SherlockHolmes38

Growing Up Mrs. Hudson probably should have been surprised to walk into the sitting room and find Mycroft Holmes sitting in a chair, which only five minutes ago had been empty. But being Sherlock's landlady for as long as she had, she simply said hello and went to make tea. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her unfazed attitude, drawing a smirk from Sherlock, which consequently drew a scowl from Mycroft. John hid a grin. The animosity between the two brothers was so obvious it was funny. He realized both were glaring at him now and realizing he must have voiced the last thought aloud instantly busied himself with his soup. With that insult out

Sherlock-Age 7 The backyard was green and peaceful enough. A couple of rocks here and there. A small garden. A large oak tree. A head with a red bandana on it popped up behind a rock, so that only the eyes peered over the top. Curls of dark hair sprung out from under the bandana. The grey eyes flicked first left, then right, then the head went back down. The next minute, a small boy wearing the red bandana and a ragged homemade eye patch and brandishing a makeshift wooden sword sprang over the rock and sprinted over to the oak. He deftly clambered up the tree, using handholds he'd used for years, until he reached the 'crow's nest.' His cro

Present Day-Baker St As Sherlock finished this tale, he looked expectantly at John. "And you? What did you want to be?" John shrugged in a false off-handed way. "Oh...I wanted to be a ninja." Sherlock stared at the serious-faced doctor sitting across from him for a moment. Then he burst into laughter. He fell back into his chair, eyes streaming, almost choking with laughter. John grinned a little self-consciously. Once Sherlock had recovered, he leaned forward and said, "I have to hear this. Begin. Now." "Okay. So, I was in kindergarten, and you know how they do those little graduation things, where they make you say what you want to be?

Mycroft Joins In As John finished the story, he noticed Mycroft standing in the door. Perhaps he had never left in the first place. But he'd probably heard everything. Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, noticing him too. "Mycroft had the weirdest aspiration of both of us, didn't you Mya?" he drawled. "What did Mycroft want to be?" John asked, his curiosity piqued Mycroft shot him the most evil look imaginable, which made his grey eyes look like smoke and dark thunder-laced clouds, but Sherlock answered with a smirk, "He wanted to be a piranha." John made a noise that was somewhere between a snort, a snuffle, a croak, a laugh, and a cow being

To: Disbelievers Cc: John H. Watson Subject: Reality All I've been hearing is that guy was a fraud. That actor was innocent. That guy wasn't a fraud. Moriarty was real. All I can think is what the hell is wrong with you people? Who cares if Sherlock Holmes was a fraud or not? Who cares if Moriarty was real or not? A man died, people! Who gives a damn about why he took his life? Actually, that last statement was hypocritical. I care. I care a bloody lot. Personally, I believe he was not a fake. I know he was not a fake. I went on adventures with him. I watched as Jefferson Hope handed him a pill that could kill him. I was there when a

John's Clarinet "Play it." "No!" "C'mon, play it!" "No, Sherlock!" "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease?" "Haaaaah...Fine." John picked up the clarinet, checking it over. He hadn't played in years. He checked the mouthpiece, making sure the reed hadn't gotten a chip in the three seconds since he'd looked at it. Ran his fingers over the keys to make sure he had the fingerings right. Put his mouth to the reed...and looked up at Sherlock. "Are sure you want me to play?" "Yes." "Okay...are you absolutely sure?" Sherlock whipped the violin bow off his shoulder to point it at John. "Play. Now." John sighed and picked up the clarinet again. He played a