It was raining outside and their latest case was somehow a little trickier than Sherlock had imagined and somehow his brained seemed to be on strike because he just couldn't seem to be able to figure it out. He took up his violin from the windowsill and began playing Shostakovich's waltz number two from the Suite for Variety Orchestra.
He had known the piece for more than twenty years and played it with ease as his muscle memory came flooding back after the first bar. John was watching him, he noticed it, but to John it wouldn't sound half as good as it did in his mind, because John didn't know the piece. He couldn't hear the symphonic orche
London's weather was not his friend today. It had been one of the rare occasions on which he had decided to take his bike rather than the tube or a cab to work. But London just wasn't a motorcycle's natural habitat and he knew it better than anyone. The day had seemed to turn out nice enough when he drove into work this morning, but shortly after noon it had started to rain and the water kept pouring from the sky until he had left the Yard.
The street in which he lived wasn't very well maintained. It was basically one big pothole and after a day like this it was just one gigantic, cloudy puddle. Great, now he would spend his night cleaning h
Today they had their weekly night out, or at least that's what they liked calling it. As a matter of fact they had no set weekday and they only made it out every other week or so, but both men liked to think that they could manage to make a weekly meeting. It was nothing elaborate, most of the times they just went to a pub, talking, drinking beer, watching football or playing darts.
After Greg had set down his third pint in front of him John raised his beer and they clinked glasses.
"So, tell me, what is Mycroft like when he's 'off duty'?", John asked bluntly.
Greg almost choked on his beer. "What? How would I know?" Was his hasty reply wh
"Why did the smoke detector go off?" Sherlock asked John as he paced through the room, not looking at him. Lately he had gone back to taking his friend through his whole process, going so far as to try to make him come to his conclusions by himself. It made John feel like the sorcerer's apprentice.
"Because there was a whole lot of smoke in here." That answer was simple enough. Where Sherlock's deduction skills were like a long jump John followed with baby steps.
"Why?" It felt like his friend was throwing him breadcrumbs and he just had to follow the trail.
"Because the chef let the food burn that he was preparing for his best friend and
It's one of those cases that is both, rather high-profile and pretty tricky, so I have no other choice than to call in Sherlock and John. Something seems to be off between the two, but I can't really put my finger on it.
We're in the morgue and both of them lean over the body of Julia Stoner now, Sherlock with his ever present magnifier and John with his trained medical eye. That's when the bickering continues that I interrupted when I came to fetch them from Baker Street.
"Do people actually read your blog?", Sherlock asks.
I open my mouth to interfere, but close it again without saying a word. It's between the two of them, none of my bus
John Watson had served in the British Army, he was used to fighting in uniforms, nevertheless it felt quite strange to put on a ninja costume. Sherlock had pulled some strings and organised one of the smaller dressing rooms in the Queen's theatre for them to change into attire they needed to wrap up their latest case. Outside everything was buzzing with activity as the actors and the crew were getting ready for the night's performance.
"I bet if we had taken the case of that international conspiracy we would be travelling in a private jet right now, eating crème brûlée, but no, you wanted the comic books coming true. Look at
"Punch me in the face", his friend tells him and gestures towards his cheek.
He can't help but frown. Did he just hear that right? "Punch you?"
Sherlock looks annoyed. "Yes. Punch me, in the face." He gestures to his cheek again and frowns as well when he adds sarcastically: "Didn't you hear me?"
"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but usually it's subtext." His reply is dry and he only states it because it's the witty thing to say, not because it's true, but Sherlock doesn't need to know that, does he? Because to be honest he has been a pain in the arse lately.
The other man is clearly frustrated now because he do
It was his first birthday after his return to England. At work Sarah had surprised him during lunch with a cupcake in hand with a single candle in it, Harry had sent him a text and Clara had called while he was on his way home. He hadn't told Mrs Hudson when his birthday was because so far she hadn't asked and of course the same was true for Sherlock.
He had stopped at the shop on his way home, buying himself a pre-cooked cottage pie and two cooled pints of his favourite stout, hoping for a quiet night in. Sherlock hadn't had a case in a bit but kept himself busy by abusing their kitchen for his experiments. John still hadn't got used to tha
It was raining outside and their latest case was somehow a little trickier than Sherlock had imagined and somehow his brained seemed to be on strike because he just couldn't seem to be able to figure it out. He took up his violin from the windowsill and began playing Shostakovich's waltz number two from the Suite for Variety Orchestra.
