TheEvilE

Toby had been born to a respectable family and had lived a peaceful life. His dear sweet mistress loved him tenderly, having adopted him when he was several months old. He was content with Mistress and the flat they shared. Then came a change. Mistress with a new love? Had it been anyone else, Toby would have felt shunned, unloved. Jim managed to charm himself a spot in Toby's heart. He would bring treats, stroke his fingers behind Toby's ears, cuddle him to his cheek and whisper "Tobias" in a tone befitting a lover. Tobias. That felt right to Toby. That name suited him better. He began to wait by the door at the end of the day, waiting fo

Sherlock Holmes. The name was famous. Round the world, there were few who dared to whisper it, hiding in the shadows, assured they were safe, that no one could hear them. But someone always did. Someone was always listening. And those who dared to whisper soon leaned the meaning of fear. *** "You're the second person who's said that to me today," Mike Stamford said with a laugh. John Watson frowned. "Who was the first?" "Bloke I work with sometimes. Strictly speaking, he doesn't work at Bart's, but he comes in to use the labs every now and then. They let him, for some reason. James Moriarty. Jim, we all call him." "He told you he was loo

Oh good lord. Why did they meet here? It was a good location, a random place no one would expect them to be. The people were good, perfect cover. But the smells. Oh god, the smells. They reached his nose and began screaming at him, tempting him to take a few steps and pull out his wallet. Just a few steps and he could have everything he, in this moment, desired. He moved one foot forward. No! He told himself. Must. Not. Give in. Never give in to this. This was a craving he could withstand. He would stand hear professionally, casually, not a care in the world. People would look at him and admire just how calm and carefree he was, him in his

Sherlock was five, five years old with a sticky candied apple clutched in his fist as he walked between his aunt and brother Mycroft. "This'll do your mother good," his aunt was saying. "Just what she needs, a free afternoon to enjoy herself." She had tried to take Sherlock's hand to keep him from being lost in the crowd, but he'd shaken her off. "Enjoy herself how?" Mycroft asked sullenly. "Never you mind. Just give her some time to herself and she'll perk right up," their aunt told him cheerily. "Her husband just left her," Mycroft pointed out. "How exactly is she going to 'perk right up'? And how will us going too help?" Sherlock coul

Greg Lestrade was never one to complain, but he had a fucking hell of a team he had to work with. Not in a good way. He had been suddenly reminded of this and was sitting absently at his desk, staring vaguely after DI Dimmock. The Detective Inspector had come in to speak with him, and, after a minute, had been interrupted by one of his sergeants with some new detail about a case.  Lestrade had watched in amazement as Dimmock had given an instruction, an order, and wasn't argued with but given a quick nod and left alone. When had been the last time that had happened to him? Donovan never left his decisions alone but was constantly questioni

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're playing at?" John asked, rushing down the stairs to the living room, where Sherlock lounged on the couch, a devilish look in his eyes. "Mmm?" "Mrs. Hudson would have a fit if you exploded anything in here and I'll kill you if you do." John threatened. "Oh, come now, John," Sherlock said with a touch of innocence. "Am I really capable of such a thing?" John snorted. "Just keep your hands off of my beer, okay? If you're going to wreck anything, make sure it's nothing of mine." "Fine," Sherlock said, smiling complacently. "Great," John said with a nod. "I'm going out. I want to rent some James B

Sarah tapped her foot against the floor as she stared out the window at the early morning. Her mobile phone was clutched in her hand, the volume turned all the way up. She'd been up all night, waiting to hear from John. Nothing. She'd called him more than a dozen times. She'd been all over the internet, trying to find him online. She'd even called Sherlock (without answer). There was no news of him. He'd simply disappeared. She was worried of course, Terrified. She knew from experience what could happen when you got tangled in the affairs of Sherlock Holmes. The last time they had been kidnapped hadn't been pleasant in any way. As her mind w

"Christ," John swore, rushing into the living room, water dripping from his hair, face, and clothes. He tugged his drenched coat off, crossing into the kitchen to hang it over a chair. "What's wrong?" Sherlock asked absently, standing in the middle of the flat, absorbed in a book. He took a moment to glance over at his flatmate. "Take your shoes off," he scolded, tracking John's muddy footprints with his eyes. "You're making the place dirty." He returned to his book. John turned and pointedly swept a gaze around the flat, completely taken over by Sherlock's mess. "It's raining cats and dogs out there," he said finally, choosing to ignore th

Prompt 1 – 2 AM "What the HELL did you think you were doing?" Sherlock didn't know anymore. The muscles in his  legs were trembling, but he kept pacing around the living room. Two hours ago. The experience was still vivid in his mind; he was still shaking. The sniper shooting the gun from his hand. Jim Moriarty's laugh as the final seconds ticked past. The red dots fixed on their chests…Mycroft's arrival was excellently timed, his men efficiently taking out the snipers. "You just had to have your thrill, didn't you?" John was still yelling. Sherlock couldn't look at him yet, the guilt still pilling up inside his chest

Chapter One: Shopping and Sunglasses "But Voldemort, where are we going to go?" Quirrell persisted as they moved along the grocery aisle. "Technicalities, Quirrell!" Voldemort sighed. "I don't have all the answers." He pushed the cart on toward a display of teas. Quirrell paused, slightly hurt by the snappish tone of the other man's voice. He didn't see how this could work out. They had no where to live. They'd been moving from motel to motel for the past three nights since Quirrell had been released from Azkaban, afraid of being recognized as a former convict and the supposedly dead Dark Lord. Just to go out into the shops, they'd had to d