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The Visitor (SherVengers Chapter One)"Sherlock! Wake up, you've got a visitor!" John pelted his flatmate with pillows.
"M'up. Whayawant?" Sherlock had actually been sleeping as of late; he had finally admitted that he was smarter when he was well rested. John was annoyed by this latest round of boasting, but if it meant less crabiness, he would have been willing to pay just about anything.
"Visitor." John went back to the drawing room. A dapper man was sitting there on the couch, gazing restlessly out of the window. A beefy American bodyguard had told John that he would only speak to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock came down the stairs, dressed only in the white sheet off of the bed. The man stood up respectfully, and John was surprised to see how short he was, as he gave off a very imposing air.
"Mr. Holmes," said the man, who was apparently American, too. "My name is Tony Stark. I hear you're the best detective in the world. American cops leave a lot to be desired."
"That's no different, then," John muttered under his breath.
The Truth About Anthea((((A/N: I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHEN THIS TAKES PLACE.))))
John Watson was getting a little sick of Mycroft's threats and mini-kidnapping. He had just recieved a phone call telling him to get in the car that waited outside the restaraunt, but he was determined to finish his sandwich first. Mycroft wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't dare risk his brother's anger. The sandwich was mediocre, the bread dry and the meat stringy. He finished up his dinner and paid the bill. He saw a big black car on the curb and stepped into it, not asking where he was headed. He took a minute to realise that there was nobody in the drivers seat. Anthea must be out for a smoke. When she returned, she drove off without a word, pretending not to notice John. But the woman who stepped into the car wasn't Anthea. She pulled into a driveway and then noticed John dozing in the back.
"John," greeted Mycroft.
"This better be worth it, Mycroft."
"You really should check the driver in the car before you get in."
The Stark Mansion (SherVengers Chapter Two)Five hours later the three men, along with Tony Stark's bodyguard Dan, who everyone kept calling Rob, were boarding a jet. It was a beautiful jet, of the ilk that Sherlock had had as a kid. Stark Industries was emblazoned in big black letters on the side of the jet. Sherlock questioned Tony for an little while longer, and then decided to switch to Rob/Dan.
"Did you know Peter?"
"No. I was hired after his disappearance."
"How well do you know Mr. Stark?"
"I just work for him. I'm unable to disclose any information withou-" This sounded rehearsed.
"If he finds out you've been hindering my investigation, how do you think he'd react?
Rob/Dan scratched his beefy arm.
"Please cooperate. What can you tell me about Mr. Stark's line of work?"
"Uh, he, uh..... makes money."
"Yes. Most do."
"Um, he takes calls sometimes....He talks about iron a lot."
"Was he close to Peter?"
"I dunno. I guess, but I wasn't hired until-"
"Yes, yes, I get it."
"Are there any discre
Johnathan's Real ZingIt felt like an electric shock. I had seen her before, but never like this. We made eye contact in the crowd, and I felt the most extraordinary feeling ever- all of the force and sensation of an electric shock, but with the pain gone and love instead. Mavis was standing there with her father, Drac, and they looked so pale and mysterious. There was some confusion, seeing how I'm a human and my new wife and father-in-law are vampires. All of their friends are different monsters, but that's a totally different story.
Shortly after the confusion and culture shock wore off, I moved into the Hotel Transylvania, to be with all of my friends and my wife. I notified the people in my old life that I wouldn't be coming back. Mavis and I were married in a traditional vampire ceremony. The wedding party was almost as awesome as my wife's 118th. The hotel got pretty empty after the party was over, but we settled into a nightly routine. I even managed to ransack a bloodbank for them. I couldn't get B
Shervengers Chapter 6"JARVIS?" asked Bruce. No reply. The eight people suddenly flung into motion. Sherlock, Clint, and Natasha raced towards the scream, Loki dissapeared into thin air, or so it seemed to John. Pepper, Bruce, and John all ran towards where Tony and Steve had gone. Thor bolted off towards his room. John, Bruce, and Pepper checked the restrooms one by one. No Tony or Steve. In the bathroom below the dinner room, one of the faucets was running, but no people. John saw a small spatter of fresh blood on the floor. He pointed it out to Pepper. Bruce had stopped a while back in the hallway, motioning for them to keep going while he caught his breath. The door too the bathroom slammed shut, and John and Pepper heard a muffled banging. John ren to the door, but it was shut tight. Pepper sat on the edge of the bathtub. John placed his finger over his lips. John was checking the bathroom for anything that could be useful when the lights shut off. He reached in the dark for Pepper's hand. Far off, the
Sherlock + John's Christmas 1"Sherlock! It's Christmas, and Mummy said I can't open my presents 'til you come down." Mycroft Holmes yanked his brother's blanket off of him. Sherlock was clad in a rocket ship onesie.
