First Sentence Game
Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tags ten people. If you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyway!
I've included links in the titles if you want to keep reading - except for the WIPS! You gotta be patient!
Yet to be titled - FTH fic (current WIP) #johnlock
For the first time in nearly ten months, John Watson had finally lost the sense of dread in his gut when he woke up. It had been a long journey to get to this point. After failing at everything else in his life, it felt encouraging to be slightly calmer about today, at least.
The call had come through well after work hours, even by Mycroft’s standards. Still, he was always one to answer a call – regardless of the time of day. One of the benefits of being an enduring bachelor with a steep career trajectory and no hobbies, was that work became every aspect of your life. You gained a reputation for being reliable – the one to call at any time of the livelong day it seemed. All that lay waiting for him at home was a glass of fine whisky and the BBC newscast. So really, it was no different to being in the office – only that home had a more comfortable sofa and better glassware.
Summer Lovin' (also a current WIP - part 4 of Seasons of Love series)
Molly stood on the street jiggling nervously up and down on the spot, which was utterly ridiculous. Harriet Watson had been to her flat last night after the wedding, where she had met Toby.
(don't want to give away too many spoilers - coming soon!)
Greg kissed Mycroft gently, still half asleep himself. They were still in that strange space between Christmas and New Year where no one really knows what day it is. “Morning,” he mumbled, not even sure if it was morning.
Ever since the incident with his siblings, Mycroft hadn’t wanted Greg to stay at his own flat. So here he was, in Mycroft's large, plush bed enjoying being wrapped around his gorgeous redhead.
John looked around the apartment and fussed with final details. He had surprised Mrs Hudson and Sherlock by fully cleaning the flat, top to bottom until it sparkled. The tree was laden with decorations and coloured lights. The roast was cooking in the oven, heavenly scents wafted through the flat. It hadn’t had a good cleaning since Halloween – since Sherlock’s clever ploy to get him to participate in a costume party and John wanted to make sure he put in a top effort too. Now that they were together.
Sherlock’s brain was about ready to crawl out of his skull. It had been two weeks since their last case. Actually it had been fourteen days, sixteen hours, forty two minutes, and eleven… twelve… thirteen seconds… since their last case. If you could call it a case even. A bird had flown in through an open window and scared an elderly woman as she was carving a pumpkin. She tripped and the large knife was subsequently impaled in her chest. Then the bird flew out the same open window it had flown in from.
So no. Not really a case. No real murderer to chase after. Just an unlucky woman and a perhaps marginally homicidal bird but nothing more.
The screech came from the bathroom, piercing the peaceful surrounds of Baker Street. Sherlock had been waiting, his supine position on the couch absolutely and entirely for this purpose. He had intentionally opened the newspaper to cover his gleeful smirk.
“Sorry, John. I didn’t hear you. Do you need something?” he asked sweetly. He waited behind his newspaper as he heard the sound of John padding angrily across the apartment, his bare feet slapping along the floorboards. Sherlock remained steadfast in his nonchalance.
The silence extended between them for too long, as Sherlock waited in eager anticipation, until John finally cleared his throat deliberately. Sherlock dropped a corner of the paper, just long enough to see what John was angry about, and then chose to return his paper to its original position.
“Sherlock!” John yelled again, more angrily this time.
Sherlock finally conceded and dropped the paper to his stomach. “What is it John?” he asked, trying his best to sound annoyed. He had waited hours for this, after all, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch.
“I’m green!” John shrieked.
As I stood, waiting quietly in the familiar entryway, I took a moment to observe the man who had, for a number of years, consumed me. He was lost in thought, leaning against the mantel as he stared into the well-stoked fire, seemingly unaware of my presence. Being the middle of the night, there was a chill, the first signs of the approaching winter temperatures, fresh in the air. It felt strange returning here and yet, there was something comforting, though unsettling about it, the recognisable scent of home assaulting my nostrils, harking back to a time I had struggled to leave behind.
There was something about the sickly-sweet smell of heated soy milk which made John’s stomach turn. He had survived the blood-soaked, sweat drenched battlefields of the punishing Afghanistan desert and the unrelenting, stressful mad pace of surgical internship. Yet, here he was with burns on the insides of his wrists and aching feet, resisting the urge to gag from the bloody smell of that god awful soy milk everyone was so obsessed with here, as if it was his biggest hardship. Almond milk wasn’t much better. What was wrong with just ordinary milk from a cow anyway? It had already served humans well for centuries.
The phone rang for far too long, which only made John angrier. Fortunately, Sherlock finally answered, or he had been prepared to leave a tirade on his flatmate’s voicemail.
“Sherlock, it’s John,” he said through the phone with a firm tone. He realised how it sounded, but his mood was stormy and it was the best he could do for the moment.
“Yes, John. I’m aware. I don’t know if you know this, but mobile phones actually recognise other peoples’ numbers and display the name on the screen now,” Sherlock said with his usual smugness.
John leapt out of the cab, before the wheels had even stopped turning, throwing a twenty-pound note at the front seat and flying out without a word. Slamming the door unforgivingly as he hit the pavement, he kept running, thankful for the automated hospital doors. He knew he wouldn’t have stopped for them either way. His heart raced, thumping against his chest in a painful rhythm but it didn’t deter him. He was jolted by the freezing air conditioning hitting his face first, then the familiar scent of over-sanitisation, despite their attempts to make the foyer welcoming with plants and stylised furniture. John pushed the sensations aside as he flew right past the reception desk. He knew this hospital well, so he headed straight for the emergency department. As he rounded the corner though, he was brought up short, his legs almost buckling from under him at the sight. His breath caught in his throat as he froze, and his stomach dropped.
There he was, in all his glory, standing tall and strong and beautiful. Sherlock Holmes in his coat, collar up, curls wild. How dare he show his face here looking like that.
