Oh my.
Well that’s certainly not cocaine, then wtf did you take sherlock.
-COEY!
bug creeping up behind him just makes me think of doctor who/donna . __ . ;;;;
___
me, haunted by yet another idea for a 250k fic i have neither the energy nor the free time for, but that shall rattle its chains at me for the foreseeable future nonetheless: i wish it had never come to me gandalf
Since I'm taking my time with my second Fandom Trumps Hate story, I've decided to give you all a small teaser. I won't give the title away yet, but the prompt from the brilliant @totallysilvergirl was that John can sing. Really sing. And he's managed to keep it a secret. Even from Sherlock! Yes, that's right.
As is my wont, I always rec fics (influenced long ago by my lovely recipient) and to my astonishment, I found that there are very few fics with this topic. Another reason to write one.
Excerpt:
John’s blog.
Anniversary Post
Congratulations to me on my tenth blog post! I know for a fact that the main character I’m writing about won’t even notice, but to me it is kind of a milestone. If you think that this is the tenth case I’ve been privy to, you’re wrong. Not every case is worth writing about. Some of them are actually classified if you can believe it. Shh…
If you are a regular reader, you know how this normally goes – clients and/or the police want Sherlock to help with their predicament. This time, though, things were slightly different.
I got an email from an acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to – nor thought of – in years. Claire Burnell nee Turnbull who I went to school with back in the day, has moved up in the world apparently. She is now the lady of Matfen Hall: Northumberland’s only five-star hotel. In fact, it is also a spa and a golf resort. Very posh going by the website, which is extensive. Or excessive, as Sherlock described it.
Anyway.
A little digression – you all know how heedful Sherlock is of his brain capacity, which is why I was utterly befuddled when he seemed to know Claire’s sister, Chloe. I only remember her as a clingy eight-year-old, but of course, she’s a grown woman now. And an acclaimed classical pianist. Hence Sherlock’s knowledge, I suppose.
Having read the email, I was quite certain I would have to disappoint Mrs Burnell – the case was a five at best – and Sherlock refuses to even leave the flat for less than a seven. If we were to help with this one, though, we’d have to leave London for the rural parts of Northumberland. My hopes weren’t high, but for the sake of my previous relations to Mrs Burnell, I decided to at least ask Sherlock when he got home from wherever he was at that particular moment. He sure wasn’t at Tesco to get milk, I can tell you that much!
I won’t bore you all with Sherlock’s deductions about my previous relationship with Claire Turnbull (now Burnell) – let’s just say they were just as substantial as Matfen Hall’s website.
To my utter befuddlement, Sherlock readily agreed to take the case.
“You do realise we need to travel to Northumberland, yes?” I asked, just to be sure he’d understood what it would entail to solve Mrs Burnell’s plight.
“Don’t be obtuse, John!”
And that was apparently that, because the next day we were on the 8.30 train from King’s Cross, which would reach Newcastle a little after 11 a.m.
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