: his very first one, and his very first failure too because idiotic policemen weren’t even smart enough to listen to him. If all detective inspectors were so stupid, he’d definitely never be one. But what was the point of being a pirate, if you weren’t even caught? If you didn’t get any recognition at all, and if no one ever found out how brilliant you really were? It’d be too easy. Dull. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn’t be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he’d have to invent himself.
Consulting criminal.
Consulting detective.
.
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Illustration by Nero749 to Nutrisco et extinguo, Chapter ΑΩ

Jim Moriarty’s first crime was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and hated Powers because he always made fun of him. So he found the perfect way to kill him without anyone noticing that it was in fact murder – anyone but Sherlock, of course. But Jim didn’t know that. At the time, he only gloated over the fact that they were all idiots, and that they weren’t even worth killing. He was glad Carl Powers was dead, but now he was bored. Killing was so easy, it wasn’t worth it. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn’t be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he’d have to invent himself.

Sherlock’s first case was the murder of young Carl Powers. He was still a child back then, and it upset him that the police didn’t take him seriously at all when he told them that the missing pair of shoes was suspicious and that little Carl’s death may not have been an accident after all. He didn’t care about Carl Powers in the least; it was just a name. But the missing pair of shoes troubled him and that’s why he remembered the case: his very first one, and his very first failure too because idiotic policemen weren’t even smart enough to listen to him. If all detective inspectors were so stupid, he’d definitely never be one. But what was the point of being a pirate, if you weren’t even caught? If you didn’t get any recognition at all, and if no one ever found out how brilliant you really were? It’d be too easy. Dull. He needed much more than that. Something that wouldn’t be dull. Something requiring his full intellectual skills. A job he’d have to invent himself.

Consulting criminal.

Consulting detective.

.

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Filed under sherlock fanfiction post-reichenbach johnlock jim moriarty sherlock holmes character study

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{update} - DANCE IS CHEMISTRY - Chapter 32: Listening
sequel to I Like to Watch You Dance and Let Me Dance For You

"I’m Eva Blackwell," the woman said after they had ordered drinks.
She was a very pretty woman with brown hair and green eyes, slender and finely dressed. She must have been in her mid twenties, but her make-up hardly concealed her lack of sleep. Not just a little fretful, she kept bringing her hand to her inner pocket, her fingers twitching, and John caught a glimpse of a cigarette pack. Sherlock’s clients never looked too good, John mused, but this one seemed particularly distraught behind her neat façade.
He forced himself to smile encouragingly so she would tell them what she wanted with them. Sherlock was looking around the pub grumpily, and Miss Blackwell was staring at the table as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. John repressed a sigh.
"So you read my blog," he said politely, nudging Sherlock under the table so he would be a little more pleasant to Miss Blackwell, who was obviously very troubled. Sherlock did not change his attitude but grabbed John’s hand under the table and kept it. John almost rolled his eyes.
"I do! And I love it. I’m a great fan."
"Of Sherlock’s, you mean."
"Of your blog!"
John blinked. Now Sherlock was paying attention to the woman, eyeing her warily.
"So what do you want?" he asked, his tone rather cold. John glared at him, but Eva gave a weak smile. She put her hands on her lap and tried to keep them there. Poor woman, she clearly craved a cigarette.
"You really are like Dr. Watson describes you," she said.
"And how’s that?"
“Please, Sherlock. Miss Blackwell, what can we do for you?”
"You mean what can I do,” Sherlock mumbled, barely audibly, but loud enough for John to hear him. John tried to take his hand away but Sherlock squeezed it and ran his thumb over John’s palm in a placatory way.
God, this is awkward, John thought.
"I… I need your help, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock arched a regal eyebrow.
"I mean, I wish to hire you," Eva added precipitately. "I’ve read Dr. Watson’s blog, if someone can help me in London it’s… I think it can only be you. Please. Won’t you listen to my story?"
"Well that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?"
"Sherlock."
"I’m sorry. Please go on," Sherlock amended with one of his perfunctory smiles.

"I… I am being blackmailed," she whispered, looking around as if someone could have been listening.

