genius billionaire playboy philanthropist: joan loves the smell of rain in the city, when it’s more than just...

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joan loves the smell of rain in the city, when it’s more than just precipitation - when it covers up the burning acrid aridity of the city in summer, washes it away, the font of the clouds overturning and the city reborn in a torrent of sweet freshness. sherlock calls it ozone. joan calls it sweet…

white-fang:

So…have an elementary-ficlet? Because this? why

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(Source: radialarch)

snakeslide asked: joan watson. Because awesomeness.

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OH BOY YOU OPENED THE BOX I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

so, joan watson.

new york born, bred, wed, and dead, she once heard a woman say on the subway.  it was one of those conversations that crop up out of nowhere when it’s nearly summer and the air conditioning in the subway cars isn’t on yet; there was sweat sticking her shirt to her back; the heat was stifling in the packed car.  it’s an interesting turn of phrase and she remembers it.

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knatalie:

Joan Watson, a study in character.

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(Source: bitchmodus)

You people are enabling me. You’re all enablers

passionslikemine:

…I’m just teasing. Thanks for the reblogs and the likes on the last ficlet! Here’s a random headcanon-y one I wrote on the train.

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fic: survival is a house of cards

j-arvis:

elementary | survival is a house of cards
joan watson, sherlock holmes | pg | ~850
As a doctor, as a surgeon, there is a team of people for you to work with, as intergrated and as connected as the organs in the body. As an addict, an alcoholic, you have yourself.


LJ | AO3

(Source: syncategorem)

oh-you-better-run:

we are not traitors but the lights go out, elementary, sherlock holmes/joan watson

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Skin is just a map that no one has yet charted. He reads this at ten, and it burns a truth behind his eyes, a leather-bound book in his hands that Daddy has never read, will never miss, will never love. (But he, when he’s discovered an hour later, will.)

He’s twenty, and then he’s thirty, and he’s always Sherlock Holmes. He’s seen dead bodies, and the knife wounds that made them that way. Skin is just skin, until it’s something else, and it’s something else that happens to us all. Skin is just skin, over bone, over blood, because the flesh is weak and soft and willing. Skin is just skin, and scars are only something you have on the outside. (Mostly.) Skin is just skin, and he marks his up, marks his up, says that he doesn’t keep count, does. Skin is just skin, but it’s all he’s got, for a while, for a year or two, for all his life.

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(Source: soyonscruels, via thescotlandyard)

Elementary, My Dear Watson (Sherlock Homes/Joan Watson)

rob-anybody:

I seriously cannot believe I wrote this, especially since the damn show isn’t even out yet. I failed on delivering the sexytimes, but hopefully, I at least wrote an amusing story.

For those of you that want to read it, it’s basically Sherlock and Watson in a buddy cop flick because I am incapable of writing anything else. It’s the dynamic of my heart. 2,507 words of banter, vague comedy, and bullshit. I apologize if you were looking for serious Elementary fic, as I am completely incapable of writing anything like that.

I also apologize for the trite title, lack of editing, and maligning instant coffee. In my head, Joan is a total coffee snob, and in real life, I write fic at the weirdest times and don’t always have an editor on hand to look through my stuff. I hope it doesn’t ruin the experience for you.

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