A gift for: Meredydd
Warnings: No warnings
Summary: Molly finds that maybe romance isn’t everything.
Author's Notes: This was my Sherlockmas exchange fic for the lovely meredydd. The original prompt was: Molly is Jewish and volunteers to work over Christmas again so her co-workers who celebrate can go home to their families and don't have to spend the night at the morgue. She thinks that no one will miss her from the (very large, thanks to Sherlock's return and the media interest in his appearance) party she was invited to by Mycroft. I didn't stick that closely to it, but I hope it's okay.
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Also, Vinette Robinson was sitting directly in front of me during the play. I did an internal squee the moment I saw her, but did not gawp. At least I don't think so. I also didn't thump her ear (which was about 10 inches away) because I dislike Sally Donovan so. I managed to keep a firm grasp on reality... which isn't always the case. Not that it matters particularly, but she is quite beautiful in person. She also laughed uproariously at all of Mark Gatiss' antics onstage, which I found to be rather sweet.
So, I was on a total Sherlockian buzz all day yesterday. It was rather awesome.
Click here to start with Atlin's and the links will carry you through the rest of the ficlets from Malboro Blanc, kirakira_nanoda, aristaholmes, livia_carica, random_nexus, roquentine, and me, lucybun.
Warnings: references to violence and wounds
Spoilers: SiP and TGG
Word Count: ~1150
Summary: John Watson dreams of his perfect world.
Author's Note: I suppose this is angst, though I don't think it's exactly sad. I've been in a bit of a grey place, and this is what happened when I should have been working on another story.
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Rating: R for this chapter. It will go up.
Summary: When important members of Britain's most elite families are murdered, Mycroft and Lestrade team up to catch a killer and uncover the secrets that people are dying to keep.
Author's Note: Yep, Mystrade case fic. Sherlock isn't the only brilliant Holmes who can help a certain DI. There will be violence in this, sometimes graphic, and there will be romance in this, sometimes graphic. I hope it will be interesting, exciting, and fun. I owe a massive thanks to random_nexus and shouldboverthis for being the most wonderful betas ever. There is a bit of "medical" information in this chapter. I've tried to be accurate, but I may not have succeeded. Any mistakes are all mine. I was also somehow lucky enough to have the uber-talented lady_twatterby volunteer to illustrate this story. She is amazing, and I cannot thank her enough. Now, let's see if I can pull this off.
( The Misnamed EmpireCollapse )
Summary: Sherlock's thoughts at The Pool
Author's Notes: I've been forcing myself to write every day, and it seems to be helping with the block. This grew out of my random ramblings as I forced myself to just write something. And we all know that Something is better than Nothing; Nothing is such a bitch.
It’s unforgiveable that I should have allowed this to happen. I watch dots of red light dance across John’s body and know that I could have stopped this before it ever started.
Lestrade would blame my insistence upon putting the work before all other things. He’d blame himself for not listening to that niggling voice always whispering in his ear that this was bound to happen someday. He’d blame himself for letting the brilliance of my mind overwhelm his own common sense.
Mycroft would blame my hubris, my recklessness. You’re not perfect, brother dear. You let your excitement influence your thinking, Sherlock. Someday you’ll go too far; so far even I won’t be able to find you.
John would… no, John wouldn’t blame me at all, the idiot. He’d known me for such a short time, yet he knew me so much better. He wouldn’t point a finger, but with his unerring aim, he’d know exactly where a finger should point.
As do I. Not at my frigid single-mindedness, not at my over-confidence, not at my addiction to the thrill. Not at any one of those things, but at all of them… all of me. It should point at me running just as fast as I can along the only path I’ve ever been willing to follow—a trail of breadcrumbs.