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{update} - DANCE IS CHEMISTRY - Chapter 32: Listening

sequel to I Like to Watch You Dance and Let Me Dance For You

"I’m Eva Blackwell," the woman said after they had ordered drinks.

She was a very pretty woman with brown hair and green eyes, slender and finely dressed. She must have been in her mid twenties, but her make-up hardly concealed her lack of sleep. Not just a little fretful, she kept bringing her hand to her inner pocket, her fingers twitching, and John caught a glimpse of a cigarette pack. Sherlock’s clients never looked too good, John mused, but this one seemed particularly distraught behind her neat façade.

He forced himself to smile encouragingly so she would tell them what she wanted with them. Sherlock was looking around the pub grumpily, and Miss Blackwell was staring at the table as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. John repressed a sigh.

"So you read my blog," he said politely, nudging Sherlock under the table so he would be a little more pleasant to Miss Blackwell, who was obviously very troubled. Sherlock did not change his attitude but grabbed John’s hand under the table and kept it. John almost rolled his eyes.

"I do! And I love it. I’m a great fan."

"Of Sherlock’s, you mean."

"Of your blog!"

John blinked. Now Sherlock was paying attention to the woman, eyeing her warily.

"So what do you want?" he asked, his tone rather cold. John glared at him, but Eva gave a weak smile. She put her hands on her lap and tried to keep them there. Poor woman, she clearly craved a cigarette.

"You really are like Dr. Watson describes you," she said.

"And how’s that?"

Please, Sherlock. Miss Blackwell, what can we do for you?”

"You mean what can I do,” Sherlock mumbled, barely audibly, but loud enough for John to hear him. John tried to take his hand away but Sherlock squeezed it and ran his thumb over John’s palm in a placatory way.

God, this is awkward, John thought.

"I… I need your help, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock arched a regal eyebrow.

"I mean, I wish to hire you," Eva added precipitately. "I’ve read Dr. Watson’s blog, if someone can help me in London it’s… I think it can only be you. Please. Won’t you listen to my story?"

"Well that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?"

"Sherlock."

"I’m sorry. Please go on," Sherlock amended with one of his perfunctory smiles.

"I… I am being blackmailed," she whispered, looking around as if someone could have been listening.

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Filed under bbc sherlock johnlock fanfiction john watson sherlock holmes angst romance humor hurt/comfort

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Final chapter
 June 13, 9am
I woke up this morning to the sight of your sleeping form beside me. I think I haven’t got used to it yet: you, being alive. Being there.
It’s been two days – almost two days. 36 hours, maybe. So much has happened I haven’t had time to write anything down, when this is clearly the most exciting and miraculous thing that’s happened to me in three years. Miraculous, that’s the word. You finally performed that miracle, Sherlock. But it sure took you long enough.
I’m glad we didn’t draw the curtains last night; you look beautiful in the morning light, almost peaceful. I don’t think I ever saw you look so young and defenceless. Oh I know you won’t like the word, but that’s the first impression I got. It didn’t feel real. When I woke up I had to reach and touch you, just to check. And then I felt your skin under my fingers. It was warm, Sherlock. Your body is warm again. For how long? I don’t know. But now we know how to make it warm, and if I have to blow-dry you every night until we die, I certainly will. Three years of thinking I would never see you again have made me much more tolerant, I think. Much more willing to baby-sit you. I’m not sure you’ll enjoy the attention all that much, but it’s your fault for letting me believe you were dead for so long.
Sometimes I’m terrified I’ve invented it all. That I made up the scene at the school with Seb, invented the shot he received in the shoulder, invented his suicide… and your return. I don’t think you could have made it any more dramatic. Shooting Seb, giving him my gun, ignoring me; and then, running away. Good thing there was no bullet left in the gun, believe me. I could have shot you. In the legs, of course. I would have done anything to catch you at that time.
I wish I could post it on the blog - you’ll have to admit this is a scene you’d definitely find in adventure novels. But we don’t want to mention the gun, or a supposedly common bloke shooting himself in the mouth. Especially when illustrations drawn by said bloke are on the blog. I just looked at them again. They’re not bad, you know. He was good at sketching. I really wish it didn’t have to come down to that.
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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Final chapter

 June 13, 9am

I woke up this morning to the sight of your sleeping form beside me. I think I haven’t got used to it yet: you, being alive. Being there.

