BBC Sherlock - Day TwoAs the sun was just starting to rise on London, Sherlock Holmes lay on the floor of 221B and stared upwards. His legs were propped up on the sofa with his back flat against the floor, his sharp eyes writing notes on the ceiling.
Cases: Dundas and Moran.
-Posed blood stains which are mirror images of each other.
Purpose: Unknown, possibly symbolic.
Motivation: Desire to send a message? Obsessive behaviour? Self-destructive leaving of clues in order to aid the capturing process?
Method of manufacturing: Unknown, difficult to pose liquids exactly. Created with a pipette or stencil? Maybe a frozen mould which is then thawed to create the shape? Ask Lestrade for Molly's results on the blood to see if there is evidence of temperature changes.
-The cosmetic surgery at the same clinic. Had the two men met?
Briefly rolling over to check the notes Lestrade had given him revealed they
BBC Sherlock - Day ThreeSherlock Holmes sat cross-legged in his armchair, glaring at nothing.
How? How did Lestrade manage to screw up that badly? He had let a psychologically unstable, symmetry-obsessed serial murderer slip through his fingers with the result that a fifth victim had been killed. And NOW his methodology was evolving, the previous four victims had been men in their early thirties; the latest one was a seventy year old woman who had gone to the surgery three days before the first murder for a check-up appointment after a face lift. And as the killer's technique changed, the harder it would be for Sherlock to anticipate his next move.
Sherlock tangled both his hands in his curly hair and yanked in an attempt to vent his frustration.
A small meow made him look up.
Dante, his great-aunt's kitten was sat on the arm of his chair, looking at him. This was unusual as the animal in question was widely thought of as the spiritual reincarnation of Caligula and had the very bad habit of biti
BBC Sherlock - CakeJohn stood in the kitchen doorway and stared.
Sherlock Holmes was baking. The tall, slim figure had his back to John, a bowl cradled in his arm with all the ease of a master patisserie chef.
"You're staring John." Sherlock said, not turning round.
"And you're baking."
"And we have both just established that we have a firm grasp of the obvious." Sherlock said, amused, as he carefully sifted flour into the bowl and proceeded to mix it thoroughly.
"Are Tristan, Isolde and Persephone coming round then?" John asked, remembering the only other time he had seen Sherlock baking, that time for his little nieces and nephews in an attempt to spite Mycroft by violating the sugar embargo he had placed upon his offspring.
"No." Sherlock said, spooning the mixture into two cake tins.
"Can I not do something simply because I enjoy it?"
"Yes but you're not just doing it for giggles, are you?"
Sherlock smiled at John's accurate deduction. "No. Not this time no. But the point still stands. I
SH - Echoes of EvensongFor a very long time John Watson had feared sleep.
So often he would wake in a cold sweat with the echoes of nightmares screaming in his ears, or lurch awake in a panic as his body confused simple rest with returning to the coma from which he had barely escaped.
He took to drinking lots of coffee, forcing himself to remain awake for as long as possible until he balanced on the brink of exhaustion before crashing over into unconsciousness. It was not as restful as sleep but it kept him sane and it kept the nightmares away.
It took several months after he had moved into 221B Baker Street to change that.
Three o'clock in the morning and he was padding down the stairs, eyes half lidded, steps shuffling and irregular.
He needed a cup of tea.
A light was on in the kitchen.
Sherlock's skinny frame was swamped in John's oversized towelling dressing gown. His own one had been badly stained in an experiment and so John had loaned him his.
He was stirring a cup of tea.
One of two.
Wordlessly he t
BBC Sherlock - Day OneJohn Watson sighed irritably and looked at his watch. Unsurprisingly his train was late. Probably the wrong sort of leaves on the line again. Either that or the entire thing had fallen through a hole in space and time and was currently being used as a chew toy by some beast from the dungeon dimensions. He had heard weirder excuses during his time spent on trains; mind you he didn't have a very good track record with that form of transport full stop. Something invariably went wrong. On one memorable occasion the driver, who had been trying to sneak a cigarette on the job, had dropped hot ash in his lap and accidentally set fire to his trousers.
John and the other bewildered passengers of the 9:00 to Norwich train had subsequently been treated to the driver shrieking over the intercom for one of the ticket men to come and assist him in 'putting his knackers out.'
He stood in Liverpool Street Station and stared vaguely up at the departure times board, getting jostled by the regular commut