elementary meme

6

elementary rewatch ❖ heroine (10/11)

elementary sentence starters

“I always imagined you have a secret lair beneath a volcano for such an occasion.”
“There is only one thing that can guarantee peace – your head on a pike. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“I’ve seen subtler displays of insensitivity. Do you attend the wakes of all your victims?”
“Well, lack of imagination is an occupational hazard for an apex predator.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And I’ve known you for a long time.”
“What does Buddhism have to do with erectile dysfunction?”
“I don’t know what’s weirder … that I’m spending my Friday night with you or the Stanley freaking Cup.”
“The great love of my life is a homicidal maniac. No one’s perfect.”
“You think you broke us up with the power of your mind?”
“I have what some might call a strong personality.”
“After many, many hours, I’ve come to most wretched of realizations. One that might curdle your very blood. You are my friend.”
“You’re bad at this, ______. You’re exceptionally bad.” 
“So now you have to have brain damage to want a baby?”
“That’s the sex blanket.” 
“I’m not easily surprised but I do confess that I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I think this is the Olympics of self-pity.” 
“Imagine sitting for a portrait today. Hubris practically leaks off the canvas.”
“Meeting the parents. That’s an important milestone in the romantic passion play.”
“Do you know what I haven’t said to anyone in a long time? I love you.” 
“You hurt yourself. Someone hurt me. You don’t know anything about how I’m feeling.”
“I have allowed empathetic thoughts to clutter my mind and reduce my perception.”
“You know better than to ask me a non-specific question.”
“I abhor the dull routine of existence.” 
“You engaged in horizontal refreshment with ( them/______ ).”
“You are something of a romantic terrorist.”
“_____ seems adequately sexed.”
“So, I walked all the way to the eastern edge of the property, and I did not find a thing. No dead bodies, no secret hideouts, no smoke monster. There’s plenty of mud, though.”
“I’m quite certain they were staging a fake murder when they fell victim to two real ones.”
“So they didn’t commit a murder so much as provide you with a murder-tunity.”
“You named your killer robot ‘Gus’?”
“So, your alibi is that you were oiling your chainsaw.”
“We really are living in a golden age for perverts.”
“Oh, and if you have any lingering doubts, here’s how you can be certain I’m not the one who tried to kill you – you’re alive!”
“I was mistaken. You don’t know what my partner looks like naked.”
“You do realize that pink coconuts do not occur in nature?” 
“Are you cooking, or did we get stampeded by a class of second graders?”

amindamazed  asked:

winter writing prompts: 5, 8, and/or 9

Re: this post

I chose 5: “I can’t feel my legs”

If this makes you imagine the red couch as a bit bigger or smaller than it actually is, so be it. I have bad spatial memory/recognition.

 -

The case was solved. They’d just returned from the precinct and had settled down in the library with take away and ice cream and were now sitting before a roaring fire that served as a barrier against the sub-zero cold outside.

None of this was out of the ordinary for Sherlock. What was out of the ordinary was Watson’s position.

It had started innocently enough. She had come to sit next to him on the red couch to show him something on her phone—an article that related to an old cold case they’d recently solved. After he’d skimmed the article and handed her phone back to her, instead of getting up she’d stayed, leaning back on the opposite arm of the couch, nearest the window, continuing to read news and whatever else on her phone. She’d even pulled down the duvet from the back of the couch to drape over her legs, already clad in warm pajamas, her red cardigan wrapped securely around her.

Sherlock had no idea what possessed her to settle herself thus, on the same couch as he was sitting, but he had no reason to protest. He had nothing against Watson settling on the couch, but he wondered if he should move. But he was not at all tired, and didn’t feel like changing into more casual clothes—he still wore his trousers, shoes, and buttoned up shirt, only his jacket taken off due to the large fire before them.

He got up to stoke the fire, as an excuse to move his restless limbs. He took a book from one of the shelves, then a second, and resumed his seat on the opposite end of the couch from Watson. She still was reading something on her phone, her glasses a bit farther down her nose.

He set his books down and took off his shoes, in order to more comfortably sit cross-legged, taking up slightly more room on the couch. Watson didn’t even look at him. He took up a book and began to read, glancing at her from time to time.

After his third glance she looked up from her phone over the rim of her glasses. “Sherlock, what is it?” she said, her words careful, not yet annoyed.

“Hmm?” He looked over to her with wide eyes, feigning surprise.

“You’ve glanced at me several times. What is it?” she repeated, keeping her eyes still on him. He studied her expression. She was curious, relaxed, the contentment derived from their recently solved case still permeating her limbs.

He hesitated a full second, then held up one of the books he’d retrieved, flashing the title in Watson’s direction. She didn’t blink, telling him she’d caught it. “I wanted to show you something here that reminded me of that cold case. Are you heavily occupied at present?”

She gave a small shake of her head, tucking her phone between the back of the couch and the duvet, before coming up on her knees, bracing herself on the back of the couch with one hand and reaching for the book with the other.

Sherlock flipped to the appropriate page and held out the book to her, watching closely as she adjusted her glasses and began to read. She settled back on her heels, somewhat closer to him. He moved further over to his end of the couch, leaning back against the arm and laying his legs straight out in front of him. This caused his feet—clad in his “loud” socks, as Watson referred to them—to brush against Watson’s calf, but she showed no reaction. She did not move from her spot on the middle cushion, intent on the words before her.