It’s been two days – almost two days. 36 hours, maybe. So much has happened I haven’t had time to write anything down, when this is clearly the most exciting and miraculous thing that’s happened to me in three years. Miraculous, that’s the word. You finally performed that miracle, Sherlock. But it sure took you long enough.

I’m glad we didn’t draw the curtains last night; you look beautiful in the morning light, almost peaceful. I don’t think I ever saw you look so young and defenceless. Oh I know you won’t like the word, but that’s the first impression I got. It didn’t feel real. When I woke up I had to reach and touch you, just to check. And then I felt your skin under my fingers. It was warm, Sherlock. Your body is warm again. For how long? I don’t know. But now we know how to make it warm, and if I have to blow-dry you every night until we die, I certainly will. Three years of thinking I would never see you again have made me much more tolerant, I think. Much more willing to baby-sit you. I’m not sure you’ll enjoy the attention all that much, but it’s your fault for letting me believe you were dead for so long.

Sometimes I’m terrified I’ve invented it all. That I made up the scene at the school with Seb, invented the shot he received in the shoulder, invented his suicide… and your return. I don’t think you could have made it any more dramatic. Shooting Seb, giving him my gun, ignoring me; and then, running away. Good thing there was no bullet left in the gun, believe me. I could have shot you. In the legs, of course. I would have done anything to catch you at that time.

I wish I could post it on the blog - you’ll have to admit this is a scene you’d definitely find in adventure novels. But we don’t want to mention the gun, or a supposedly common bloke shooting himself in the mouth. Especially when illustrations drawn by said bloke are on the blog. I just looked at them again. They’re not bad, you know. He was good at sketching. I really wish it didn’t have to come down to that.

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Filed under sherlock johnlock fanfiction Post-Reichenbach Character Study john watson sherlock holmes

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter LI

"There we go. Just lie down and relax, will you?"
"What are you going to do?" Your tone sounded a bit more defensive than you intended it. But John gives you a little smile as he pushes you down onto the bed.
"Trust me, I’m a doctor."
You scowl at him but do not resist him. “And a soldier. Who had bad days.”
John chuckles and plugs in the hairdryer next to his bedside table, on which he puts it down. You eye it warily.
"It’s not a gun, Sherlock, just a hairdryer."
"I know.”
John walks to the door again, closes it, and turns off the light. You feel your muscles become tense at once.
"Relax. I’m just turning off the light so we get a chance to fall back to sleep."
"I’m not scared!"
"Never said you were."
You glare in the darkness towards him. John sits down and you feel his weight on the mattress. He takes your hand and rubs his thumb against your palm.
"I’m going to try to make your body warmer, Sherlock."
"By having sex with me?"
He remains silent for a second, clearly baffled by your bluntness, then breaks into chuckles.
"No. I’m only going to use the hairdryer and my hands. Nothing sexual though."
"But you’re aroused."
"Yes, and you’re not."
"Well how am I supposed to if you don’t let me try?!" This came out more curtly than you meant it. You catch John’s hand in yours at once, stopping the movements of his thumb, and squeeze it. To your relief, John gives a little squeeze back.
"Don’t try. We’ll see how it goes."
"What about you?"
"We’ll see how it goes."
Before you can protest any further, he turns on the hairdryer and blows it in your face.
"What the…!"

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter LI

"There we go. Just lie down and relax, will you?"

"What are you going to do?" Your tone sounded a bit more defensive than you intended it. But John gives you a little smile as he pushes you down onto the bed.

"Trust me, I’m a doctor."

You scowl at him but do not resist him. “And a soldier. Who had bad days.”

John chuckles and plugs in the hairdryer next to his bedside table, on which he puts it down. You eye it warily.

"It’s not a gun, Sherlock, just a hairdryer."

"I know.”

John walks to the door again, closes it, and turns off the light. You feel your muscles become tense at once.

