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Three Sentences Fics for Sherlock BBC
Aug. 17th, 2013 07:52 pmInspired by, and spoilers for, the trailer for Sherlock Season 3. For a challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
the_deepbluesea.
I.
He runs his hands across his head and tugs, the sensation suddenly reminding him of the crime scene where Sherlock had grabbed him by the hair to exclaim, "It's SIMPLE, you idiot, how can you not see it?" before swirling off to find the essential clue in the garbage skip about fifty yards from the body. He remembers the mixed feeling of irritation and wonderment, and his stomach churns with grief and anger, his hands sliding down to cover his face.
He gets a buzz cut.
II.
He is hurrying to the clinic, late for his shift because of a jam-up on the Tube; the re-emergence of his limp makes it effortful, and with a shaky hand he rubs the sweat beading below his nose. Instantly comes the memory of a post-case rush, ice-blue eyes gazing at his, a strong delicate finger reaching out to stroke his upper lip with such tenderness that his heart lurches even now, making him freeze on the crowded street, pressing his mouth.
He grows a moustache.
III.
He leans on the damp brick wall, fingering the Sig and watches his prey--two figures whispering together in the dark of the alley--when he dank odor of garbage and piss and beer penetrates his concentration, and catapults him back to a memory of an unexpected, mid-case burst of laughing camaraderie with John and Lestrade, in just such an alley, lifetimes ago. He is suddenly paralyzed by the hopeless futility of his quest to ensure the safety of those he loves, without being able to be near those he loves.
He goes home.
the_deepbluesea. I.
He runs his hands across his head and tugs, the sensation suddenly reminding him of the crime scene where Sherlock had grabbed him by the hair to exclaim, "It's SIMPLE, you idiot, how can you not see it?" before swirling off to find the essential clue in the garbage skip about fifty yards from the body. He remembers the mixed feeling of irritation and wonderment, and his stomach churns with grief and anger, his hands sliding down to cover his face.
He gets a buzz cut.
II.
He is hurrying to the clinic, late for his shift because of a jam-up on the Tube; the re-emergence of his limp makes it effortful, and with a shaky hand he rubs the sweat beading below his nose. Instantly comes the memory of a post-case rush, ice-blue eyes gazing at his, a strong delicate finger reaching out to stroke his upper lip with such tenderness that his heart lurches even now, making him freeze on the crowded street, pressing his mouth.
He grows a moustache.
III.
He leans on the damp brick wall, fingering the Sig and watches his prey--two figures whispering together in the dark of the alley--when he dank odor of garbage and piss and beer penetrates his concentration, and catapults him back to a memory of an unexpected, mid-case burst of laughing camaraderie with John and Lestrade, in just such an alley, lifetimes ago. He is suddenly paralyzed by the hopeless futility of his quest to ensure the safety of those he loves, without being able to be near those he loves.
He goes home.
