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Text Messages from Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, is written by Seth. His texts are in Courier New. Dr. John H. Watson is written by Chel. His texts are in Verdana.

This blog is part ask blog, part fanfiction. We are not affiliated with BBC's Sherlock and take full responsibility for any spelling errors or overuse of Internet memes that may be found on this blog.

New readers, either start from the beginning or check out the index of posts!

FAQ | Problem? (Ask is closed.)
Current point in canon: Three months after "The Empty Hearse"

Baker Street Irregulars

OOC: Welcome! 

Hello readers!

We’ve picked up quite a few of you since series 3 aired (there are over 13,000 of you now, wow!) so we just wanted to take a second and say hello, and thank you for joining us.  Sorry for the delay in plot advancement—we are hard at work on future Texts and interludes. Rest assured that John and Sherlock will reconcile soon.

In the meantime, feel free to catch up on what’s happened previously in Texts by reading everything or just the index of important posts (which is up to date). You might also want to follow Sherlock Holmes’ incognito blog, fuckyoursolarsystem, where he posts pretty pictures, music, and commentary—but shh, don’t let on that you know it’s him!

If you’re interested in Texts and where it’s going, feel free to follow either of the writers: Seth, who writes Sherlock and a couple of other characters, and Chel, who writes John, Mary, Victor Trevor, Sebastian Moran, Irene Adler, and others as needed.

Thank you so much for joining us! We hope you enjoy the ride.

flashback #6 - 5 November 2013 

Warnings: none.  Also available on AO3 for ease of reading.

            You’re so pleased when John asks if you want to go and get dinner with him.  You know you don’t deserve it—the last thing he should be doing is voluntarily spending more time with you—but he offered it and you accepted it and you’re not the kind of man who quits while he’s ahead.  There’s more to talk about, John says.  There’s more catching up the two of you need to do.  You look him over and realise he wants to make sure you won’t run away now that you’ve solved the case and saved London from its dissenters.  He wants you to stay here.  With him.  You couldn’t be more pleased if you tried.

            You know just the place to take him to: a quaint Mexican restaurant on Hampstead Road with unforgettable sopa de tortilla that will warm you right up after an evening of breathing in the foul, dank air of the London Underground.  You’re desperate to taste it again.  You’re desperate to taste him again, too.  You’re desperate to grab him by the waist and dip him down like a dance partner and taste him tasting you on the tip of your tongue.

            You shouldn’t think like that.  You know you shouldn’t be thinking like that.  You look away from him to hail a taxi and tell yourself to stop thinking like that immediately.

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