"Relax. I’m just turning off the light so we get a chance to fall back to sleep."

"I’m not scared!"

"Never said you were."

You glare in the darkness towards him. John sits down and you feel his weight on the mattress. He takes your hand and rubs his thumb against your palm.

"I’m going to try to make your body warmer, Sherlock."

"By having sex with me?"

He remains silent for a second, clearly baffled by your bluntness, then breaks into chuckles.

"No. I’m only going to use the hairdryer and my hands. Nothing sexual though."

"But you’re aroused."

"Yes, and you’re not."

"Well how am I supposed to if you don’t let me try?!" This came out more curtly than you meant it. You catch John’s hand in yours at once, stopping the movements of his thumb, and squeeze it. To your relief, John gives a little squeeze back.

"Don’t try. We’ll see how it goes."

"What about you?"

"We’ll see how it goes."

Before you can protest any further, he turns on the hairdryer and blows it in your face.

"What the…!"

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Filed under sherlock johnlock post-reichenbach character study romance hurt/comfort

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{UPDATE} NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter L

The warmth in the bathroom is stifling. Deliberately, Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt.
"Now wait a minute–"
"I want you to see."
"To see what?”
Panic is bubbling in your chest again. You begin to wonder if he was wounded, perhaps. If he got a scar during those three years of absence, or several. Sherlock does not answer, and keeps unbuttoning his shirt until he can take it off and drop it to the floor. His chest is so white it glistens in the vapour of the bathroom. You avert your gaze, clenching your fists.
"Look at me."
"Sherlock–"
"Just look at me! Please."
Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please. Will you do this for me?
"Please don’t say that," you murmur, your voice trembling. He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, then slowly takes them off. You swallow again, and try to keep your eyes on his. But he is staring right back at you, and the intensity in his gaze is unbearable. He takes off his socks. Your eyes are fixed on a lock of hair sticking to his brow, but when he drops his boxer to the floor, you turn away, defeated.
"John. Look at me."
The beating of your heart hammers in your ears, deafening. The warmth in the room is making you dizzy.
"Sherlock, I can’t–"
"LOOK AT ME!"
There is so much anger and despair in his voice that you turn, immediately. Your eyes lock with his. His bottom lip is trembling like a child’s.
"Look at me," he repeats, his voice shaking as well. You breathe in. Your fists clench and unclench. Slowly, your eyes move down. To his lips. His chin. His neck. His collarbone. His chest. His stomach. His hipbone. His hands. His thighs. His knees. His shins. His ankles. His toes. I love you, is all you can think, with striking clarity. Every inch of his skin feels like a punch in the face.
There is no trace of a scar, though, and you feel a bit lost. You look up into Sherlock’s eyes.
"I’m a man," he says.
You blink. “Yes, I know.”
He glares, then softens into a jaded expression. “You haven’t seen me in years, John. You believed I was dead. You hadn’t expected me to die. It was a shock. A trauma. You did not want me gone. It is only natural that you would… perhaps yearn for me in some unnatural way although–”
"Wait a minute–"
"–although you are not attracted to men.”

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{UPDATE} NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter L

The warmth in the bathroom is stifling. Deliberately, Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Now wait a minute–"

"I want you to see."

"To see what?”

Panic is bubbling in your chest again. You begin to wonder if he was wounded, perhaps. If he got a scar during those three years of absence, or several. Sherlock does not answer, and keeps unbuttoning his shirt until he can take it off and drop it to the floor. His chest is so white it glistens in the vapour of the bathroom. You avert your gaze, clenching your fists.

"Look at me."

"Sherlock–"

"Just look at me! Please."

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please. Will you do this for me?

"Please don’t say that," you murmur, your voice trembling. He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, then slowly takes them off. You swallow again, and try to keep your eyes on his. But he is staring right back at you, and the intensity in his gaze is unbearable. He takes off his socks. Your eyes are fixed on a lock of hair sticking to his brow, but when he drops his boxer to the floor, you turn away, defeated.

"John. Look at me."

The beating of your heart hammers in your ears, deafening. The warmth in the room is making you dizzy.