"Boring," said Sherlock with a yawn. "I already know what I got."
"You got me a microscope and Mum got me clothes. Boring." Mycroft looked hurt.
"Fine then, bastard. Stay up here all morning."
"Mum said you're not allowed to call me that."
"Well, she's not here, is she?"
"I'm telling." Sherlock retrieved his blanket.
"Arse." Mycroft slammed the door to Sherlock's bedroom, and tromped town the stairs. Sherlock grumbled and rolled over. He tried to go back to sleep, but Mycroft was soon back. He lifted his little brother up and began to carry him downstairs, ignoring the shrieks emitted by the indignant little boy. He deposited Sherlock on the couch.
"Now who's an arse?" Sherlock muttered, sticking out his tongue, just in time for his mum to enter with a plate of cookies.
"Sherlock Holmes! I
Hospital Visit (SherVengers Conclusion)"Dr. Watson?" A tall brunette scrub-clad woman in her mid-forties stepped into the waiting room. John stood up and motioned to her.
"How is he?"
"That's the strange thing..." She shook her head and trailed off.
"Will he be okay?"
"He's more than okay. Are you sure he was shot tonight?" The doctor squinted at her charts and at him.
"One hundred percent certain, why?" John tilted his head.
"The injury he sustained seems several months old." She shook her head as if to clear it. "I shouldn't be telling you this," she mumbled under her breath.
"Is he conscious?"
"Yes, but he's in shock."
"Can I- can I see him?"
"Are you a relative?" She was glaring now, as if angry that she couldn't figure out the injury.
"Then no. Visiting hours are week days: ten to three, and weekends: twelve to four."
"What if I..." She raised an eyebrow. "What if I'm....his boyfriend?" John mumbled. He felt more like he was asking himself than the doctor. She rolled her eyes and motioned for him to f
Sherlock and Green Eggs and Ham?It was St. Patrick's day, and everything was green. Green flags, green decorations, green shirts saying "kiss me I'm Irish", and a thousand other things, including food. Sherlock and John went out to eat as they always did, except that it was breakfast, which was unusual for them. But they did anyway because somehow making toast and coffee seemed like too much work today.
Sherlock fiddled with the green, shamrock speckled scarf John insisted him to wear as he sat waiting for their food. They both got eggs and ham, but knowing the festive Irish restaurant they were in something would be green on those plates. The coffee they got was green and the mugs were decorated with bright four-leaf clovers.
The waitress finally came around with their food and when she set the plates down in front of them, they looked down at their plates, shocked. There, on their plates was exactly what they ordered: two sunny-side up eggs and a slice of ham. But they were green, a bright green that made them look
A Pleasant Surprise - BBC SherlockIt had been a month since Sherlock Holmes died. A month since John Watson saw his best friend jump off that roof. John didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.
After all, it was Sherlock. He wouldn't kill himself. That's what he told himself, but his eyes told him otherwise as he stood in front of Sherlock's grave. He didn't show any signs of being suicidal, wasn't depressed, nothing. He was the same as he always was. Nothing changed about him.
John found himself clinging to the silly hope that Sherlock was alive. That it was all some sick joke because he was bored and he would walk in 221B Baker Street like nothing happened. It seemed like something he would do, at least. Maybe when John came home Sherlock would be lying on the couch, saying he was bored and shooting holes in the walls. He found himself smiling fondly at the memory as he left the graveyard. Maybe he'll go out for a pint or two.
Later that night he was stumbling into his flat, clearly drunk. To his surprise h
Above ZeroJohn remembers his birth as if it were yesterday (which, coincidentally, it was).
He may not remember the time when he was still nothing but water, but he remembers waking up stone cold, in a dark room, stuck in between two layers and a set of toes.
He does not remember his mum, nor does he remember his dad, but he was certain they wouldn't have been able to tell him of great past adventures or quests of romance. After all, what more could an ice-cube do but dissolve above zero?
John names himself Watson, because he quite fancies the sound of two names, and tries to count the minutes he's alive. After forty, he gives up, for he isn't planning on making a log of lying down and doing nothing and recording time is tedious.
After God knows how long, the drawer opens and John Watson, ice-cube extraordinaire is joined by fuzzy meat that would be fingers if they'd only have nails and if he would have any breath, he'd sigh.
John Watson was just about to give up any resembla
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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