Back on terra firma in London.

The London Bridge Case - Part III

See here for Part I and II.

Let me start by saying that, yes, I know,  it was a long wait. And I am sorry you had to wait this long to learn more about what happened a few months back. But, you know, a certain someone asked me - no - ordered me not to write anything related to the London Bridge case until we knew who was behind the attacks.

Now, maybe I am spoiling the ending here, but we still do not know who abducted me and tried to drown Sherlock, while they were busy blowing up strategic points in central London. I write “strategic points" because, besides Sherlock, there’s someone else threatening me not to reveal anything about this case for the details will probably have a disastrous effect on the already crumbling government.

But then you might wonder why I decide to ignore the demands of these two pricks now. I will tell you, my dear followers. It is because I am currently not at 221b, and my furious mind is ready to create havoc unless I give it something else to do. So, sit tight, and enjoy this short ride.

Do you remember that I was trying to escape the London Sewers? Well, if you don’t, you can catch up right here.

After that blow to the head, I blacked out. When I regained consciousness, it was to the smell of burning wood and the insistent sound of a building collapsing, bit by bit. I tried to move my arms and legs but was met with a painful resistance. My disoriented mind took its time to register that not only the room was on fire, but that I was, very inconveniently, tied to a chair in said room. My voice also took a few tries until it finally made enough sound to cry out for help. I was sure no one would hear me and hoped fervently that I would suffocate first before the fire would get to me.  

And that’s when I saw it: a pocket knife layn out very strategically in front of me, just out of reach, its blistering blade mocking me.

I snarled at the unmoving object, and threw myself to the ground, groaning when my good shoulder made an impact on the floor. I tried to move towards the blade, and I was very sure I wouldn’t succeed in time. My mind and body were so set on getting to the blade that I hadn't heard anyone else entering the room behind me. It was only when I saw an unfamiliar gloved hand grab the knife in front of my eyes that I realised someone was there with me. The stranger was quick and stealthy, and I tried to look behind me and demand them to reveal themselves, but to no avail. I felt the cold leather touch my arms, wrists, and ankles, feeling my limbs being slowly freed from their confinement by gentle and sure hands. I didn't have time to protest, even if I wanted to, because I was immediately dragged away from the heat, towards the staircase. The smell of smoke was burning its way through my lungs, and with each step we descended, it hold on to the smoke-free air gratefully.

A coughing fit made me buckle to the ground when we were finally outside. After the sound of firemen entering the building broke through the ringing in my ears, I realised that my saviour had fled the scene.

In the ambulance, my hands found their way into the pockets of my jacket, and the fingers of my left hand closed around an unfamiliar object. The sight of the object in my hand made my stomach drop and a bile form in my throat.

There, in the palm of my hand, was a silver USB stick of which I'd hoped I'd never have to see again.

Several questions are still unanswered and they still puzzle our great detective tremendously. Not that he will ever admit it, of course, but I know this because I have often found him pacing the living room in the middle of the night, unaware of late-night trespassers (me).

I later learned from Lestrade that they’d found Sherlock in one of the secret chambers beneath the bridge. Just in time, I have to add. Sherlock claims he thought I would be there. An almost fatal error on his part because I was almost being blown to bits on the other side of town. I tried asking him if he saw the person who locked him in, but I think he is afraid to admit that what he saw frightened him. Or he simply doesn’t know who was so set on killing us.

We haven’t received any children's rhymes anymore. It has been awfully quiet the last few months. I almost dare to think that this will be one of the cases that will forever remain a mystery, but something in the pit of my stomach says that it is somewhat more personal. Why would we otherwise be the targets of the attack? We are now being surveilled, constantly. I accepted Mycroft’s interference and intrusion because I want to keep my daughter safe.

I hope, dear readers, that things will turn back to normal as soon as possible. The situation with Sherlock has taken its toll, and I am still in the middle of finding out what we will do. So, please be more patient with me than you’ve ever been.

And stay tuned.