"Sherlock, I can’t–"

"LOOK AT ME!"

There is so much anger and despair in his voice that you turn, immediately. Your eyes lock with his. His bottom lip is trembling like a child’s.

"Look at me," he repeats, his voice shaking as well. You breathe in. Your fists clench and unclench. Slowly, your eyes move down. To his lips. His chin. His neck. His collarbone. His chest. His stomach. His hipbone. His hands. His thighs. His knees. His shins. His ankles. His toes. I love you, is all you can think, with striking clarity. Every inch of his skin feels like a punch in the face.

There is no trace of a scar, though, and you feel a bit lost. You look up into Sherlock’s eyes.

"I’m a man," he says.

You blink. “Yes, I know.”

He glares, then softens into a jaded expression. “You haven’t seen me in years, John. You believed I was dead. You hadn’t expected me to die. It was a shock. A trauma. You did not want me gone. It is only natural that you would… perhaps yearn for me in some unnatural way although–”

"Wait a minute–"

"–although you are not attracted to men.”

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{UPDATE} NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLIX

The stairs creak under your feet as you walk up the steps. The staircase is darker than in 221B. As Sherlock pushes open the door to the flat, you get a strange feeling, the same you got when Mary moved out – a sensation of stiffness in the nape of your nape, the impression that a limb has been removed from your body. It is strange to think of Sherlock living in a flat by himself. Without you.
There is little furnishing inside, but it’s a mess. The bed is undone. The suitcase is open next to the table, vomiting half of its contents onto the floor. In the wardrobe, a jacket, a pair of trousers and two shirts are hung clumsily. You wonder what made them special enough to escape the pile in the suitcase.
You cross the living-room which was clearly also used as a bedroom and walk into the kitchen. Its tidiness is striking. It is so clean in fact it looks unused. You open the cupboards – empty. The fridge – empty.
"What have you been eating?"
"Out."
You turn to Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway. His gaze makes you self-conscious and you look away.
"Out?"
"Yes, I’ve been eating out."
"Oh."
What about before? Was he always eating out when he was with Seb? Or did Seb cook? You remember he said once he was a great cook. He probably wasn’t lying.
"Did Seb ever cook for you?" you ask casually as you come back to the living-room.
Sherlock freezes by the wardrobe, and turns to give you a look. You feel your face heat up.
"John, we weren’t–"
"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"
"John."
"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month."
"Seb and I weren’t in any kind of relationship."
"Of course you were."
He stares. You flush.
"I mean of course you weren’t."
"John…"
"Look, I didn’t mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering…"
Something lights up in Sherlock’s pupils – irritation mingling with jealousy. This is ridiculous.
"I’m sorry," you tell him softly, coming closer.
Sherlock simply puts the clothes into the suitcase and closes it. His wrist seems so thin. Has his skin always been so translucent? The veins in his hand bulge out as if they had been chiselled. You swallow.
"When was the last time you ate?"

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{UPDATE} NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLIX

The stairs creak under your feet as you walk up the steps. The staircase is darker than in 221B. As Sherlock pushes open the door to the flat, you get a strange feeling, the same you got when Mary moved out – a sensation of stiffness in the nape of your nape, the impression that a limb has been removed from your body. It is strange to think of Sherlock living in a flat by himself. Without you.

There is little furnishing inside, but it’s a mess. The bed is undone. The suitcase is open next to the table, vomiting half of its contents onto the floor. In the wardrobe, a jacket, a pair of trousers and two shirts are hung clumsily. You wonder what made them special enough to escape the pile in the suitcase.

You cross the living-room which was clearly also used as a bedroom and walk into the kitchen. Its tidiness is striking. It is so clean in fact it looks unused. You open the cupboards – empty. The fridge – empty.

"What have you been eating?"

"Out."

You turn to Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway. His gaze makes you self-conscious and you look away.

"Out?"

"Yes, I’ve been eating out."

"Oh."

What about before? Was he always eating out when he was with Seb? Or did Seb cook? You remember he said once he was a great cook. He probably wasn’t lying.

