“So… fish?”

“Timber.”

“Sorry?”

“This restaurant ships fish in the middle of the night from a dock to the south. Last night, at around 11:45 in the evening, a timber truck heading south spilled its load across the northbound, delaying traffic for three hours. Due to the way this restaurant processes fish, those three hours make a crucial difference to the bacterial balance in the carcasses, and by now everything shipped last night has had enough contamination by the fry cook alone that a single bite could bedrid you for weeks.”

“So… no fish?”

“No fish.”

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Sherlock was hiding in a closet. It was a dark closet so it was naturally very unpleasant. Nonetheless, it was safer than being out in the open. Not with Carl Powers around. Sherlock touched his aching cheek. It was wet. Blood. He had to clean up before going home or else Mummy would have a fit. She’d call the school and make a big fuss and Carl would come and find Sherlock again. He wouldn’t be a snitch like Mycroft. He would just wait it out.

Sherlock froze. He heard voices. Mean and laughing. “Where is the little runt? I swear I saw him running down this hallway.” Carl wasn’t finished with him yet.

He waited for what seemed like an hour in the dark quiet before the voices finally went away. He peeked out into the hallway. Empty. He stepped out cautiously. A hand grabbed him. He tried to pull away but the grip was too strong. He whirled around in vain, trying to face his captor, ready to fight Carl. It wasn’t Carl. It was a young boy. He recognized him from the grade below him. Little Jimmy Moriarty. A regular victim of Carl’s abuse. He wondered briefly how such a puny kid could be so strong.

“What do you want?” Sherlock cried. “Let me go! He’s going to come back and he’ll beat me to a pulp—!” The boy just stared at him, a look of desperate indifference in his eyes. A silent, and eery pleading for help, but at the same time the gaze was clouded with distrust.

“I could turn you in.” He whispered. “I could call Carl right now. I could let him beat you to death. I could watch. Pretend to laugh along. Then maybe he’d be my friend. Maybe then he’d leave me alone.”

Jimmy watched the upperclassman struggling in his grasp for a long time. He was deep in thought, morals battling the vicious temptation of possible freedom. Finally he let go. Sherlock fell to the ground, knees too weak with ebbing fear to stand. “No. I won’t be like them. I won’t be so merciless. I’ll stop them on my own. Carl will never bother anyone again.”

Sherlock looked at the boy with wide eyes.. Then he ran and didn’t look back. A week later, Carl was murdered. No one ever bothered Jimmy Moriarty again.

(submitted by rawrmynameisval)

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When Mycroft had said that people weren’t going to like him, Sherlock didn’t realise how much that was true. He arrived slightly late to the job interview, straightened out his hair and clothes to what people would generally identify as a reasonable degree, and sat down in the seats to wait. A woman glared at him, and he almost scoffed in reply. She was cheating on her husband who was sat next to him. His clothes were slightly ruffled and old looking but hers were new. He looked tired and worn while she was wearing fresh lipstick - slightly smudged; someone had obviously been kissing her, and it hadn’t been the man sat next to him.

A door opened. “Sherlock Holmes?” someone called and Sherlock stood up. The man’s eyes widened at him but then shrugged. “Come in,” he said.

Sherlock analysed the room. Dark, old wallpaper, but the carpet was new. So obviously someone was getting more money than they should be. The desk was a fake 18th century style, but the man sat behind him was real, if not amazingly fake. “Good afternoon,” he said in a way that implied he had been having a good afternoon until Sherlock walked into the room. “Please, take a seat.” The Holmes did as he was bit and studied the man, who seemed to do it back to him. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?” His voice sounded incredulous.

“Yes, I’m Sherlock,” the boy replied coldly. He was about to continue with the reasons that he should take the job when the woman from the waiting room burst in, her eyes cold. “What is he doing here?” she cried out. “He’s twelve!”

Well, this was a development. The man behind the desk stood up, but Sherlock smiled lazily, lent back in his chair and said: “I’m fourteen, actually. And I can’t believe you’ve been cheating on your husband.”

“What?” she asked. Sherlock then went on to explain how she had been cheating, and that the boss of the company had been taking money, and that the woman behind the desk was the one that the woman had been having an affair with.

It was a surprise to everyone apart from Sherlock when he didn’t get the job.

(submitted by pronetoinsanity)

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It’s hardly a month before they fall into a routine, and the home feels cozy and comfortable, the previous tip-toeing and shying away a thing of the past between the pair. Every morning, John pads down the steps, favouring his right leg as he waddles, and makes toast and tea for himself and Sherlock. Waking the detective up is much more difficult, but not an impossible feat, and once they’re up, it’s all the dizzy hurry of cases and chases and bullets and near-death experiences and dinner at Angelo’s. As much as John tuts the lifestyle, he is in no way adverse to it (even the bits where he finds suspicious looking mold growing in the kitchen sink), and when he recalls on it, he looks oddly at peace, like it’s as normal as a married couple’s domestic life.

Perhaps the oddest piece of knowledge of their home life together is that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, as co-dependent, comfortable, and reliant they are on each other, are not romantically involved. They are simply two men who have found that— through the violin playing at ungodly hours, the knit sweaters and multitudes of scarves, and the casual ebb and flow of who did what and why they didn’t do this and how in the world did this get here— they are happy, right where they are.

John smiles behind his mug as he watches Sherlock’s excited expression, the man going on about the upwards curve of his nose and the curly, ginger hair (“so obvious, so obvious, how could they think it’s his child?”), and knows this is exactly what he wants for the rest of his life.

(submitted by chris-bobby-evans)

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and flounced down the 17 steps in 4 strides. He didn’t know where he was headed, but soon he found himself in the crush of shoppers and revellers on Oxford Street. The whole of London was here on Christmas Eve and it turns out that he, the world’s only consulting detective, was no different after all. But the crowd only emphasised to him the army-doctor-shaped emptiness by his side. He breathed in the cold air and stared up at the dazzling Christmas lights. Suddenly, he couldn’t believe he threw a strop at John over such a silly, inconsequential thing, something he should really delete from his mind for all the worth it had. He turned abruptly, startling an pack of tourists, and ran back to Baker Street, back home to John.

(inspired by Coldplay’s Christmas Lights, and the snowy 221b pic!)

(submitted by semlohkcolrehs)