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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.

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Current point in canon: Three months after "The Empty Hearse"

Baker Street Irregulars

interlude #17 

Warnings: drug use, blood.  Also available on LJ for ease of reading.  Best understood if you’ve read interlude #15 (and the rest of Texts for that matter).

            He forgets to close the door.

            Close the door, John says (growls) in his ear.  Or were you born in a barn?

            “Sorry,” he mumbles, then closes the door.  Locks the door, too. Both doors (living room and kitchen), they’re closed and locked now.  Just wouldn’t do to have Mrs. Hudson traipsing about with tea and biscuits.  Or whatever it is she does these days.  (He doesn’t know, doesn’t care.)  Maybe she’s responsible for the tea that turns up every morning.  (He drinks it because John isn’t here to make him tea anymore.)

            Took you long enough.

            Just a voice, and it’s almost too much for him.  Better than seeing the disappointed look on John’s face.

            What did I say?  Merciless.  Giving him no room to breathe.  The coin bag in his pocket weighs as much as an ice pick meant for caving his skull in.  (That’s the point.)  What did I say, Sherlock, about the next time you decided to do something like this?

            “You said that you would leave,” he replies, unable to forget that.  Right before the Baskerville case: a largely harmless dalliance with cocaine led to him quit smoking cold turkey in order to please John.  Demonstration of his sincerity: I’ll give up anything for you, John.  Even the nicotine.  “You said there would be no point in staying if I didn’t stop with the drugs.”

            That’s right.

            “But you’ve already left me.”

            And now look at what you’ve gone and done to yourself.

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{Texts: Behind the Scenes #5} 


            Irene keeps an eye on London from afar, largely through the Internet, but she hasn’t been so rash as to cut off all of her alternative channels of communication.  Regular, anonymous deposits into the bank accounts of a few key individuals go a long way; some people are more than willing to spill the beans for money.  As such, she wakes up in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day to a text message from an old colleague who doesn’t know who exactly he’s writing to, only what he’s supposed to report.

            Victor Trevor is dead, says the message.

            Irene closes her eyes.  She has known this was coming ever since Karachi, had known that idiot was planning… something foolish.  A suicide mission was never out of the question.  When she found out that he’d joined Moriarty’s ranks months ago, she tried to contact him, carefully, taking proper precautions, but failed.  And now he is dead.

            She doesn’t sleep for the rest of the evening because there’s nothing to protect her from her nightmares.  Sometimes, foolishly, she would comfort herself upon waking from Karachi by remembering Victor’s hands on her shoulders, the way he brushed the tangles out of her long hair before he helped her shave it all off, his strong arms lifting her off the ground and twirling her around before she left the Middle East.  She once entertained thoughts of him joining her in New York after everything was over, but no longer.  She does not cry, or can’t.

            The next morning, to the great surprise of her housekeep, Susanna, Irene dresses up and leaves the house in broad daylight.  From a small electronics shop, using only cash, she purchases a thoroughly disposable mobile phone and loads it with enough money to send a couple of international texts.  She still remembers Sherlock Holmes’ number.

            She ponders what to say, what she can say.  Then, she recalls going to the funerals of her grandparents when she was young, and how everyone laid a stone on their graves out of respect, and how she found that appropriately solemn.  It’s a Jewish tradition, but Victor had never been devoted to any particular religion; she thinks he’d like a stone, a solid marker of her presence.

            Her first text reads: Place a stone on his grave for me.

            She doesn’t receive a reply, but she isn’t expecting one.  She hadn’t deigned to tell dear Mr. Holmes who she was, after all.  Could be the enemy, mocking him.

            Back in her flat, she sits on the couch in her living room, the phone in her lap, just thinking, thinking about Victor, and how she met him, and who he was, and the sides of him that she never saw.  Victor and Sherlock Holmes… oh, but of course.  She picks up her phone again.  Of course Sherlock Holmes would view this situation entirely the wrong way around.

            Her second text reads: It’s not your fault.

            As she leans back against the couch, strangely spent, she thinks that the last thing everyone needs is for the one man who could bring down James Moriarty to be burdened with survivor’s guilt.  But that’s not the only reason for her message.  She remembers Victor’s eyes when he looked at her in Karachi, and how sad they were, and how sorry, and how hard, and she knows, somehow, that he hadn’t decided to try to chip away at Moriarty’s empire until he saw what it had done to her.

            She wrote: It’s not your fault.  She meant: If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.

            A few days later, to the bemusement of John Watson, Sherlock Holmes places a stone on Victor Trevor’s grave.

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson 

25th February

Back to Work

Sherlock woke up this morning and said he wanted to get back to work so I figured it was about time to write a blog entry.  I know we’ve been quiet lately but a lot of things have happened in the last couple of weeks and frankly I’m still trying to process it all.