"Did Seb ever cook for you?" you ask casually as you come back to the living-room.

Sherlock freezes by the wardrobe, and turns to give you a look. You feel your face heat up.

"John, we weren’t–"

"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"

"John."

"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month."

"Seb and I weren’t in any kind of relationship."

"Of course you were."

He stares. You flush.

"I mean of course you weren’t."

"John…"

"Look, I didn’t mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering…"

Something lights up in Sherlock’s pupils – irritation mingling with jealousy. This is ridiculous.

"I’m sorry," you tell him softly, coming closer.

Sherlock simply puts the clothes into the suitcase and closes it. His wrist seems so thin. Has his skin always been so translucent? The veins in his hand bulge out as if they had been chiselled. You swallow.

"When was the last time you ate?"

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLVIII

A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Sherlock glances at John nervously.
"Should I go to the bedroom?"
"Hum… Kitchen?"
Sherlock complies. A second later the door opens.
"Hey! Slept well?"
"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"
Sherlock hears her kiss him. On the cheek, probably. He stands very still, not making a sound.
"Yep. Where’s Sherlock?"
At this, John’s jaw drops.
"What?"
"Oh, there you are! Hi, I’m Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."
Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. John, speechless, looks from her to him, then back.
"What the–"
"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don’t mind."
She winks at him as shoves the little pink thing in his arms. Sherlock looks up at John in panic. He doesn’t seem very reassured either.
"Hum, Mary, I don’t think–"
"Oh, he’ll be fine! Just come here."
She takes him by the arm and drags him to the bedroom. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it and looks at the baby in his arms. He blinks. The baby blinks back, then gives him a wide grin.
"Gaaaaaa!"
He laughs. Sherlock just stands, frozen, staring at the little living thing. That’s what’s so terrifying about it. It’s alive.
"Aga?"
"I don’t speak baby-talk, sorry."
"Agaaa!"
Sherlock glances at the closed door nervously. How long are they going to take? They’re the parents! How irresponsible to leave a child in the hands of a stranger. Well, when he says stranger…
Mrs. Watson wasn’t exactly how he expected her to be. But she sure is lively. Too lively. There’s a sadness in her eyes which makes Sherlock awkward.
"Why are they taking so long?" he asks out loud. The baby makes some noise in answer. Sherlock swallows.
There is something strange and uncomfortable about holding John’s son like this. John’s son. Sherlock shifts uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Ga?"
"You don’t really look like John. Except the ears, perhaps. Or the nose. But you mother’s got a strange nose too." The baby blinks stupidly and Sherlock groans. What is he doing, talking to a baby? That thing is barely human. It’s deprived of speech.
"AGAAA!"
"Oh for goodness’ sake…"

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLVIII

A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Sherlock glances at John nervously.

"Should I go to the bedroom?"

"Hum… Kitchen?"

Sherlock complies. A second later the door opens.

"Hey! Slept well?"

"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"

Sherlock hears her kiss him. On the cheek, probably. He stands very still, not making a sound.

"Yep. Where’s Sherlock?"

At this, John’s jaw drops.

"What?"

"Oh, there you are! Hi, I’m Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."

Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. John, speechless, looks from her to him, then back.

"What the–"

"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don’t mind."

She winks at him as shoves the little pink thing in his arms. Sherlock looks up at John in panic. He doesn’t seem very reassured either.

"Hum, Mary, I don’t think–"

"Oh, he’ll be fine! Just come here."

She takes him by the arm and drags him to the bedroom. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it and looks at the baby in his arms. He blinks. The baby blinks back, then gives him a wide grin.

"Gaaaaaa!"

He laughs. Sherlock just stands, frozen, staring at the little living thing. That’s what’s so terrifying about it. It’s alive.

"Aga?"

"I don’t speak baby-talk, sorry."

"Agaaa!"

Sherlock glances at the closed door nervously. How long are they going to take? They’re the parents! How irresponsible to leave a child in the hands of a stranger. Well, when he says stranger…

Mrs. Watson wasn’t exactly how he expected her to be. But she sure is lively. Too lively. There’s a sadness in her eyes which makes Sherlock awkward.

