#axholmes

Okay guys so if you’ll look here --------> (x) 

These are all the threads I think I have going on a the moment. If I am missing any please let me know. As far as I know, I think I’m caught up on them all, but apparently tumblr has been silly lately and not telling me when others reply and it has also transferred to my tracker.

So just please take a look and let me know. It’s organized alphabetically according to the URL of my partner for that thread.  

And if you’d like to drop a thread, let me know. ^_^

Getting plane tickets from anyone else than Sherlock Holmes might have made John do a double take. At it were, he had given the dark-haired detective an are you serious? look before eventually being talked into it without much resistance. (It was only Cornwall, but it was more of a holiday than he and Mary would usually splurge on. Lush green scenery, slate gray castles, blue oceans and endless skies. And John believed Sherlock: he probably would never use those tickets.)

"We're going to Minack, that open-air theatre, yeah? And the Gardens and maybe Land's End... Tintagel, too, if we can manage," John said, looking at Sherlock. "But we're only going to be gone a week. You can stay out of trouble that long, right?"

He had to admit, when Sherlock had announced out of the blue "you should go on holiday", John'd been instantly suspicious and, deep down, still was, a little. Which was why he couldn't help but question it, looking up at his friend and staring hard into the detective's glacial blue eyes.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

I know you’ve been complaining about how cold your feet are but I know you hate how house slippers feel on your feet.

I think these will do nicely, ta? After all, they ARE Louboutin.

http://www.rpthreadtracker.com/public/theirturn?userId=18471¤tBlog=&sortDescending=false¤tOrderBy=UserTitle&filteredTag=

That link up there is my tracker, these are all the threads that I have replied to. If there is a thread we have that you no longer have an interest in, please let me know and we can get it worked out! ^_^

@axholmes

Estella watched the world roll on by through the taxi window. Her phone was vibrating like crazy ever since she got off the plane. Unanswered messages were rolling in from her friends and partner. She had been ignoring them since she left Hawaii. She didn’t want anyone to know where she was or what she was doing. She had gotten her superiors to give her a two months leave. She had something personal she needed to take care off on her own. She was currently five weeks in her leave. 

Estella was hot on the trail of her father’s killer. The trail ended right where her story began: in London, England. She never really planned on coming back here; but if this was where the trail led, she had no choice. She was heading toward an old apartment building where a murder was committed supposedly by the same person who killed her father. Two weeks in, the trail for the case had practically gone cold; but with the new info she had, Estella may be able to solve it. She pulled some strings--thanks to her late father’s connects--and was able to go to the crime scene and get her hands on the case files.

axholmes​

It was the end of a long week, Molly was happy to curl up in bed, with Toby, and a cup of tea, after a nice warm bath. Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t meant to be. Her doorbell rang, a rather shrill sound. And then it rang again.

Molly groaned, pulling herself out of bed, tying her dressing gown around herself as she grumbles and moves to the door, Toby jumping off the bed. “I’m coming.” She called, as she padded out of her bedroom, pulling the door open. She expected it to be the postman, or her landlord, but no nothing prepared her for the sight that met her at the door. Or rather, on the steps. It was wasn’t possible. He was supposed to be faking his death- she had expected him to be in somewhere the Middle East by now, or taking down Jim’s network. Not here. Not now. And certainly not like this. 

“S-Sherlock?” 

axholmes

John had told him not to go ahead.

Or, if he hadn't, it had surely been implied in the way that he hissed Sherlock's name as the detective took off running up the stairs. But, like usual, Sherlock hadn't listened, John was left swearing at his ex-flatmate's incompetance, and left with the itch to take off running after him, because that was what they did.

He didn't, though, because Janine was a friend, and nevermind Sherlock's insistance on using people for a means to an end, John was pretty sure that Sherlock cared about Janine on some - maybe a very small, pushed away one - level.

All of that no longer mattered when he heard the gunshot.

John took the stairs two at a time. "Sherlock?"

He had told him not to go ahead.

He had told him not to go alone.

"Sherlock?" John rounded into the room, pausing momentarily because, was that Magnussen? He'd been here, all along, and then: "Sherlock!"

The detective wasn't moving. Was he breathing?

For one, long instant, John was two and a half years prior, standing outside of St Bartholomew's hospital, rain dancing against his face, lifeless skin beneath his hands, "let me through, he's my friend, please", blood on the pavement and oxygen too thick and heavy to get into his own lungs as his legs buckled and "oh, God, no".

He shook himself hard and crashed down next to Sherlock's body, feeling first for a pulse out of instinct, and then going to the wound, ripping Sherlock's jacket open to apply pressure to the wound. Through all of this, he was aware that he was talking, although he didn't hang onto the words: "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Open your eyes, you bastard, you are not faking out on me this time. Sherlock. Come on, you have to stay with me. Sherlock!"

Ambulance. Think. Keeping a one-handed pressure on Sherlock's chest, he jerked his own phone from his pocket, dialling 999. "Ambulance," he snapped, and his voice did not waver, it did not, and he glared towards Magnussen, who was just now moving. (Why him, why was Magnussen the one moving, not Sherlock? What the fuck had happened?) "What happened?" he demanded, masking fear with anger, the obvious answer coming when Magnussen replied