Oh, look we’re just sitting here being all professional and—-hang on. What. Is that a…is that a camera?
GODDAMMIT, MYCROFT.
detectiveinspectorgreglestrade:
….yes, thank you for the reminder…
arse.
SHUT UP. DDDDDDDD:
NOOOOOOoooooOOOoooooooOOOOOOOO!!!!!!111!!!11!!1111!!!
GREGFEELS. SO MANY GREGFEELS HAGRI;OAHWRGIAHR;OI
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
Sherlock stopped mid-deduction as his phone vibrated and sighed, taking it out. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down at his phone, trying to decipher the jumble of letters that presented themselves.
Needsj helsdjppppp -B
John peered over his shoulder, trying to find out what had made Sherlock stop talking. It nearly never happened, especially when Sherlock was deducing. However, a look of slight foreboding seemed to cloud his eyes.
“B? Who’s B?”
Sherlock shook himself and looked back at John. “Nobody,” he said, putting his phone back into his pocket, looking slightly lost. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me about the scratches on the handbag,” John said, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. “Look, are you alright? You look a bit—”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “It’s nothing. I just—” he jumped slightly as his phone buzzed again.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, whipping his phone out again.
HRE WNTS MY THUFMBDDDSSS -B
Sherlock closed his eyes, apparently very stressed out. He thought he had seen the last of…him years ago. He ignored the text once more and slipped the phone back into his pocket, answering the questions he knew were on the tip of John’s tongue.
“Family. Don’t want to talk about it.”
John raised his eyebrows, but ventured to say nothing more on the subject. Sherlock was always touchy about his family. Mycroft seemed to be the only relative he was in contact with, and that too, very unwillingly.
Sherlock opened his mouth again to explain how the scratches on the woman’s handbag meant that the murderer was her brother when—
Knock, knock, knock.
They heard the door open and Mrs. Hudson cry out in surprise. Jumping up, Sherlock dashed down the stairs only to find a black haired man, obviously drunk, being towed to the door by a police officer.
“Is this yours?” the officer asked, jerking her head testily at the inebriated man, who was clutching a bottle to his chest.
“I—”
“Sherlock!” the man slurred, swinging the bottle outward, missing the doorframe by inches. “I…broughtyouthe…p’lice!”
John frowned, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. However, Sherlock seemed to be staring at the man with a mixture of shock and something else that John couldn’t put his finger on. He expected Sherlock to deny that he knew the man, but to his surprise, Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, allowing the man to stumble into the foyer.
“There…see? Toldja I knewhim…” he muttered to the police officer, who simply gave him a withering look before stalking off, muttering about lousy drunkards. “Shedidn’tbelieve—hic—me.”
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” John asked, staring at the man, who was now slouched against the wall.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “And shtop moving. Damn, there’sh twoofya…” he blinked, squinting at John. “Yoursdoesn’thaveabeard. Good. Nashtythings, beards…get…” he swung his arms out again, flailing them about, “ALLOVERTHEPLACE!”
Sherlock stared at him, tightlipped, before speaking in a very low voice. “What are you doing here, Bernard.”
“Lockedout,” Bernard mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Stupid…stupid Manny.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What about your other friend….Jan?”
“Fran…and she’s…inastrop.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“C’n I…sleephere? Pleeeeeeeeeease?”
John expected Sherlock to refuse, but was surprised once again when Sherlock nodded. Bernard grinned widely before stumbling forward and into the flat.
“You’re sleeping on the couch!” Sherlock called after him before turning to John, who was wearing a look of complete shock.
“Sherlock, who’s—”
“My younger brother, Bernard.”
John held back a groan. Another Holmes? He already had his hands full with two, but three?
“I—you never said you had a—”
“It was never relevant,” Sherlock said shortly before turning on his heel and leaving John standing in the foyer, making his way to his room, only to find Bernard sprawled out on his bed with one shoe on, fast asleep, his mouth wide open. He crept up by the bedside, reaching out to shake the man awake, only to draw his hand back.
Disheveled hair. Dark circles under his eyes. A scratch on his cheek, which was quite red. Fran had slapped him. His coat was on strange, the bottom nearly ripped. Bar fight? No, there were traces of rust along the tear. Drunk, slapped by Fran, stalked off, caught his jacket on a rusty nail, ran into the police.
Sherlock drew a hand over his face. As much as he declared that he had no time for sentiment, he did…worry about Bernard. His alcoholism was getting out of control, and it brought back painful memories of Sherlock’s own addiction. His loss of control. The way he would do anything just to feed his drug addiction.
Of course, Bernard hadn’t always been like this. He had been brilliant, always dragging Sherlock and Mycroft to the library so that he could pore over books, balancing stacks that were much too large for him all the way back home, babbling on and on about so-and-so book and so-and-so author. Sherlock had actually looked forward to the library visits, as much as he had feigned otherwise. Bernard had been the closest thing he had for a friend as a child and to see him drowning in alcohol made his chest feel horribly tight.
