Category Archives: FanFic

The One Fixed Point in a Changing World

By J.H. Watson
(~ 2,000 words)


John Watson stood alone on the edge of a tor gazing across the bleak, isolated sweep of Dartmoor. Dark clouds roiled overhead as a chill wind nipped his ears. The binoculars dangling from their strap weighed heavily upon John’s neck and occasionally thumped against his chest like a hanged man on a gibbet. John glanced briefly at the map in his hand and then again at the panorama before him, trying to orient himself in this empty land.

“What’s that?”

John looked up to see his best friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes, standing atop a rocky prominence soaring above. Sherlock stood in a typical Sherlock pose, stylish black tweed coat flaring about him, making him look taller, hipper, cooler than other people without looking like an obvious plea for attention. His arm jutted straight out commandingly pointed toward the distance. There was no one but John around to see this dapper act of dominance. It both exasperated and pleased John.

One the one hand, Sherlock’s attempt to place himself in a literal ascendency above, putting John in the subordinate position, was annoying. On the other hand, the fact that Sherlock felt the need to put on this civilized equivalent of beating his chest, even without other spectators, showed he recognized John as another alpha male Sherlock wanted to impress.

John smile ever so slightly to himself at his analysis. All those Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder therapy sessions had not been entirely wasted.

John peered through his binoculars, consult the map, and replied, “It’s Moriarty. That’s an ancient name for the devil.”

Suddenly John was aware that he was not holding binoculars but a black mobile phone. From it came Sherlock’s voice, in a sepulcher whisper, saying, “Good-bye, John.”

John looked up as Sherlock spread his arms and took a step forward into the air. John yelled, “Sherlock!” and took his own step — into the Grimpen Mire. He struggled to pull himself out of clinging morass. He felt the cold, clammy, deadly grip of the bog as he struggled in the sucking muck, never taking his eyes off his friend plunging towards the black rocks below.

John stretched himself out across the ground, grasped a spindly thorn bush and heaved with all his strength. There was a stab of pain as he dislocated his left shoulder, but he was free from the mire. He stood up, and as he stood cradling his damaged arm against his body for support, he discovered he was no longer in civvies, but in his combat gear and there was blood spreading across his chest.

John took three steps towards his falling friend and as Sherlock hit the solid black ground, John heard a click beneath his boot and froze. A glance down confirmed that he’d stepped on a land mine. A slight reduction in pressure would detonate it, blowing him into a red rain that would soon be absorbed by the surrounding peat.

He looked at Sherlock lying on his back, still, pale eyes open to the sky, the haze of death already spreading across the corneas. John looked down once more, then at his friend where blood flowed from Sherlock’s head and streamed down the rocks, red on black, like a macabre parody of the black coat’s red button hole.

John sighed.

And lifted his boot —

He bolted awake, momentarily disoriented, his breath shallow and fast, matching the beating of his heart. A sheen of evaporating sweat cooled his face. John took several deep gulps of air, letting them out through his nose, but making a small mewing noise. Then he recognized where he was and lay back in his bed, draping his arm across his face to block the light, or possibly the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Despite the fact that there was no one else there, John still felt ashamed at the tears. He’d thought he was past the tears.

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What Happened, John?


By J.H. Watson
(~1,700 words)

[Author’s Note: Absolutely slammed with work right now, but John and Sherlock wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote this one. I’ll be doing a bit about Season 3 later this week. Thanks for your patience.]

“What happened, John?”

God, how John Watson hated that question. It seemed to be how his therapist started every session lately. Of course, it would probably have helped if he saw her a bit more regularly.

But he’d see her and things seemed to be going better, so he’d skip the next session. And maybe the one after that. And sometimes the one after that. And then, well, then something would happen and he’d call up and make a new appointment.

John sat for a moment, silent. His therapist sat silent as well. John licked his lips and said, “Notcertain.”


John flattened his lips in a pinched frown before clearing his throat and saying, “I’m not certain.”

“What do you mean?”

So he told her about New Year’s and Sherlock’s birthday and what he could remember and what he couldn’t explain the next morning and how he’d been feeling like he was being watched, which might be true, but he hadn’t wanted to ask Mycroft and find out if it was true because it would just make him angry, or angrier, and whenever he thought of Mycroft he wanted to punch Mycroft and John figured that wasn’t a very healthy impulse on a lot of levels and what he really wanted for his life to just be normal.

He didn’t tell his therapist that he was really starting feel like he might be losing his mind from grief.

