1 - 20 of 130 Works by aderyn
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"There was a fox in the National Portrait Gallery," Sherlock says.
There’s something so sweet in the aftermath of cleverness.
Series
- Part 19 of Deep Map
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The first time, so strange, their mouths with the rough tongues of night-birds, shivering with dew and warming with dawn. Killers have been there, close by.
In which wisdom and war.
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“All your secrets John, and that’s —are you sure I’m not the beast?”
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Because Sherlock, three months gone, is sitting across from him, the coat folded over his lap, the scarf a bluewater cascade round his naked throat.
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Indifferent beak of the riding crop, a lick to the hard-starved jaw,
a stinging slap to the cerebrum …
oh god yes we are. -
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Three years gone and loved, god, more than another life.
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- Part 18 of Deep Map
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The dead want, Sherlock; they always do.
Sometimes old acts of violence call out for deduction.
He can't help it.
Murder outs like mercury. -
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Once, when Sherlock was exhausted, John tied him to the bed. Some kind of army knot-- done with a bedsheet, soft as fog.
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Now London’s got him again, brief and sweet as a kiss.
John has a talisman from Afghanistan. Sherlock takes it with him. -
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They want dirt; they get gold.
What was it like to die, and to come back? What is it like.
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John wants to send him back to that shadowy cupboard, no, that twillit promise, of childhood-time, to the fleeting moment before he understood that he would never carry easily the currencies of affection.
Series
- Part 1 of Daysleeper
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“You,” Sherlock says to the air, “love me.”
Shot through the heart: not an advantage.
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From the roof, scatterings,speculation of starlings splitting and mending, the chemistry of boyhood and a handful of John.
He could see the beginning he wants John back to.
Series
- Part 17 of Deep Map
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She's never pistol-whipped a man before.
Molly Hooper does it like a (man). Well a certain one anyway.
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Sherlock has a beautiful mouth, with which he plants things.
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There’s the moon, asking to stay.
Sherlock composes a little mind-music.
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He’s dreaming monogamy and murder, a flash in the optic chiasma, a spike of acetylcholine, the hemispheres of bird-brains undivided.
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It's been raining for three days. It's been raining for three days and all the evidence is washed away. It's been raining for three days and Sherlock is vexed and nail-bitingly bored.
There's not much of a view. Is there.
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He’s thirty-eight years old when he meets a truth-sayer.
Sherlock sets a flame to his lower back, to the lumbar, at the top of the sacrum where the breath lives.
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Dust settles.
That’s what it does.Shall we retire together, then?
Series
- Part 16 of Deep Map