I don’t think I’m articulate enough to really describe it here, but it’s been difficult for me to sort through everything I’ve learned, although probably more difficult for Sherlock.  It’s just that you can think you know someone and then something happens and you realized that you didn’t understand much about them at all and you’re never going to get closure because they aren’t here anymore.  You’d think I’d be used to that by now, but you never get used to it.

I really don’t want to have to go to a funeral again anytime soon.  One is more than enough.

Comments disabled

interlude #16 (part two) 

Notes: Follows this.  No warnings.

to Mary Morstan
February 23rd

Ms Morstan,

I found your email on your shop’s website and wanted to get in touch, but I should probably reintroduce myself before I go any further.  We met the other day at your husband’s funeral, but you probably spoke to a lot of people so I’m not sure you’d remember me.  I was the one with Sherlock, who sort of accidentally absconded with your son – sorry about that, by the way.  Sherlock has a weird static cling for children.

Anyway, you recognised Sherlock from the papers, so I’m that bloke who blogs about him, if that’ll help you put me in context.  Before I blogged about Sherlock though my blog was supposed to be a way for me to just write down what I was feeling, and the short of it is that I’m still trying to work out a lot of things around your husband’s death and I was wondering if it would be all right with you if I wrote something about him.  Most of it would probably be pretty vague and not disrespectful or anything like that, but I wanted to check with you considering well… everything that’s happened.

Please let me know if you’re not comfortable with this.  Writing this email made me realize how selfish this sounds so maybe I should just forget it altogether.

Thank you for your time, and I am so sorry for your loss.

John Watson

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interlude #16 (part one) 

14 February, Evening

            Thank god for police cars.

            That’s all John can think.  Thank god for police cars, and shock blankets, and Sherlock.  Thank god Sherlock wasn’t hit.  Thank god he wasn’t hit.  Thank god…

            John Watson isn’t a praying man, but every day he woke up in Afghanistan alive and intact he would think thank god.  And every time someone else was hit—thank god it wasn’t me.  That wasn’t always at the forefront of his mind.  Sometimes if it was one of his friends, one of the men in his unit, a good man, then anguish would overwhelm anything else for a while.  But always, always there, always somewhere: thank god it wasn’t me.

            It wasn’t just him, either.  Everyone thought it, except for the ones who thought please let it end today, please take me.  But John wasn’t one of those people, and, even though his insides feel as though they’ve been scooped out and dumped elsewhere, he knows he’ll wake up tomorrow thankful to be alive.

            He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who appears to have vacated himself entirely, and reaches over, squeezes his wrist.  “You’re all right,” he says.  It’s instinct.  He’s had to do this a lot.  He knows Sherlock isn’t really all right, but it needs to be said anyway.  “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

            No response.  Used to that, too.  John squeezes a little tighter, then pulls back, releases his grip.  “We’ll be home soon.”

            Sherlock says nothing.

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interlude #15 

Warnings: death, violent imagery/gore, gun-related violence, drug use, detailed past sexual assault.  Also available on LJ for ease of reading.

            He can’t do anything to stop it.

            He flexes his fingers.  Gloved fingers.  (His favorite gloves.)  Dark, wet, shaking gloved fingers.  Pressing down with them.  They’re covered in blood.  Pressing down harder.  The blood is fresh and warm (how warm?) (estimate unavailable).  Almost hot compared to standing air temperature (estimate unavailable).  He can’t do anything to stop the blood from pouring out faster.  More and more blood escapes through his fingers.  Every breath seems to drain away even more color.

            Stop breathing, he thinks (and begs, and breathes).  That would be so much better.  Death via hypoxia—who wouldn’t want that euphoria?

            "John!" he cries, looking over his shoulder.

            Visibility: still limited.  Too much free-floating debris.  Dirt.  Dust.  Flakes of wood.  Sporadic gusts of wind and rain.  He can’t see—he can’t do anything.  Panic rises up to his ears: a harsh, droning hum.  A thousand bees crawling into him, scraping inside him.

            "John, I can’t stop the bleeding."  Almost chokes on the thickened air.  Don’t panic.  Panicking anyway.  No.  No.  Not now.  Don’t do this to him.  "Help me, please.  You’re the doctor, so do something.

            John’s grin fades away.  "Sherlock?"

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elsewhere #7 

Note: Corresponds to this transcript.

            Victor’s work phone rings as he’s closing a deal.  He sits back, pulls it out of his pocket, and frowns at the display.  Then, he silences it with a charming, apologetic smile, and opens his mouth to get back to business but gets cut off before he can.

            “Who was that?”

            Shrugging, Victor says, “No one important.”

            Jim Moriarty leans back on the sofa.  “If it’s no one important,” he says, somehow both irritable and amused, “then why did you stop when I hadn’t said to?  Tut tut.”