“What do you mean by normal, John?”

Oh, hell. Now I’ve stepped in it, he thought. Don’t say anything crazy.

“You know. Getting up and going to work at a decent job, a night out with friends from time to time. A girlfriend. Maybe with time it becomes serious and we get married, have kids, a mortgage. You know. I want to settle down.”

“Is that what you really want, John?”

No! What I want is a bloody miracle. I want Sherlock Holmes to walk through that door and to have it all the way it was before with his brain racing, my adrenalin pumping, and us solving crimes back at 221B. But that’s not going to happen, is it?

Instead, John answered, “Yes.” It was the answer he knew she wanted.

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No! You?

By J. H. Watson

(App. 1,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Right. If I’m late to the Seattle Sherlock Birthday Party, it’s not my fault. I’d timed everything perfectly, but the boys had other ideas and insisted I write this and post it before I leave. I’ll be back later to fix the typos and what not, but right now, like the White Rabbit, I’m late.]

John Watson awoke with a hangover and a desperate need for the loo. He sat up groggily on the sofa. The blanket fell to the floor beside his shoes. Funny, he didn’t remember taking off his shoes or getting the blanket.

As he stumbled in his stocking feet to the bath room, he ran through the fragments of what he could remember. He’d stopped at a pub for a drink on his way back to his flat. A routine he’d developed, and probably should stop, every since New Year’s Eve when he thought he heard… well, he should probably just avoid pubs for awhile.

There’d been some idiot with one of those tabloid rags with Kitty Riley’s name on it. She’d done a piece for Sherlock’s birthday raking up the coals of the past by cobbling together a few quotes from people who believed Moriarty was real and rehashing Brook’s bits of lies and half-truths. That was when the drink became drinks. Things were a bit fuzzier after that.

And louder. John remembered some louts about half his age making some snarky comments about posh fakers and wankers and eventually John threw the punch.

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For The Fandom Who Waits

I wasn’t planning on writing today. I’ve got a lot work and cleaning to do, but Sherlock and John had other plans for me. So I hope you enjoy.

And a Happy New Year

By J.H. Watson
(~900 words)

It had been an awful mistake. John Watson knew he should not have gone with Harry to a New Year’s party. But his therapist insisted he get out more, mingle, meet people and she was becoming suspicious of the meet-ups with Stamford and his coworkers, the dates, and the other social outings he invented. He’d had a row with Harry after he’d found her, drink in hand, chatting up someone by the bar. The drink was obviously not her first despite her promise of sobriety. Now John was alone again, a little drunk, a bit despondent, uncertain of his direction.

A sudden rush of people spilled out from a restaurant sweeping John into the crush. As he looked for an escape, he realized the restaurant was Angelo’s and that he must have come up Northumberland. He’d must have come this way by old habit. He’d avoided the area for months. Ever since he’d moved out of Baker Street. He wondered for a moment what Mrs. Hudson was doing tonight, if she was also alone. Perhaps he ought to check. No. He couldn’t go back there. Not yet. Certainly not tonight.

The crowd pressed around him had been counting down and now a cheer went up as Big Ben chimed, bells rang, horns honked. People began the indiscriminate kissing and hugging of desperate desire.

Above the noise came the sound of a violin and, as the individuals picked up the tune and began singing quavering versions of Auld Lang Syne, John Watson froze. “Sherlock?” he whispered. He looked quickly in the direction the music came. Through the swaying bodies he glimpsed a tall, thin figure in the shadows. As he pushed his way through the throng, he called out, “Sherlock!”

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Holmes Boys: Christmas — Originally He Wanted To Be a Pirate


By J. H. Watson

(~16,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Sorry about the delay. Sherlock & Mycroft wouldn’t let me publish it until I got the ending right…]

Holmes-Boys-Christmas Fanfic in PDF [for those who would like to download and read offline]

Savouring the last pain au chocolat with his Breakfast Blend tea and reading all of the available English papers, ten-year old Mycroft Holmes was seated in his favourite chair in the house (Mummy’s really beautiful and comfortable one that, while technically designated as a “lady’s club chair,” had the advantages of being slightly lower to the ground and not as long in the seat as Father’s chairs). He read the papers every day. It was an experiment he’d begun during the long summer vacation from school to see if he could accurately determine the outcome of various events and predict others from reports in the press. He’d even devised his own database and a method of scoring his results. Mycroft was quite pleased to note that changes in his process of observation had resulted in a 347% improvement in his score. He frowned as the thought came that the Labour Party would be doing quite well in the upcoming elections. Mummy and Father did not approve of the Labour Party.

