"I'll see what I can do," Mycroft says, at last. And there's a lot that he can do.

After John's released and back home at Baker St, Sherlock still feels it. Down the centre of his chest there's an ache like a healing wound. A physical awareness of a body he usually ignores as much as he can. It's psychosomatic, nothing more interesting than that.

He's halfway to Sarah's when he realizes that it's really weird that Sherlock offered to buy milk (and beans) (!), and it's really weird that Sherlock did nothing to stop him from leaving (for an entire evening and possibly all night), and it's really weird that John's angry about it (there's no good reason to be angry). John looks down at his balled fists and stops. Sherlock, an infinite mystery; and he's apparently deeply under John's skin.

She had studied the Legend of John more than any other. Now one of the protagonists of that story is standing in front of her in the flesh.

Where Mycroft is an angel, Sherlock is a demon, and John is still John. [Good Omens fusion. American English.]

"Right, then," said Sherlock. "I'll need you out by the thirtieth."

Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John's head.

Music: Ane Brun
Source: Sherlock
Summary: John hums along.
Download: 43MB XviD or stream on Vimeo

Sherlock can see his way through most problems in a single glance. John is something of an anomaly.

Five times someone warned John about Sherlock, and one time someone warned Sherlock about John.

In the year 2207, John Watson went to war.

Discoveries at sea, swash buckling, strip poker, and the occasional sea creature. Illustrations cataloging a week at sea for Holmes, Watson and crew.

The fire crackles in a pleasant counterpoint to the torrent of rain upon the glass, and Watson awkwardly clears his throat. When he finally speaks, his voice is a disgraceful rasp. "I'm so sorry, Holmes."

I have heard it said - by men discussing the news in crowded train carriages; by ladies queuing by the banker's desk - that the genius of Sherlock Holmes cannot be real; that it must be an exaggeration of my making, or else an illusory work of smoke and mirrors.