Sherlock supposed being disowned by the family might have had something to do with Bernard’s alcoholism. He had turned up to Christmas dinner, completely drunk and ended up stripping his pants off and mooning their Great Aunt Georgia, who promptly passed out from shock. Out of anger, Mummy had declared that he should leave and never come back, and Bernard (always one to take things seriously) did so at once. He even changed his last name to Black and lost all contact with the family for about six years. All Sherlock knew was that he owned some sort of bookshop and that he spent most of his time getting drunk.
Sherlock turned his attention back to his brother, who was muttering in his sleep, his eyelids twitching. Carefully, he arranged the blankets around Bernard with an unusual gentleness before straightening up.
“Idiot.”
JUST WAIT FOR IT.
Time of death: Ongoing
Cause of death: Overexposure to Cumberawesome
brotherhood of the traveling shirt of sex.
These people are quickly making purple my favorite color.
BROTHERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING SHIRT OF SEX
I’ve always assumed that purple is a sexy color.
Thank you for the final proof.
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
Can this happen please?
“Boys! You’ve got another one!” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, before turning to the abnormally thin man at the door. “Just go right up, dear, I’ll bring tea in a minute.”
The man grinned, thanking her before going up the stairs, taking them two at a time and walking into the room without any invitation to find a man with short, sandy hair sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper, and another taller, black haired man standing by the window. The thin man sat down in the empty armchair, drumming his fingers on the smooth leather.
“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, looking between the two men.
“That would be me,” the man at the window said, turning and narrowing his eyes slightly at the sight of another man in his chair.
“Ah, good,” the thin man said, completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was glaring at him. “You’re the one that goes about looking for interesting puzzles and whatnot, correct?”
“More or less, yes.”
“Think you could handle one more?”
“If you’re going to give me a case, then give one. If not, then I’m sure you know the way out,” Sherlock said irritably, turning to the sandy haired man with an exasperated look on his face.
“What he means is that we’d be happy to hear about your puzzle,” the sandy haired man said, glancing to Sherlock meaningfully. “Right, Sherlock?”
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “But, John—”
John ignored this, however, and gestured for the thin man to continue. Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed to the fireplace. “Fine.”
John shot an apologetic look at the thin man, who waved it off with a flippant flick of his wrist.
“The name’s Smith. I’m investigating the recent disappearances around this area.”
“You’re not from the Yard,” Sherlock mused, frowning.
Smith raised his eyebrows. “Who said I was from the Yard? I’m a private detective…like you.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Oh, god, don’t tell me you’re here hoping to collaborate—”
“Actually, I’m not. I just need information and then I’ll be out of your hair,” Smith shrugged.
Sherlock hesitated, glancing at John before turning his attention back to Smith, who rolled his eyes and fished about in his pocket, taking out a battered looking identification card, holding it up in front of Sherlock.
“See? Certified private investigator and—”
Sherlock took one look at the card, and snapped his eyes back at Smith. “Don’t try to trick me,” he said, his voice low.
Smith froze mid sentence, taken aback. “What—”
“You know who I am. It doesn’t work.”
Smith smiled widely, pocketing the card once more and leaning forward, interest sparkling in his eyes. “Oh, that proves it. Absolute genius!”
“Who sent you? Was it my brother?”
“As a matter of fact, it was your brother. Sort of, anyway. His people called my people…or well…called me to investigate the disappearances, and your brother kindly mentioned that I should ask you if I need anything.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, clenching his fists. “Mycroft,“ he hissed before turning to Smith. “And what’s your real name?”
Smith’s grin widened even more. “Good, very good,” he murmured. “Really, your brother didn’t give you enough credit.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the Doctor,” he replied, eyebrows raised.
“A name,” Sherlock growled.
“The Doctor,” the man repeated. “Capital D, please. Hate it when they forget that.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John talked over him. “Okay, names aside, why on earth did Mycroft send you here?”
The Doctor turned to John, confused. “Most brilliant mind in London, possibly the world? Of course this was the first place I’d come. I’m sure you two have been keeping up with the disappearances, even if they have hushed it up.”
John shook his head, but Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”
“And I suppose you know why they’ve hushed them up.”
“Well, there was no need to publish it,” Sherlock said swiftly. “The victims reappeared, unharmed.”
“Or so they say,” the Doctor said grimly.
John frowned, sitting up. “Meaning?”
“They’re not kidnappings, gents. They’re murders.”
Sherlock’s eyes glinted at the word “murders,” but other than that, he gave no sign of surprise. John, however, leaned forward.
“Are you sure?”
“More like hunts,” the Doctor said, leaning back into the chair.
“What do you mean murder?” Sherlock asked. “They came back. Alive. That’s not murder.”
“Oh, they’re alive, yes,” the Doctor said. “Very much alive, and that’s the problem. They shouldn’t be alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” the Doctor said patiently, “that the people who came back aren’t the same people who were taken.”
John frowned, leaning forward. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, gentlemen, that we’re dealing with killings. Not kidnappings.”
“That makes no sense,” Sherlock said, frowning.
“I suppose it wouldn’t,” the Doctor sighed. “Not to you, anyway.”
Sherlock growled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” the Doctor said hastily. “It’s just that you lot always take a look at the obvious solution and refuse to see any other evidence that might point otherwise because the other option seems totally and completely impossible.”