Mycroft made a note on his shirt cuff about a change to his stock portfolio regarding Austin Rover (while technically the account was in Father’s name, it was one that neither Father nor Mummy knew about as Mycroft had long since shifted the start-up funds back to Father’s actual account). There was little chance that he would be caught like those stupid American kids who ran afoul of the SEC by overtly manipulating stock sales through newsletters and the burgeoning electronic bulletin boards. Mycroft’s broker did occasionally question the difference in shares and results between Father’s two portfolios, but Mycroft had deftly handled that by implying the first portfolio was constrained by Father’s government work. The second portfolio was strictly confidential. This had resolved both the questions and any potential indiscretions of his broker.

Mycroft was really quite pleased with the way things were going.

Nanny dashed in wringing her hands with an expression on her face that Mycroft had learned to associate with a crisis regarding his little brother, Sherlock. “What has he done now?” Mycroft asked as he folded the paper in his hand and stood.

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Holmes Boys #7: Girlfriends — Not Really My Area

Girlfriends. Not Really My Area.

By J. H. Watson
~ 7,000 Words


Someone had made a small tactical error. While it was true Sherlock Holmes had been told he wasn’t to attend his brother Mycroft’s tenth birthday party, no one had expressly stated that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to observe the party. Besides it was boring stuck in the nursery alone. And it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t come because he was only almost-three. All the other people at the party were old. Some of them were even older than Mummy and Father!

At the moment, Sherlock was hidden behind a curtain trying to keep absolutely still. He’d had to slip into the room that acted as both library and Father’s study because someone was coming down the hall. He’d barely managed to get behind the curtains before two older boys entered it as well. Before Sherlock could decide whether to show himself and demand what the boys were doing in there, taking the what his older brother called the offensive, the boys moved to the window next to him, flung it open, and began smoking.

Apparently, they only had the one cigarette because Sherlock could hear them pass it back and forth, taking long, deep sucks, then holding their breaths for several seconds before slowly releasing the smoke in the general direction of the open window. One of the boys coughed. Some of the smoke drifted to the small pocket behind the curtain tickling Sherlock’s nose. He thought the cigarette stank and he knew Mummy was not going to be happy about the smell in her curtains. Even Father never smoked in the library.

The boy who coughed shifted his weight. His shoe made a distinctive squeak as he said, “Dude, this is good shit.”

The other boy inhaled deeply, held his breath, and after a moment replied, “Yeah. I nicked it from my sister’s boyfriend.” The second boy had the trace of a Scottish accent and a high pitch to his voice.

“He’s going to be pissed when he finds it gone.” The first boy sounded bigger and older with a deeper pitch, and had a solidly upper-class accent.

“Not as pissed as when he finds his fifty quid is gone, too.”

Then both boys broke out into a fit of giggles. Sherlock was trying to hold his breath to avoid the stinky smoke when the library door opened and he heard his brother say, “You aren’t suppose to be in here and you definitely aren’t suppose to be smoking…” There was a pause as Mycroft sniffed before finishing with “…marijuana in here.”

“Piss off, you fat faggot! And take you’re stupid girlfriend with you,” the bigger boy with the squeaky shoes said.

“Really? A fat joke and a sexual epithet? That’s the best you can do?” Mycroft said calmly in that supercilious tone that drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock heard Mycroft and someone smaller cross the room. Mycroft continued, “As for stupid, smoking pot while the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police sits in the next room with a judge, two members of Parliament and a member of the Cabinet staff hardly reeks of superior intellect. You two, on the other hand, do reek of cannabis. You may want to wash before rejoining the party.”

Here the larger boy with the squeaky shoes said something Sherlock didn’t recognize. Judging from the feminine gasp, Sherlock figured it was something he should not say around Mummy or even Nanny, but might try to shock his brother. The smoking boys stomped off with Squeaky Shoes in the lead. As the door closed as loudly and firmly as any door in Mummy’s house was allowed to close, Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth asked, “Should I go get Daddy or someone?”

“No. It would upset Mummy if her party were ruined by… unpleasantness. Why don’t you run along and get a us good seats before the music starts?”

“I hope there’s dancing.”

There was a brief hesitation before Mycroft said, “I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to air out the room a bit.”

Bunny’s footsteps moved away and the door opened and closed once more. There was a beat and then Mycroft said, “Sherlock, you can come out now.”

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