Im glad its you and eurus. My friend keeps talking about sheriarty nonstop and its starting to annoy me and maybe she’ll stop after seeing your blog 😁

oh my god, i don't even see why people who want us to be together. we quite litreally hate eachother and want one another to die.

Recently I decided to treat myself with my comfort series for the umpteenth time🔒

Fellow Sherlockians, are you there?

*reblogs are appreciated!

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Attacked

It was a quiet late Saturday evening, Rosie was playing with her new blocks in the living room of 221B Bakerstreet and Sherlock had just disappeared into the kitchen to make some tea. John looked at his daughter, sitting on the floor and scolding the blocks not to fall down every time she let go of them. He smiled at her and rose to see if he could help Sherlock in the kitchen. It all happened because of a little mishap. As John entered the kitchen, Sherlock was taking a cup out of the cupboard, and while pulling it out, another moved with it and threatened to fall to the floor. “Sherlock,” John blurted out and threw himself forwards to catch the falling cup, but although he caught it, he heard china shatter on the kitchen floor. When he looked up he saw Sherlock, standing two steps away from his original position, the cup he aimed for shattered on the floor. Slowly he lifted his gaze and stared at John with wide eyes, his breath slightly elevated, his skin pale. John frowned, then he gasped in realization and took a step back himself. He felt something clench in his gut and chest and he felt sick. Sherlock thought John was going to hit him. He had stepped back reflexly when John moved towards him, expecting John to punch him, but he had not even raised a hand in defence. In fact, he had dropped his arms and turned his head to the side. As if he had simply surrendered to his fate. Now they were staring at each other. Johns hands began to tremble and he placed the rescued cup on the counter. Sherlock stretched out a hand towards him, but didn't move apart from that. “I'm, I'm sorry,” he whispered. John took another step back, shaking his head. Sherlock was afraid of him. He had backed away from John, expecting to be hit. But this wasn't enough. Even if John really intended to do it, to hurt Sherlock, he wouldn't even fight back. He would just... endure it, waiting for it to be over, waiting for John to get back the better of him? John shook his head in disbelief, his thoughts rioting in his head. “No,” he said, his voice shaky and wavering. “Don't!” Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor and drew his hand back. No... no, no, no... He was making it even worse. “No, Sherlock... I mean,” he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Not now, not now! “Don't apologize...” John managed to say. Slowly, Sherlock looked up again, as if uncertain, and the look on his face completely broke John.

He had done that. He was supposed to be Sherlocks best friend, but he had attacked Sherlock. He had punched him, when he returned from death, exhausted and looking forward to finally come home. And he had punched him when he was at his weakest, surrounded by others he had hit his best friend, and when he was lying on the ground, feeble and bleeding, he had continued to kick him.

He wanted to step closer to Sherlock, to try and comfort him, but he didn't dare to, afraid of Sherlocks reaction. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry, Sherlock.” He took another step back, then turned. He picked Rosie up from the floor and, leaving everything they brought with them today, went down the stairs.

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Rules: Answer the questions and tag nine (9) people you want to get to know better and/or catch up with!

thanks for the tag @thelostself 🥹❤️

Favourite Colours: the gradients of oranges-reds-pinks, and the gradients of purples-blues-greens (that's why I made my two biggest fantasy countries based off of those two spectrums lol)

Last Song: Lindsey Stirling - Eye Of The Untold Her (part of the playlist for the chapter I'm writing about some royals)

Last Movie: either a re-watch of the Dark Knight trilogy or my buddies showing me Totoro for the first time

Currently Reading two books

Wheel of Time 4: The Shadow Rising

The Shining, Stephen King

(also just finished a few Ursula Le Guin short stories that have influenced me quite a bit)

Currently Watching

The Bad Batch (Star Wars)

The Rookie (I'm obsessed with Nathan Fillion, sorry)

Coffee or Tea: both!! I have tea with my breakfast and coffee on days I'm sluggish or wanna treat myself

Currently Craving

Brown Sugar Oat Americanos 😭

Ramen

Light tagging / no pressure / just a soft hello: @forthesanityofsome @kainablue @tryingtimi @the-void-writes @dyrewrites @temariheizou @squid--inc @221b-bakerstreet-camelot @jacqueattack

“So,” he said when there were barely two feet of space between them, peering up at him from under dark eyelashes and quirked brows. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

His grip on his cane tightened. Alexander’s eyes flickered down to his tinted white knuckles before he resumed the maddening eye contact, a tiny smirk curling his lips, and God, he was infuriating.

