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Literature Text
His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of his academic distinctions…
The witness was an Oxford don, who eyed Holmes’ card suspiciously.
“I wonder you do not list your academic qualifications,” he said.
“To be truthful,” Holmes smiled, “I did not complete my official studies.”
The professor frowned. “I spent eight years at various colleges.”
Holmes nodded gravely. “It is nothing to be ashamed of. Some people do need extra assistance.”
The witness was an Oxford don, who eyed Holmes’ card suspiciously.
“I wonder you do not list your academic qualifications,” he said.
“To be truthful,” Holmes smiled, “I did not complete my official studies.”
The professor frowned. “I spent eight years at various colleges.”
Holmes nodded gravely. “It is nothing to be ashamed of. Some people do need extra assistance.”
Literature
To John
To John,
I was a bad influence on you. I always was. You would have taken the blame if we were ever caught; so I did it for you.
I can't even try to think about how much pain you went through these past years without me. But you're much better off. I would have been the death of you; and I wouldn't have been able to hold that weight.
I've been keeping an eye on you every now and then, see how you're holding up.
Thank you for letting me go. I know you'll have a wonderful life without the worry of me. I was never worthy. I will never be worthy.
I will not explain how I did it, in fear you will be targeted, but I will say that you were the
Literature
John After Sherlock
When John Watson first met Mary Morstan there weren't bright sparks or life changing glances. There was a slight crash, a box of flying pasta, a mumbled apology and nothing more. It was when they bumped into each other a second time in the same shopping center that John started to get suspicious. He helped her collect her items for a second time, suggested that she replace the can of beans after its second swan dive across the aisle and offered his number.
She bit her lip and accepted. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.
They went out for coffee a week later. Wandering lazily around London's streets with paper cups in hand. Shy smiles were ex
Literature
Succumb.
John heard the familiar sound of post coming through the letterbox as it hit the ground with a papery thud. He looked up from where he'd been typing to peek at Sherlock. He was sat at the desk, with his elbows on the table. His hands were brought together, touching only at the fingertips, gently at his mouth. Deep in thought, John decided. He had half expected his flat-mate to get up to collect whatever letters had arrived. Smirking, John dismissed the idea and left the room.
A single letter sat on the doormat, illuminated by the light that dripped through the window. As John came closer to it, he noticed that there was no address - only th
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Oooh. Burn.