Lilith (Citrine)
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The Musgrave Mystery by Lilith (Citrine)
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
30 Dec 2013
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Summary
A dead butler, an old manor house, things that go bump in the night and a Sherlock/John romance:
For an instant Sherlock regretted that they had a train to catch, but maybe it was better that they did, safer certainly. These evenings with John were never entirely relaxing. He always had to be one step ahead, to read every flicker of expression or gesture. The causal press of hips and shoulders as they sprawled amidst a chaos of papers, maps, mobile phones and cushions seemed to pass unnoticed. A slice of pizza lifted from John’s hand produced a scowl and a half-hearted rebuke. If he had attempted to lick away the sauce that clung in tomato smears to John’s knuckles and the corner of his mouth the reaction would have been explosive though.
Outrage. Apprehension. Even embarrassment. Sherlock could imagine it all in dreary detail. John didn’t. John wasn’t.
Not gay.
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Summary
Mrs Hudson smothered her giggles in icy martini, but Sherlock was still grinning when she raised her head. The meal was delightful, even the things she couldn’t recognise tasted wonderful. What would Mrs Turner say if she could see her now? She had told her neighbour she was going to Eastbourne. Or John? Poor John. She imagined him sitting all alone in a grotty bedsit. There had to be some way of getting her boys back together, back upstairs in 221B where they belonged.
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Summary
What would happen when, if, Nick came back? And how deeply would Dawn become drawn into the brother's off-kilter view of the world?
“Sometimes after you disappeared I wondered if David had killed you,” she said abruptly.
David went very still with his fist knotted in Nick’s hair, but Nick grinned. “Don’t be so bloody daft. He loves me.”
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Summary
Sherlock Holmes and Martha Hudson, friendship, love and romance:
He kissed her cheek again and his lips lingered for a fraction of a second longer than normal. “Good-night, Mrs Hudson.”
She sat back on the sofa when he’d gone and touched her hand to her cheek, just like a giddy girl.
There are things that you don’t wish for, things that you don’t ever let yourself think about. Not even when you’re dying, least of all then when the cruel mirror shows you how old and ill you are. Youth is just an illusion, a flutter of butterfly wings in your soul, and there’s no point crying for the moon.
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Summary
It was always so with him; her omens, her never-world, all belief denied and yet still he came, ill-met by moonlight, to rituals and Sabbats. Still he treasured the skull, ancestral bone, shining with an eerie light. She watched the fluttering flame flicker behind blind eye sockets.
“You don’t see the hollow grief in the eyes of those who mourn you.”
“John?” he whispered.