“Afghanistan,” he responded in a low voice. “How did you-”

“Know you were a soldier? Please. Every breath you take screams military.” With that, he stepped around him, but didn’t bother to go too out of his way. Their arms bumped as he brushed past, and the scent of cold cigarette smoke and coffee hit him like a fist to the face.

John turned, unsure if this surreal interaction had finally found its end or not, to see that Alexander had paused in the doorway, eyes glinting.

“The address is 221b Bakerstreet. Seven PM. Don’t be late.”

Or, John Laurens, a soldier who retired from the military after being wounded in action, immigrates to England for a fresh start.

Through a chance encounter, he meets Alexander Hamilton, who is a bit insane and likes to hang around in morgues.

They move in together, naturally.

(no one asked for it, and yet here it is—BBC Sherlock AU just dropped! you're welcome ❤️)

(My) Top 5 gang

1. 221B Bakerstreet boys (sherlock bbc)

2. Dead Poets (dps)

3. The Super Six (with with kesh and zarah) (rwrb)

4. Heartstopper gang (♡stopper)

5. The Three tumors of heaven (tgcf)

Tell me yours!

A Threat on My Heart - Sherlock Holmes

Summary: During his latest case Sherlock gets a threat on his life. Instead of going to a safe house, Mycroft offers a couple of rooms in his home. Your anxiety gets the better of you so you go to Sherlock to put your mind at ease.

Pairing: reader x Sherlock Holmes

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When you’re almost home, you see half a dozen policemen in front of the home you share with Sherlock and John. None of the officers will let you through the barricade even though you told them you live there.

At first glance you don’t see Sherlock on the scene of whatever’s happening which is odd. Oh no did something happen to them? It’s always a possibility, but with Sherlock’s mind you never thought --  

Before your mind can go any further you hear his voice.

“There you are! Why aren’t you at work,” he asks exasperated.

Relief floods through you when you recognize Sherlock’s voice. You turn around, away from your home. Your eyes meet his blue ones and calm you down. John’s walking next to him. Relief takes over every part of your body because they’re safe.

You furrow your eyebrows at Sherlock’s question. He’s usually pleased when you get home earlier, it means he can share his theories on their latest case.

“They let me go early. It was a slow day,” you timidly answer the consulting detective.

“We were worried when we didn’t find you at work,” John explains.

“Why would you come and get me at work? What’s going on with the apartment?”

Sherlock sighs: “We’ve received a threat during our latest case. Lestrade is a pain in the arse and wanted to make sure there weren’t any bombs or whatever in the building.”

Your mouth falls open and before you can close it yourself, Sherlock closes it with his index finger.

“How long until we can go home?” You hear the whiny note in your own voice and it makes you wince.

Sherlock’s hand reaches out and pats your shoulder. John takes your arm and puts you between the both of them while you look back at the police running around.

A couple minutes later, Lestrade walks towards you and when he stops in front of you, he says: “I’m afraid I can’t let you in the apartment until this case is over. The threat is too severe. There were no explosives in your home right now, but who says they won’t come back later.”

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh. Where are you supposed to stay? 221b Bakerstreet is the only home you know. It’s clear the news completely deflates your spirits. Sherlock wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side. He isn’t one for physical contact, but he knows it helps you when you’re anxious. You lean into his side for comfort.

Lestrade continues: “We can put you in a safe house until the case is solved.”

“That won’t be necessary. They can stay with me.”

