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  1. Sherlock (TV) (1)

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  1. Public Bookmark 15

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    Greg is scheduled to speak at a police conference in Manchester. Sherlock complicates things, as usual

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    12 Jan 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Then he heard a sound that sent a splinter of ice straight down his spine. A ringing burst of laughter: Sherlock’s laugh. No, not Sherlock’s actual laugh, not the dry sarcastic chuckle or the surprised bark of genuine amusement. But it was a sound he’d heard Sherlock make before, when he was impersonating someone or other, a ridiculous sort of high-pitched whinny. Surely, he told himself, surely he was being paranoid. He’d been thinking about Sherlock far too much on the trip up, so his mind was now latching onto vague resemblances--any number of people in the world might have a similar-sounding laugh. But he edged in closer to the source of the sound just the same, looking round carefully, just in case.
    Buggering fuck. It was him. He was there, tall in the midst of a laughing group, hair slicked down and parted, wearing a shabby, ill-fitting suit Greg had never seen before. What on Earth? He edged closer to the knot of people, circling round behind Sherlock's back, hoping to overhear their conversation. He was still having trouble believing his eyes.
    “...and he was still wearing it when we went round to arrest him,” Sherlock was saying, in a nasal accent not his own. “But that’s not the worst of it--it was the only thing he had on. There’s an image I’ll never be rid of.” The fellows around him chuckled appreciatively, and one of them launched into their own stupid-crims-I-have-taken-in story.

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    ...Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.  

    ---Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

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    29/29
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    26 Dec 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Jim threw himself on the sofa next to Seb. "All of this is pointless if he decides not to show up."
    Sebastian fixed him with a funny look: You're being obsessive but fuck it, you're the boss. Jim knew it well. "He'll show."
    "Hm." Jim tilted the laptop toward himself, surveying the scrawny bodies of all ages stretched out on rag mats on the floor. "Christ, what a hole. You'd think he'd be afraid for his life. Or have higher standards, at least. It's disappointing."
    "He's a junkie," Seb replied philosophically. "Selfish radge cunts, the lot of them. I never knew one who wouldn't sell his mam into slavery if he was down to his last skin pop. The only difference with Holmes is that he's not skint, ever."
    "Lucky boy," Jim murmured. "I suppose Big Brother keeps him in funds."
    "Maybe. He's some cute hoor, though. You read the Nepal report, didn't you? Accepted payment from the monks in opium."
    Jim smiled. "You've got to admire a man who knows how to barter."
    "That's him."
    Jim moved closer to the laptop and watched. "God, it is. Look at him!" He watched eagerly as Sherlock, in a loose-fitting white shirt and trousers, seated himself on one of the mats and took out his kit. He rolled up one of his sleeves and bound a length of tubing tightly round his upper arm, then began to cook up his shot. "Let's go. Come on."
    "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty." Sherlock was decidedly down for the count; the dose Raghu had sold him would knock him flat for the better part of the day and night. There wouldn't be any lasting damage, at least not in terms of Sherlock's tolerance, which was, to Jim's mind, scarily high. Still, who was he to judge? Everyone had their vices. Sherlock was his.

    He reached down and wound one of Sherlock's too-long curls round his index finger, tugging lightly. He'd love to take a photo of Sherlock, fast asleep, and send it to Mycroft Holmes, without a word of explanation. Mycroft deserved a good scare. He wouldn't send it…but wouldn't it be nice to have a little keepsake of his own?

  3. Public Bookmark 66

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    How to become a consulting detective.

    Series
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    Chapters:
    9/9
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    04 Dec 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Oh. Oh. This has been worth waiting for. The boy, Sherlock (and there’s a name well fit for purring), hasn’t turned but instead watches Jim in the mirror over Mycroft’s dining table. He’s a flowering branch; set him among plum blossoms and his beauty would scorch them. His skin is incandescent, his hair a dark tumble — oh, yes it would be well worth fucking pasty Mycroft en route to a chance to turn these tilted, sharp eyes wild. Long legs hooked over Jim’s shoulders. The spindly twelve-year-old in the photo on Mycroft’s wall had given promise of future loveliness; “When was that taken?” Jim had asked idly, seeing it months ago, feeling the first prick of Give me that. The live boy in the mirror glances away. For once, Jim accepts Mycroft’s kiss on the cheek with real warmth.

    A week later, Jim’s advisor rings him. An urgent meeting, please. There’s a question concerning certain passages in his thesis, passages that appear to reproduce without credit material from a paper previously published in Acta Mathematica Leipzig. Can Mr. Moriarty explain?
    Well, yes, Mr. Moriarty can explain, but the information that his thesis has been altered by the pretty-boy tart who gave him the boot earlier that spring is unlikely to be well received. And even Jim can’t come up with a better story on the spot. He shakes his head — academic pressure, exhaustion, a lapse in judgment, deep sense of shame — and that’s the end of the prospective James Moriarty, Ph.D.

  4. Public Bookmark 36

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    04 Dec 2017

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't work miracles. All he'd ever been able to do was write about them.

    Language:
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    19 Nov 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "I attempted to intervene. Unfortunately, I received communication that my efforts were—" he hesitated. "Well, that I was too late."
    "So you just gave up and left him there?" John asked.
    Mycroft studied him for a long, wordless moment. Then he swallowed down the remainder of his drink, opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a large brown envelope. He slid it across the desktop.
    "Be my guest," he said. "I have no desire to view the images again, myself." He gave a brief, bloodless smile. "Once was enough."
    John had felt a sick creeping dread as he'd thumbed open the envelope, slid out a small stack of black and white photographs. Oh—oh Jesus it was Sherlock, unmistakable, pale and thin and very, very dead. He rifled through the pictures, unable to look at any one for more than a few seconds. Sherlock's throat had been cut. His body had been tossed carelessly into a shallow grave, an awkward jumble of limbs that had once moved with such easy grace. Discarded, tossed aside, like he was nothing. Like he was no one. He had been half-covered over with dirt in the last photograph. There was dirt in his mouth, his eyes.
    John's hand was shaking, not just trembling but outright shaking as he fumbled the pictures back into the envelope. He threw it back onto the desk, wanting it as far away from him as he could get it. His breath was coming very fast through his nose. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.
    It can't be real, he told himself. You saw him. You saw him.
    "I had the photographs verified, of course," Mycroft said quietly.
    John did not respond, just breathed and breathed and breathed.
    "A year ago," John said, finally, when he stopped feeling like he might list over out of his chair and sprawl, face-first into the expensive carpeting.
    "It has been a significant source of grief for me," Mycroft said, looking down at his empty glass. His expression was distant, contemplative. "So you will, of course, understand my reluctance to believe your somewhat unlikely tale of this evening's events."