Sherlock started to protest, but the Doctor cut across him, getting out an envelope. “This was the first victim,” he said, handing it to Sherlock.
Sherlock snatched the envelope up and ripped it open, taking out the photograph and inhaling sharply. The image had been burned into his mind long before he had set eyes on the photograph, the soulless dark eyes looking up at him, glassy and shining.
“Moriarty,” he breathed. “But, Morairty’s alive.”
The Doctor frowned. “The man you see in the picture is a daycare teacher named Mr. Richard Brook,” he said. “He was taken about nine months ago and reappeared a month after his disappearance.”
“But, if he’s still alive, then how is it a murder?” John asked, eyeing Moriarty’s picture venomously.
“He isn’t still alive,” the Doctor said. “I investigated the place to which he was taken and found this.” He took out crumpled photograph from his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at it and handed it to John, who took it and let out a sound of disgust.
“Are these…”
“Intestines,” the Doctor said. “Heart, lungs, internal organs in general. Not a pretty picture, but then again, we’re not dealing with a very pretty creature.”
“How do you know these are his?” Sherlock asked.
“Thankfully, I have more advanced technology to help me,” the Doctor said, whipping out a thin instrument from his pocket and holding it up gleefully.
“Is that a…screwdriver?” John asked, confused.
The Doctor closed his eyes as if he were mortally offended. “Sonic screwdriver. Why do people always forget the sonic? It makes a sound and everything, see?” he pressed the button and the screwdriver whirred to life, emitting an electric blue light. “Had it analyze the entrails. It was definitely Richard Brook’s,” the Doctor said.
“Say we believe you,” Sherlock said, bringing his fingertips together into his signature praying stance. “How would you explain the fact that James Moriarty, not Richard Brook, is currently out in the world, alive?”
“See, that’s the thing,” the Doctor said excitedly. “He’s not Richard Brook. Not anymore, anyway. He’s been changed. He looks the same, but it’s not him.”
Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of the Arachnemorphageans?” the Doctor asked.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if the Doctor was trying to make fun of him or not.
“Obviously not,” the Doctor said. “Not surprising. You wouldn’t know one if it stared you in the face. In fact, it probably has stared you in the face, seeing as you seem to recognize the victim. Arachnemorphageans are shape shifters. They find and kill their victims, scoop out their organs, slip into their skin, and nobody can tell the difference. Nothing more than parasites. Even look like parasites.”
He got out a crumpled up piece of paper from his coat pocket and carefully straightened it out. Sherlock recognized it as a very old piece of parchment, yellow with age and slightly burnt around the edges. He took the paper from the Doctor, looking down to find a picture of a horrible, spider like creature with a serpent’s head, leering up at him.
“So that’s an Arachne…”
“…morphagean, yes,” the Doctor said, taking the paper back and slipping it into his pocket. “Alien species, and old. Very, very old. Amongst the oldest in the universe, I think. They’re older than me, anyway.”
“And how old are you?” John asked curiously.
The Doctor grinned. “Very old,” he said before turning to Sherlock. “So, will you help me?”
Sherlock looked up, his mind racing. It wasn’t a joke, was it? Mycroft wouldn’t go this far, it was far too much effort…Anderson? No, Anderson would probably never even think of something this elaborate…and Lestrade would be much to obvious…unless it was Moriarty again? But, there were no signs of deception in the Doctor’s face. Nothing to prove that what he was saying wasn’t true.
Finally, Sherlock nodded. The Doctor beamed widely before standing up. “Well, come along then,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the room. “Best be off. The less time we waste the better.”
Sherlock and John remained standing in the room, staring at each other.
“Are you sure we can trust him?” John asked.
Sherlock remained silent, which John took as a bad sign.
Sherlock walked toward the door before pausing, turning his head to John. “Take your gun. Just in case.”
John nodded and grabbed his revolver and putting it in his jacket pocket before following Sherlock out to find him staring at a blue police call box.
“Is that…”
“A police box from the sixties,” the Doctor said, patting the side of the box lovingly. “Good times, those. Always did like the sixties. Fantastic music. I should go back there sometime…” he said, his voice trailing away as he gazed out into space nostalgically before shaking himself. “Anyway, Arachnemorphageans,” he said, nodding and pushing the door open, gesturing for them to get inside.
John looked at Sherlock, who for once, looked just as confused as John did. The Doctor made an impatient noise and jerked his head toward the police box. “Are you coming or aren’t you?”
Sherlock strode forward and into the box, followed closely by John, only to find himself in some sort of control room. The Doctor followed them inside and closed the door, locking it, taking off his coat and tossing it on the floor and making his way to the controls.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the TARDIS.”
I’m doing it wrong.
so…рисовала я как всегда, что-то стандартное про встречу этих двоих в третьем сезоне, а потом мне стало лень рисовать и я сделала это.
JIAERHGO;IAERGH;AEI YOU MIXED BEAUTY AND THE BEST WITH THIS AND I LOVE YOU OH MY GOD
i didn’t know mountain dew had that much cocaine
i didn’t know mountain dew had that much cocaine