You back goes rigid when you hear Mycroft’s voice. That man gives you the chills. The way he demands things and everything has to be his way. You can feel Sherlock’s hand squeeze your side in an attempt to silence your nerves.

“That won’t be necessary, Mycroft,” Sherlock hurriedly answers his brother.

After a heated discussion, you’re told to get some necessities from the apartment and that you’ll be staying with Sherlock’s brother.

---

Sherlock’s still grumbling when you arrive at Mycroft’s home. You’re uttered into your respective rooms without a second glance. Your hands are shaking when you take in the room. You’re in a house you don’t know. You’re in a room you don’t know. There’s a threat on Sherlock’s life, by extension everyone he lives with. Oh, this is bad.

You can feel your anxiety rumble in your chest. You’re all about routine and familiarity. It took you a while to get used to the space above Sherlock’s apartment, but you fell in love with the space the second you looked at it, making the transition easier. But this situation, it screams at your nerves to go haywire. This cold house, the coldness of the relationship between the two brothers, being alone, the threat.

You get ready for bed, but stay seated on the edge of the gigantic bed. Anxiety swirls through your body. You don’t know what time it is when you go look for Sherlock, hoping he can silence your thoughts. He’s probably still awake, trying to figure out the case so you can go home.

Luckily for you, he was assigned the room across the hall from you. You knock on his door, but there’s no answer. Did he go out to research something? Did he leave you all by yourself in a home you’re not familiar with? Panic seizes your chest and you fire three rapid knocks.

After some shuffling, the door opens revealing Sherlock clad in pyjamas and his hair tousled.

“Oh no, I woke you didn’t I? I’m so sorry. Please go back to sleep. The one time you voluntarily rest, I wake you,” you ramble already turning around towards your room.

Before you can move away, Sherlock’s fingers wind around your wrist pulling you into his room.

“Having trouble containing your anxiety, love,” he asks, sleep still clear in his voice.

You sheepishly nod at him.

“That’s alright. Come on, crawl under the covers so we can get some sleep, alright,” he says gently.

He lets go of your wrist and opens the sheet on the side that hasn’t been slept in.

“Are you sure it’s alright? I know you like your space,” you whisper.

“Yes, I’m sure. Now get your butt in bed so we can get some sleep.”

He sends you a smile before moving to his side of the bed and crawling under the covers. You hesitantly take your place next to him and get comfortable. Sherlock’s presence eases your anxiety and pushes down the thoughts. He moves around a little before grabbing your hand. You let out a gasp. It’s true that touch grounds you and silences your thoughts. But you can’t believe he’s doing this too.

“Let’s squash those thoughts am I right,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, you are,” you laugh and then more serious, “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s my fault we’re not in the apartment. The least I can do is set your mind at ease.”

You move a little closer to him, your sides are touching now. Your joined hands are laying on his chest. You move on your side and rest your head against his shoulder, basking in his warmth. A light kiss is pressed onto your forehead before sleep takes you. How you wish you could share your bed with Sherlock every night.

babe you were hellaaa brave today. now go to sleep, you smart smart human.

(or help me figure out if there was a code behind the murderous anonymous killings)

Thank you. Can't go to sleep yet, John told me to go get a hot bath to warm up again. I do feel so dizzy though.

Clarifying poll Nr. 26

Second part

For school I had to make Mail Art, so that means making something that fits in a mailbox.

So I made a little dollhouse inspired by 221B Bakerstreet in a matchbox

Called « a perfect match » (get it ?!)

"there's something wrong with me" - ( Amelia ) @gunsandheels​

      John stops HALFWAY to bringing the mug to his lips, his eyes instantly finding the other and regarding her for a moment, trying to figure out where this conversation would be headed.

     “That’s...a very BROAD statement.” He finally says, almost softly, putting the mug back down and pushing the newspaper he’d been meaning to read aside. It had been a quiet morning at 221b Bakerstreet, but he’s got a feeling that things might change. “What do you mean?”