The best Towel Day in existence.
Oneword: Pile
The sun beat down overhead and perpetuated the infinite expanse of flat land and dry, crumbling, ruined buildings. John rested in the shade, hunched over against the weight of his pack as he kept his gaze focused grimly on the entrance to the village. A chirp to his left alerted him to another of those nasty camel spiders, and he stomped at it with his heavy combat boot. It skittered away under the rubble. Geoffrey, across the street and hunched behind a truck, flashed him a smirk. John was in the process of lifting his two forefingers in response, when suddenly the ground burst to pieces just twenty feet south of their position.
Gunfire broke out all around the troupe, and John scrambled across the road for better cover, Geoffrey not far behind. The two darted into one of the buildings, where they’d agreed on as a meeting point. “Move, move MOVE!” John screamed at his troupe, and the five men who had managed to make it so far followed him as he leapt out the back door and bolted for the trench they’d set up outside the boundaries of the village.
The dust continued to leap up at them, biting at their ankles, and Rogers cried out in pain behind John but continued to run. John motioned them all forward and paused to check behind them, firing off a few warning shots at their head-dressed pursuers. They continued their advance on his men, so John kneeled to take aim, and with a steady breath, took out the kneecaps of the two frontmost attackers. The others faltered and shot back, their aim poor and untrained.
John ran and dove into the trench, panting heavily amongst his men as he formulated a plan of defense. They were exhausted, a sweaty pile of dust creatures who could hardly be distinguished from each other but for the red spot of blood seeping out of Rogers’ side. John pulled his med kit from the bunker and hoped to god the locals wouldn’t follow them here.
The Big Bang Theory - Brent Spiner: Mortal Enemy (by CBS)
A classic Star Trek: TNG tie-in on The Big Bang Theory
Aww, why is Brent so self-depreciating? Or is that just his stereotype now?
Starry Night by Vincent VanGogh (above) and reimagined by Alex Ruiz (below)
Was this the scene from Doctor Who?
Dead. I’m so dead.
I’d like to point out that James Wilson doesn’t have a moustache until the VERY very end.
Oneword: Base
John leaned happily against Sherlock’s shoulder and let out a contented sigh as the latest episode of his new favorite drama drew to a close. The snowflakes outside wouldn’t have been visible in the dark, had they not each been three centimeters each in diameter. Sherlock had given a scientific explanation for the strange snow-clusters, but John had already forgotten it. Not important, as the two were perfectly shielded by the walls of the flat and the blankets on the couch, and John’s newest Christmas jumper which Sherlock had given him. (Dark green with baubles, which always elicited a flash of mirth in the grey-but-sometimes-green eyes)
John curled an arm around Sherlock’s waist as he let out the deep breath he’d taken, and felt the tension in his core dissipating as Sherlock returned the gesture. Chilled, clammy fingers teased their way up under John’s untucked undershirt, and he hummed amicably and tried not to shiver from the contrast. He stroked slowly at Sherlock’s side, gently drawing him in closer, and grasped at the silk blue dressing gown in surprise as his first epidural layer was broken with a playful scritching down his back.
John turned in to face Sherlock better, curling his second arm up around his chest as he leaned in for a kiss. Had he been paying more attention, he might have been alerted to the focused, narrow eyes. Two sets of fingernails now teased their way down to base of John’s spine, and it was all the poor doctor could do not to crush Sherlock’s ribs with the strength of the reflexive shudder, linked with the sensitive spot just above his arse.
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, “Was that completely involuntary?” John’s silent blush confirmed the detective’s theory, and sent him searching for other unusual reflex linkages along the soldier’s vertebrae. John tried to regulate his breathing and hoped Sherlock didn’t mind how how strongly his interest was causing John’s body to respond. Wouldn’t do to display unwanted attention, after all. John curled his fingers into the fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back, holding on as tightly there as he was holding himself back. There would be plenty of chances out there in the real world, this was not the time nor place.
Are there more than 2 seasons of Cabin Pressure? ‘Cause I’ve just gone through those, and they haven’t done Yellow Car!
Oneword: Backspace
The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson
23 May, 2036
To my friends, colleagues, clients, and fans, it is with deep sorrow I announce-
John sighed, squinting at the screen, noticing in the reflection for the third time that month just how deep his crow’s feet were getting. He held down the backspace button for two seconds and tried again.
It is with weary relief and joyous celebration that I announce the end of the Sherlock Holmes consulting and private detective company.
John leaned back against the old blue couch they’d had moved from the flat, and took a moment to savor the occasional contributions of a song thrush and a reed warbler, rushing to beat their neighbors to the first songs of the day. It was a pleasant change from the car horns and bus engines.
Sherlock and I are getting on in age, and the various occupational injuries we’ve sustained over the years are compounding and taking a toll on our frames. It will be with a heavy heart that I oversee the withdrawal of a unique skill set from the access of the general public, but everyone deserves to be able to retire someday, right?
Sherlock wandered in from the bedroom, the curved bottom of his walking cast causing the old floorboards to protest as he curled his right arm around John’s shoulders, reading over the entry in progress as his chin dug into the white-sand hair.
Those of you with any familiarity of Sherlock will know that this is a tough decision to make. It will be a strange transition, going from a life of excitement and mystery to one of peaceful rest and domestic bliss. Even now, I’m sure his lip is curling as imagines applying that phrase to himself.
John looked up and chuckled; surely enough Sherlock’s face displayed a passive mask of dismay. He reached up and gave the fingers a squeeze, running his thumb over the knuckles which were starting to protrude before he continued on.
Under these circumstances, we will be more than happy to consult on any interesting puzzles you may come across. Any which will require “legwork,” as Sherlock’s brother would call it, however, will have to be delegated the youngsters who have taken up the calling in Sherlock’s footsteps.
Sherlock patted at John’s shoulder and hobbled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. A creak of the chair against the linoleum floor and the soft turning of wafer-thin pages told the old veteran that his partner was thumbing through that apiary catalogue again, deciding on which hives to set up and how many, and from where he wanted the young queen sent.
Fortunately, I believe we may have found something with which to occupy his attention out here in the country. At least, partially, that is, as his massively superior intellect can never be fully diverted to any one thing, of COURSE. It still has a bit of an element of danger, though he doesn’t seem to think so. I suppose it is nothing, compared to what we’ve seen the last twenty years.
John frowned slightly as Sherlock gingerly took his left arm out of the sling and slowly worked it around a bit. At least he was keeping up with his recovery quite nicely, hopefully the screws wouldn’t slow him down too much.
Don’t mean to be mysterious, but first let’s see if this new hobby really does manage to stick around without him getting bored of it in a month. With any luck, you’ll be seeing some drastic changes around this site. Don’t worry, I’ll still keep all the old cases in an archive somewhere, for you youngsters out there taking notes.
No longer entirely yours,
John H. Watson, MD
John published the entry he’d been mentally drafting for ages, and joined Sherlock for breakfast.
