#intransigentholmes

          “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with S.”  

Professor Moriarty sits across the disturbingly bleached, sanitized, oppressive setting of the dentist’s office, legs crossed, some inanely ordinary tabloid magazine or another perched on his Gucci-clad lap.  He is sharp and dark and bizarrely cloying as ever.  His voice dances erratically, and he’s as still as a reanimated corpse that’s forgotten how to move naturally.  Most disturbingly, all of this is calculated; if Jim Moriarty wanted to blend in, Jim Moriarty could.  

         “What’re you doing here, darlin?  Thought someone as          snoozily righteous as you would have miraculously healthy bicuspids.          Getting a gold tooth? Now, that’d be a look.”  

“Have you seen the size of human brains? They’re hilarious.”

      Lids opened and closed at the snap, remaining calm despite the aftershocks of mild fear that shook the marrow in her bones. Fox knew he wasn’t speaking so to be cruel, not everyone did this, she had to remind herself. “A nice story,” she began, avoiding those narrowed eyes. “Is sometimes all that people are willing to hear. It's easier for them to wrap their minds around, like a fairytale. No one wants to read one now with a realistic ending. If you gave them the truth, they may rebel against it, claim its some kind of conspiracy or fear what really happened." Her mouth tilted into a frown, no words felt right enough. 

                    it’s   always   this   way    .          always         ,         always        ,         because sherlock holmes can never really seem to keep his nose out of trouble .         a sigh         ,         exasperated         ,         as the medical kit is pulled from its familiar place in the bathroom cupboard         ,         taking out the things needed in order to patch his flatmate up .                  ❝         christ         ,         sherlock         ,         you need to be more careful   .         this is exactly what always happens when         ————         ❞                  when i’m not there with you  .         john shuts his mouth         ,         shaking his head as he prepares to dab a little hydrogen peroxide onto the cloth he holds  .                                ❝         hold as still as you can         ,         alright   ?         can’t promise anything         ,         but this might sting a little   .         ❞

jealous lovers sentence starters

Of COURSE she’d heard of them. It was impossible not to have, and she wasn’t THAT out of the loop. She had to rely on friends playing the latest music to keep up to date, but it was a task to live in England and NOT to hear about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

And Hattie thought she was a  GENIUS  for bringing coffee from downstairs (that she had made herself - her trial shift had worked out well).  Who doesn’t like  COFFEE ?? 

She knocked with her elbow, hands full with styrofoam cups, The Music Scene by Blockhead audible through her headphones which dangled from her pocket (she wasn’t  RUDE  or anything), volume maxed. 

And she couldn’t help but hope that it would be John Watson who’d answer the door. 

my muse is dying!! send “just, just hang on…” to hear their last words to your muse as they die in their arms!! | accepting bc i am trash | @intransigentholmes

       The letters had arrived a week ago; she’d watched, perched on the couch in 221B, as Sherlock poured over every detail -- the envelope, the paper, the writing. Excited. A game was afoot. One that promised a murder at the end. To Fox, it stank of a trap, but what was she to do? It would eat away at him until he found himself at the designated location, with or without her. They were all sent letters, even Lestrade and Molly Hooper. Whoever the soon-to-be killer was, they weren’t playing around. It’s a joke, she had tried to convince him, unable to convince her own stomach from twisting into knots. Something about all of it was wrong, incredibly wrong. Fox kept telling herself it would be fine, they would all be together ( ducks in a row ), her anxiety only worsened when they arrived. 

      So many masks, all different shapes and colors. Some beautiful others horrifying. Their group were the only ones without. The consulting detective was practically salivating at all the details, determined to thwart the murderers’ plan. While he deduced, Fox stood apart, watching everyone as they surrounded him. Dancers moving as if none of them were there, actors on a stage. A new take on a flash mob. There were five, however, that were forever out of place. Circling instead of moving to the classical moan of the violins. Sharks in the water, circling prey that would soon be bleeding. It was a trap. The murderer meant to overwhelm him with details and sensations, she panicked, multiple killers all aiming for him. They circled closer. The crowd refused to part as she tried to get to him, to warn him over the swell of music. Walking right into the knife in her path. 

      Instinctively she gripped the wrist of the assailant. Don’t pull it out, don’t pull it out. They twisted the blade. Blood was already dripping. No one ceased their dancing. Around and around and around they spun. It was already too late when she caught his eye. The attacker pulled the knife from her stomach only to plunge it in another time between her ribs. Laughing. He was laughing. By the time Sherlock must’ve realized, he was gone. The knife hidden away within his waistcoat. She was on her knees then, both hands holding to the newly made holes in her body. Was it normal to bleed so quickly? 

      He was there and he was yelling, telling her something. Just, just hang on. All that spinning. Ballerinas in a music box. Why were they still dancing? Why were the musicians still playing? How was the entirety of the room now tilting on its axis? Looking down there was a red sea, flowing from her, soaking into his trousers. Stained hands reached, holding to either side of his beautiful face. To keep him steady as skirts and shoes continued around them. 

      “When did it get so cold,” she questioned before coughing. Her mouth became wet, filled with iron that overflowed down her lips. But Sherlock, he was safe, they hadn’t harmed him. That was all that mattered. “I -- I’m not going to make it, am I? Sherlock?” Breathing was becoming difficult. The others were there now, above her, blocking out the light like heavenly beings. Shouting for people to stop moving. “Don’t make the music stop, please, just dance with me one last time. Please, Sherlock.” It was easier than saying don’t let me die. “Just like when I fell i--” Her body was sliding into shock or shutting down or simply not allowing her to say what she wanted to say. In his arms, nothing more came out of her mouth save the wet, gurgling noise of a body filling with blood. Eyes remaining open, once looking at his face now looked through it. Glazed and empty.