“Holmes, you presented the facts of Jameson’s crimes quite clearly, but I am still in the dark on one point.”

Sherlock uses him as his own personal texting machine; John goes along with it when it's summoning serial killers, and even when it's sending pithy little comments to Lestrade's phone ("He keeps trying to block my number," Sherlock complains, almost surprised), but balks when Sherlock can't be arsed to text in a takeaway order himself.

Painted in Photoshop. Gorgeous image of a young, drugged-out Sherlock.

Song by A Perfect Circle
Summary: "You're not haunted by the war. You miss it".
Stream or 73 MB download.

Fine ink pen and Photoshop - an android!John AU.

After strange events start happening across London, Sherlock and John soon find out that a certain Time Lord is the key to all of them. But that is just the tip of the iceberg.

It takes months for the package to reach England from South Africa. Smuggling anything is hard enough as it is under the watchful - and sadistic - gaze of the Toclafane; even something simple, food or cigarettes or a bottle of booze, will get a person killed if they're caught.

Doctor John Watson isn't sure what would happen to someone caught smuggling a lightning-fried Toclafane, but he'd bet it would involve a not-very-pleasant trip to the Valiant to meet Harold Saxon in person.

There is a switch.

This is what the doctor used to say: "Inside you, Sherlock, there is a switch." And then tap at his head, his chest, to outline its location. Imagine: Sherlock, six years old, stick limbs and heavy mess of hair, rocks in his seat from side to side -- a rhythmic fidget -- and in his head anatomy presents itself in perfect lines and figures: the contents of the human chest, close-packed and clean. He could dissect a corpse, if they would let him, and name its sheets of muscle, bones and tendons, liver and spleen. He stares in scorn at this alleged doctor. There is not room for such a switch as he describe inside the chest, nor in the brain.

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.

Gladstone hanging out with the Tiger rug.

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.