"Why are they taking so long?" he asks out loud. The baby makes some noise in answer. Sherlock swallows.

There is something strange and uncomfortable about holding John’s son like this. John’s son. Sherlock shifts uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Ga?"

"You don’t really look like John. Except the ears, perhaps. Or the nose. But you mother’s got a strange nose too." The baby blinks stupidly and Sherlock groans. What is he doing, talking to a baby? That thing is barely human. It’s deprived of speech.

"AGAAA!"

"Oh for goodness’ sake…"

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Filed under bbc sherlock johnlock post-reichenbach character study john watson sherlock holmes mary morstan

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{UPDATE!} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XVLII

"John, I–"
"How can you be alive?" you cut in. Strangely, he seems startled by your question. As if this wasn’t what he’d expected you to ask.
"I’m sorry I ran," he says.
You look at each other in silence. You didn’t ask what he thought you’d ask. He didn’t answer your question. Staring him in the eye, you realize how lost you both are. Communicating isn’t going to be easy. Good thing you made some tea.
"Let’s sit down, Sherlock," you say as steadily as possible. "And please, explain. You owe me that, at least."
At yours words, he pales considerably, and for a second you fear he’ll pass out. But he doesn’t. Your hand is trembling again and you try to will it to stop. To no avail. Unnerved, you still take your mug and turn to the living-room, but your grip isn’t firm enough and you drop it. It shatters on the kitchen floor and you just stand, stunned, looking at the pieces scattered around. It was your In Arduis Fidelis mug. Your mug from the Royal Army Medical Corps. You liked it. Slowly, Sherlock opens the cupboard and takes out another one. A mug with a yellow chick on it. He puts another tea bag in it and pours boiled water. You watch him, voiceless, wondering how much you’ve missed if now Sherlock can do something so domestic as naturally as he used to put eyeballs in the microwave. He takes your mug and his and puts them on the kitchen table, then sits down.
"You’ll clean that later," he says, motioning towards the mess on the floor. You sit into the chair opposite him.
Sherlock swallows, looking around like a trapped animal. He doesn’t look at ease to say the least. He takes his mug, then puts it back down on the table without having taken a sip, looks at you, looks away.
"What do you want to know?" he asks.
"Everything."

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{UPDATE!} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XVLII

"John, I–"

"How can you be alive?" you cut in. Strangely, he seems startled by your question. As if this wasn’t what he’d expected you to ask.

"I’m sorry I ran," he says.

You look at each other in silence. You didn’t ask what he thought you’d ask. He didn’t answer your question. Staring him in the eye, you realize how lost you both are. Communicating isn’t going to be easy. Good thing you made some tea.

"Let’s sit down, Sherlock," you say as steadily as possible. "And please, explain. You owe me that, at least."

At yours words, he pales considerably, and for a second you fear he’ll pass out. But he doesn’t. Your hand is trembling again and you try to will it to stop. To no avail. Unnerved, you still take your mug and turn to the living-room, but your grip isn’t firm enough and you drop it. It shatters on the kitchen floor and you just stand, stunned, looking at the pieces scattered around. It was your In Arduis Fidelis mug. Your mug from the Royal Army Medical Corps. You liked it. Slowly, Sherlock opens the cupboard and takes out another one. A mug with a yellow chick on it. He puts another tea bag in it and pours boiled water. You watch him, voiceless, wondering how much you’ve missed if now Sherlock can do something so domestic as naturally as he used to put eyeballs in the microwave. He takes your mug and his and puts them on the kitchen table, then sits down.

"You’ll clean that later," he says, motioning towards the mess on the floor. You sit into the chair opposite him.

Sherlock swallows, looking around like a trapped animal. He doesn’t look at ease to say the least. He takes his mug, then puts it back down on the table without having taken a sip, looks at you, looks away.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Everything."

