#saysorrymolly

Sherlock didn't really know where to go.  He'd be damned if he went crawling back to Mycroft.  His brother would be allowed to handle the putting of his possessions into storage, but that was it.  He had no friends, no one to turn to in London who would be willing take him in.  He had been evicted from his flat and now he was homeless again.

The temptation to fall back into old habits was growing stronger with his headache.  He desperately needed a distraction, something, anything, that would relieve his pain.  The first thing that came to his mind that wasn't the needle was that little pathologist at St. Bart's.  She would be working now.  A few flattering words and she'd be putty in his hands.  She'd let him have a look at any cadaver he liked.

Adjusting the strap of his messenger bag, Sherlock set off into the night.  About a half an hour later, he was at the door of the morgue.  He put on a smile to distract from the dark circles around his eyes and burst into the room.

"Molly!  I'd like to see a body!" he greeted.

angst sentence starter

Jasper was not known for his first aid skills— or his reassuring nature, or even his quick-thinking in times of medical emergencies. But he knew enough that when a person asks for help to at the very least try. 

His hands was reassuring on the older woman’s shoulder  and mid-back, and all attention was immediately off the phone pressed into her jacket. Whatever insistence that might not have shown through in his facial expression definitely showed in his tone.

NAME: Tellhound (Let's just pretend that it is my name)

URL/URLS: jumperlovingdoctor (on a semi-hiatus), tellhound (personal), ask--martin-crieff

BLOG TITLE: On a semi-hiatus right now (although the usual blog title is just: John H. Watson)

FAVOURITE COLOUR: Green

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: hahahaha

WRITE SOMETHING IN CAPS: BREADSTICKS

FAVOURITE BAND: Do I really have to chose? 

FAVOURITE NUMBER: 13

FAVOURITE BEVERAGE: Does coffee count? 

      "I'm assuming Mrs Hudson allowed you in,             which was a terrible mistake on her part."

     Sherlock doesn't even look up from whatever she's working on to see who's at the door, and has no intention to.

Jim Moriarty decidedly did not like summer camps. He knew that the minute he stepped off the bus. Summer camps meant time spent outside, and time spent with other people his age. It meant 'bonding' with his 'peers', and being unable to sit contentedly in his own corner to read.

                    In short, everything Jim loathed in one place.

The expression on his face was likely blank, it usually was nowadays, but if one were to look closely into the teen's brown eyes, they might see a hint of murderous intent. Not anything he'd act on, though. So long as he played nice here, he'd never be forced to attend such a thing again.

Lost in his own displeased thoughts, Jim didn't notice the girl walking perpendicular to his path and stepped directly in front of her, colliding with her from the side.

                "Sorry."

Meme

21. Summer Camp! AU