He had known the piece for more than twenty years and played it with ease as his muscle memory came flooding back after the first bar. John was watching him, he noticed it, but to John it wouldn't sound half as good as it did in his mind, because John didn't know the piece. He couldn't hear the symphonic orche
London's weather was not his friend today. It had been one of the rare occasions on which he had decided to take his bike rather than the tube or a cab to work. But London just wasn't a motorcycle's natural habitat and he knew it better than anyone. The day had seemed to turn out nice enough when he drove into work this morning, but shortly after noon it had started to rain and the water kept pouring from the sky until he had left the Yard.
The street in which he lived wasn't very well maintained. It was basically one big pothole and after a day like this it was just one gigantic, cloudy puddle. Great, now he would spend his night cleaning h
Today they had their weekly night out, or at least that's what they liked calling it. As a matter of fact they had no set weekday and they only made it out every other week or so, but both men liked to think that they could manage to make a weekly meeting. It was nothing elaborate, most of the times they just went to a pub, talking, drinking beer, watching football or playing darts.
After Greg had set down his third pint in front of him John raised his beer and they clinked glasses.
"So, tell me, what is Mycroft like when he's 'off duty'?", John asked bluntly.
Greg almost choked on his beer. "What? How would I know?" Was his hasty reply wh
"Why did the smoke detector go off?" Sherlock asked John as he paced through the room, not looking at him. Lately he had gone back to taking his friend through his whole process, going so far as to try to make him come to his conclusions by himself. It made John feel like the sorcerer's apprentice.
"Because there was a whole lot of smoke in here." That answer was simple enough. Where Sherlock's deduction skills were like a long jump John followed with baby steps.
"Why?" It felt like his friend was throwing him breadcrumbs and he just had to follow the trail.
"Because the chef let the food burn that he was preparing for his best friend and
It's one of those cases that is both, rather high-profile and pretty tricky, so I have no other choice than to call in Sherlock and John. Something seems to be off between the two, but I can't really put my finger on it.
We're in the morgue and both of them lean over the body of Julia Stoner now, Sherlock with his ever present magnifier and John with his trained medical eye. That's when the bickering continues that I interrupted when I came to fetch them from Baker Street.
"Do people actually read your blog?", Sherlock asks.
I open my mouth to interfere, but close it again without saying a word. It's between the two of them, none of my bus
John Watson had served in the British Army, he was used to fighting in uniforms, nevertheless it felt quite strange to put on a ninja costume. Sherlock had pulled some strings and organised one of the smaller dressing rooms in the Queen's theatre for them to change into attire they needed to wrap up their latest case. Outside everything was buzzing with activity as the actors and the crew were getting ready for the night's performance.
"I bet if we had taken the case of that international conspiracy we would be travelling in a private jet right now, eating crème brûlée, but no, you wanted the comic books coming true. Look at
"Punch me in the face", his friend tells him and gestures towards his cheek.
He can't help but frown. Did he just hear that right? "Punch you?"
Sherlock looks annoyed. "Yes. Punch me, in the face." He gestures to his cheek again and frowns as well when he adds sarcastically: "Didn't you hear me?"
"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but usually it's subtext." His reply is dry and he only states it because it's the witty thing to say, not because it's true, but Sherlock doesn't need to know that, does he? Because to be honest he has been a pain in the arse lately.
The other man is clearly frustrated now because he do
It was his first birthday after his return to England. At work Sarah had surprised him during lunch with a cupcake in hand with a single candle in it, Harry had sent him a text and Clara had called while he was on his way home. He hadn't told Mrs Hudson when his birthday was because so far she hadn't asked and of course the same was true for Sherlock.
He had stopped at the shop on his way home, buying himself a pre-cooked cottage pie and two cooled pints of his favourite stout, hoping for a quiet night in. Sherlock hadn't had a case in a bit but kept himself busy by abusing their kitchen for his experiments. John still hadn't got used to tha
Sherlock Holmes: The Ever Evolving Icon by techgnotic, journal
Sherlock Holmes: The Ever Evolving Icon
Sherlock Holmes
The Ever Evolving Icon
.techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
by techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
What is it about a fictional character first introduced to the public in Great Britain in 1887 that has kept him being reincarnated, with generationally-correct upgrades, over and over again in film and on television? Who is this literary hero whose portrayal over the past century by such past masters as Basil Rathbone and Jeremy Brett to today’s vanguard talents Robert Downey, Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch has inspired such a continuing outpouring of fan appreciation?
Jeremy Brett as Holmes 03 by Windfreak (https://www.deviantart.com/windfreak) →
Every generation will forev
I remembered your name, because you were one of the few people, who submitted Sportasteph content....bless. y'know, the fandom has risen (again?) now, but people are into Sportarobbie hah..