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Filed under bbc sherlock fanfiction johnlock post-reichenbach character study sherlock holmes john watson

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLVI

"I have to play the game, and win," Sherlock finished decidedly.
The Woman glanced out the window, barely brushing the curtain. Sherlock’s eyes followed her gaze. Mrs. Watson was standing at the window in John’s flat, cradling their son. Blake. Fair-haired. Perhaps the name would make sense for him.
"What tells you he didn’t set it so you couldn’t win?" the Woman’s voice asked.
Many people enjoy living their lives like games. Society helps you a lot with it. It isn’t so bad, I suppose. But us… 
Sherlock smiled. “He wouldn’t. If he did, it would no longer be a game now, would it?”
You, Moriarty… We’d get bored. He got bored. So bored. 
She arched her eyebrow and gave him one of her tantalizing looks. She sure was talented at that.
"Still. What makes you think you can win?"
Look at you. How much you are hurting because of people… It’s beyond me. 
"Please. I thought you knew me by now, Ms. Adler," Sherlock answered playfully.
I wouldn’t have jumped, Sherlock. I would’ve tried to stop Moriarty, have him arrested even, perhaps killed, whatever the risk. I would have wanted to win whatever the cost. 
Irene’s eyes gleamed. A smirk formed on her lips.
"I thought I did too, Mr. Holmes."
All men die, Sherlock. 
"Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off, then," he told her.
Caring isn’t an advantage. But it’s too late.
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you leaving me alone in your flat, Mr. Holmes?” she asked with a rather aristocratic air. Sherlock grinned.
You already care. 
"No, Ms. Adler. I am throwing you out."
The Woman pursed her lips and led the way to the door with dignity.
Don’t be even more stupid and make yourself suffer for the time you have left. 
"Your disguise to visit me was much sexier,” she dropped before leaving him on the pavement. Sherlock could not repress a smile.
John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. I’ll let you draw the conclusion yourself. 
The conclusion was easy enough. But Mycroft had forgotten something. Sebastian is alive, too. The symmetry. So many ways to finish this off. Well. At least three.
John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. Sebastian Moran is alive too. I’ll let you draw the conclusion yourself. 
Sherlock concluded.
One of us must die. 

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{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO ET EXTINGUO - Chapter XLVI

"I have to play the game, and win," Sherlock finished decidedly.

The Woman glanced out the window, barely brushing the curtain. Sherlock’s eyes followed her gaze. Mrs. Watson was standing at the window in John’s flat, cradling their son. Blake. Fair-haired. Perhaps the name would make sense for him.

"What tells you he didn’t set it so you couldn’t win?" the Woman’s voice asked.

Many people enjoy living their lives like games. Society helps you a lot with it. It isn’t so bad, I suppose. But us…

Sherlock smiled. “He wouldn’t. If he did, it would no longer be a game now, would it?”

You, Moriarty… We’d get bored. He got bored. So bored.

She arched her eyebrow and gave him one of her tantalizing looks. She sure was talented at that.

"Still. What makes you think you can win?"

Look at you. How much you are hurting because of people… It’s beyond me.

"Please. I thought you knew me by now, Ms. Adler," Sherlock answered playfully.

I wouldn’t have jumped, Sherlock. I would’ve tried to stop Moriarty, have him arrested even, perhaps killed, whatever the risk. I would have wanted to win whatever the cost.

Irene’s eyes gleamed. A smirk formed on her lips.

"I thought I did too, Mr. Holmes."

All men die, Sherlock.

"Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off, then," he told her.

Caring isn’t an advantage. But it’s too late.

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you leaving me alone in your flat, Mr. Holmes?” she asked with a rather aristocratic air. Sherlock grinned.

You already care.

"No, Ms. Adler. I am throwing you out."

The Woman pursed her lips and led the way to the door with dignity.

Don’t be even more stupid and make yourself suffer for the time you have left.

"Your disguise to visit me was much sexier,” she dropped before leaving him on the pavement. Sherlock could not repress a smile.

John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. I’ll let you draw the conclusion yourself.

The conclusion was easy enough. But Mycroft had forgotten something. Sebastian is alive, too. The symmetry. So many ways to finish this off. Well. At least three.

John is alive, Sherlock. You are alive. Sebastian Moran is alive too. I’ll let you draw the conclusion yourself.

Sherlock concluded.

One of us must die.

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