            Far from fazed, Victor just grins.  “I don’t know, sir.  It won’t happen again.”  And from the look on Moriarty’s face, that’s just what he wants to hear.

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transcript #9 

VT:  This is Victor Trevor.  If you’re calling about work, leave the target’s name and I’ll get back to you if I’m interested.  If you’re calling about last night, don’t bother leaving anything.


SH:  It’s Moriarty.  That’s who it is.  That’s who you’ve decided to shack up with.  I don’t know why it took me this long to realise.  I don’t know why you’ve taken it upon yourself to ignore everyTHING I HAVE BEEN TELLING YOU.  Under no circumstances, emergency or imaginary, were you to ever insert yourself into my business.  We spoke on this in Karachi—we spoke on this before Karachi.  I do not care for your juvenile, impractical ideas of vigilante justice.  You do not go to Moriarty, you do not seek him out.


SH:  I’m supposed to trust you and then you do this.  Wasn’t all that difficult to nab Peter Ricoletti, by the way.  Without your help.


SH:  Bloody time limit.  One moment.


VT:  This is Victor Trevor.  If you’re calling about work, leave the target’s name and I’ll get back to you if I’m interested.  If you’re calling about last night, don’t bother leaving anything.


SH:  Pick up.  Your.  Phone.  Victor Trevor, I will end you.  What has he promised you, anyway?  He must have promised you something by now.  If not, then he’s going to in the near future.  He’s not stupid, Victor: he’ll figure out why you’re so keen to work for him.  You can dress up this idiocy for me as some, some, some conspiracy that you think’s gone on, but we both know you’re after something much clearer cut.  Moriarty will have the truth extracted from you, one way or another.  And then, Victor, then he’ll make you a special deal, because he can get to you and you’d be an asset to him.  Assuming he doesn’t outright kill you, you unimaginable bastard.  I don’t want that for anyone, even you.

[In the end, as always: silence.]

SH:  Do you have the faintest understanding of what you’re doing to me?  Is this what you really wanted?  For me to beg?  Get out of there.  Please.


transcript #8 

SH: You’re most likely about to waste my time, but go on: tell me of your problems.  If they’re anything worth solving, I’ll contact you.  Do not request a follow-up on your own—I’ll contact you.  Do you understand?  I’ve said it twice now.  If this concerns the Mayan doomsday prophecy: yes, you’re going to die and it will be very painful.  Otherwise, do your utmost to impress me.


VT: Sherlock, I get it.  You think that if you ignore my text messages and screen my calls that I’m going to stop.  But I’m not going to stop, because it’s not going to stop.  I can cross my fingers and hope that you’re just being stubborn about this one case—and, you know, I can understand that.  You’re probably close to finding Ricoletti on your own.  You don’t need me to tell you where he is, you’re a genius.  So, fine.  I won’t tell you.  You win.  But you have to listen to me, Sherlock, because what I’m doing… it’s not about this case, or any of the others.  Something much bigger’s going on and I don’t know what it is yet but I’m going to find out, all right?  Ignoring my texts isn’t going to keep me from finding out, and when I do I’ll need you to pick up your bloody phone, because this isn’t about me


transcript #6 

VT:  Sherlock—
SH:  What the hell is your problem?
VT:  Oh, are we going to have this discussion now?
SH:  I’d love to discuss your astounding lack of respect - ignoring my calls and the rest of it - but I’m on a case right now.
VT:  I know.  The kidnapped banker.  That’s why I’m calling.
SH:  [Pause.]  Again?  You’re not serious.
VT:  I think that’s the first time you’ve ever been wrong about me.  I’m completely serious, Sherlock.
SH:  Victor, you can’t just tell me the answer!  That’s not how this works - it’s not how I work.  You’ve no right to interfere.  My involvement in this investigation should be a secret—
VT:  So you’re going to stake a man’s life against your own ego?
SH:  [Angry, incoherent noise.]  Still haven’t bothered to explain yourself, you realise.  What’s going on?  Who are you working for?  I shouldn’t need to tell you how stupid it is to double cross your bosses for my benefit.  Whatever you’re trying to do—
VT:  I’m trying to help.
SH:  Don’t make it sound like that.  Fine.  Tell me what you know.
VT:  I’ll text you the address.  I’m on guard duty at the moment, but I don’t have to be.  [Pause.]  You understand.
SH:  This is the last time, Victor.  At the very least, it’s a marked improvement to go from ending lives to saving them.
VT:  I’m not doing it for him, although I’m sure his kids will be happy to have him back.  This isn’t my kind of job, Sherlock.
SH:  Then stop doing it.  I don’t need you.
VT:  Maybe you don’t, but I’d like to think I’m helping.
SH:  Idiot.
VT:  I need to go before they trace this call.
SH:  You are an idiot, do you hear me?