#harryxwatson

[sunshineandsemtex]

everydog-hasitsday

catherineholmes221

harryxwatson

trouble-making-seraph

smokingoursmiles

[Okay so the thing is while the shop functions as a complete and working model enterprise, it also doubles as Jim's research base. Which is to say that when things are slow he's oft inclined to pick up whatever magical language he's decided to decode this week and start meddling.

He's bent over a journal, scribbling furiously when the door chimes to alert him to someone's presence, and he holds a finger up, pen whipping across the page. Mere moments later, he's straightening, a smile that's polite and entirely at odds with the almost manic look in his eyes very firmly affixed to his face.]

Jim's antiques- can I help you?

[scientificdeduction-blog]

"Almost," she replied, scribbling. "Irene Adler."

Irene Adler. The Woman. A heavy sort of quiet fell upon him as he considered his feelings for her. He had valued her mind above all else, but such value had fallen by the wayside once he had proven himself over her. She was a thought that only occasionally crossed his mind now. An idea that he only rarely visited. Not because he didn't care for her any longer, but because it would do him no good to revisit old sentiments. His eyes flickered with something long dead for only a moment before responding monotonously, "I assisted her in the past. In the context of a case."

[wherethesearchlightsfindus-blog]

harryxwatson, hellsmostwantedsiblings, cocky-von-murdertits and theoneyouremember-choosetoforget started following you;

"Hi, girls." Frank smiles, nodding.

[scientificdeduction-blog]

"Everyone's stupid to you," she replied, not looking up from the words she was writing. "Violet Holmes."

A terribly dark shadow passed over his eyes. "Mother," he sneered, and that was definitely all he was going to say on the matter. Mother had always been Mother. Mycroft had been allowed to call her Mummy. Mycroft had been her precious perfect first born son. Mycroft had done everything Mother asked--went to a prestigious university, became an upstanding citizen with a posh job. Mother loved Mycroft, hated Sherlock. So, Sherlock hated her too. He reigned himself in--he knew he had promised to be honestly emotional, but he found it growing increasingly unpleasant by the second. He wanted to be finished with this. He ducked back behind the wall of indifference, straight faced, calm and calculating. "Are we just about finished, then?"

[scientificdeduction-blog]

"Hm." More writing. "Gregory Lestrade."

Sherlock was tempted to roll his eyes at first. He was consistently afflicted by the man. He was a dullard and, really, he had presented Sherlock with some terribly boring cases in the past. But, looking past that (as difficult as that might have been), Sherlock could remember the many times at the start of his career when Lestrade had sobered him up, thrust him into a crime scene, and let him work to his heart's content. When he had been so very tired of living, Lestrade had given him something to occupy himself with that didn't require copious amounts of hard drugs. He supposed he was grateful in that respect. Grudgingly so, but still grateful. He shrugged slightly, his expression one of mild indifference, "He gives me work to do, but he's a bit stupid."

[scientificdeduction-blog]

She hides the smile and jots it down. "Toft Lee."

There was a name Sherlock did not expect. Although he knew Toft, she was not a friend. Not what he considered a friend, anyway. Not yet. Perhaps she never would be. He couldn't say. Toft was many things--things that he could not understand and things that he could. He understood the mechanics of her brain as much as any scientist could. But the words the left her mouth made little sense to him sometimes, and sometimes they made too much sense altogether. They stripped him bare. And yet they were kind words. Her notions were interesting. Illogical. Unreasonable. He hated them as much as he was fascinated by them. He wasn't sure what to say. What could he say? He barely knew her--and yet he knew her deeply. Paradoxical. Inconsistent. Sherlock's brow furrowed and his chin jutted out slightly in irritation as he tried to gather his thoughts. He hated wandering through disorder. "She's intriguing," he replied slowly, as if the words were difficult. Perhaps they were. Perhaps he didn't really want to say them. "She has an exquisite mind."

[scientificdeduction-blog]

The scratch of pen on paper. "John Watson."

He had known who was coming next, but his reaction was still fresh. John Watson. The only person who had ever bothered to peel back Sherlock's skin and take a long look at his innards. Compassionate and warm and stable as a rock. John grounded him--reminded him of the present and earth and home and tea and food and all things realistic and mundane and essential. A man of action and reaction, solidly built and tough as nails. Tougher, even. Soldier, doctor, friend. Friend. Sherlock's first real friend. There had been Victor in uni, but Victor had been more of an acquaintance compared to this. What Sherlock and John had ran deep, deeper than any other relationship Sherlock had ever had--even with his own family members. His eyelids lowered, deep in thought for what seemed like ages. What was his reaction to John Watson? He wanted to know as much as Harry, if not more. He didn't smile. There were no fond memories playing across his features. His eyes did not adopt that far away look one gets when one thinks about someone one cares about. None of that. He was simply sincere. It was the most thoughtful look Sherlock could ever have had--as if this were the most important thing in the world--this subject of John Watson. The minutes rolled by as he said nothing--sincerely. And then he simply glanced at Harry passively and shook his head, as if to say, "John is John." And that was all there was to it. 

Indescribable.