“You’re telling me this,” Watson held the book a few inches in front of his face, tapping one paragraph with her index finger, “proves that the science behind the forensics was wrong? How can that be possible?”

He slowly took the book from her hands, and she let him, her hard stare pinning him with a demand for an explanation. She’d raised herself up on her knees to hand him the book, and now seemed to tower over him without meaning to, her high ponytail only making her look more austere. His mouth twitched.

“It’s a compliment to your attention to detail, Watson. You noticed a flaw when I didn’t. This,” he closed the book with a snap, “only corroborates your findings.”

Pursing her lips, Watson reached behind her to retrieve her phone, then settled back on her heels to type something into Google no doubt. As she typed, she settled more between him and the back of the couch, lifting and then resting her feet flat on the other side of his calves. Her feet were bare, and likely freezing. As she scrolled, Sherlock reached forward and caught the edge of the duvet, pulling it over both of them. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Watson’s smile.

“When was that book published?” she said, not taking her eyes off her phone.

“2014,” he said, tucking one edge of the duvet under his thigh in a motion he hoped Watson didn’t notice. A few seconds of silence passed, before Watson thrust her phone in his face this time.

“Read this. The murder we solved happened in 2009. Proves the science hadn’t yet caught up to prove Houser’s innocence.”

Sherlock dutifully read, drawing his brows close together as he focused on the words. Watson was moving around again, this time leaning to her left to pry the second book Sherlock had retrieved from between his arm and the back of the couch. He barely shifted to accommodate her, so she had to lean over to pull the book out. Her calf brushed his knee and lower thigh with her movement, though he pretended that did not cause him to lose his place in his reading.

“This is a book on traditional Chinese medicine,” Watson announced, holding the book with one hand and pulling the duvet closer to her with the other. Unconsciously, her ankles pushed back against his left calf as she settled in.

That did cause him to lose his place. But he did not look up from Watson’s phone. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said, keeping his expression his stiff version of neutral.

“This has nothing to do with proving Houser’s innocence. When did you buy this?” she said, not looking up as she flipped to the book’s table of contents.

He mirrored her and kept his eyes resolutely on the words in front of him, though not a word registered. “While I was in London. It proved useful on a case. And before you ask, Watson, it had nothing to do with corroborating your claims about Chinese herbs’ abilities to contribute to longer-lasting, more vasodilated erections.”

“Sherlock.”

He looked up to find he had not mistaken the laughter in the two syllables of his name. Watson’s eyes were still hard but she was all but smirking at him.

“You know you’re a horrible liar,” she said, looking back to the book and turning to the first chapter.

“You think I was trying to cause myself more vasodilated erections?” he asked, blinking once at her. She lifted her chin without looking away from the page, her smile growing.

“You bought this book because of me. After I moved back in. I know you did,” she stated.

“Then why did you ask me when I bought it,” he said, no feigned question in his voice this time.

She finally looked back up at him, her expression unchanging even at the sight of his frown. “To prove how horrible a liar you are,” she said.

He simply looked at her, his frown deepening.

“You can’t keep your eyes still when you lie,” she added, tilting her head towards him, her stare becoming knowing.

“I was reading,” he said, holding up her phone. She shook her head once.

“Still lying.” And she returned to her own reading, becoming fully engrossed within seconds, her glasses sliding a bit further down her nose.

Sherlock gave her a glare which she did not return, and looked back to the article she had given him. The screen lit up and he found his place again, his scowl disappearing as the old case once again took over his thoughts.

By the time he had finished reading the article, Watson had more fully relaxed into the couch and into…him. Her bent knees were now resting over his thighs, and she had the book pulled closer toward her chest, likely to see better in the dim light.

Sherlock lowered Watson’s phone and was about to readjust himself when he made a realization. Watson was not seeing anything in the dim light—her eyes were closed. Her head was inches from resting on his arm, propped up on her hand instead, the book nearly closed in the lax fingers of her right hand. Her glasses were now on the very tip of her nose, inviting Sherlock to take them completely off, but he refrained.

By the rate of her breathing he knew she was likely only dozing. Watson could doze anywhere, he’d found. This was the first time she had chosen to do so on top of him, however.

“Watson,” he whispered, her name almost coming out a hiss. She didn’t stir. He became more aware of her weight on him, the way her loosening ponytail had caused her face to turn downward in sleep. He reached in with his left hand and carefully pried the book from her loose grip. She still didn’t stir.

“Watson,” he repeated, changing to a stage whisper. He tapped the book against her right arm that was within easy reach. “I can’t feel my legs, Watson,” he said, strangely hesitant to raise his voice further. It had been far too long since he’d seen Watson’s freckles so up close.

She only sighed in her sleep. Sherlock dared not take any deep breaths, and so to distract himself looked at the book in his hands to see where Watson had left off. The memory of her smile when she had discovered the book kept him reading, and also kept his fidgeting to a minimum as he let her sleep on.

8

Asian-American Ladies ❥ Lucy Liu

“I wish people wouldn’t just see me as the Asian girl who beats everyone up, or the Asian girl with no emotion. People see Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock in a romantic comedy, but not me. You add race to it, and it became, ‘Well, she’s too Asian’, or, ‘She’s too American’. I kind of got pushed out of both categories. It’s a very strange place to be. You’re not Asian enough and then you’re not American enough, so it gets really frustrating.”

actiaslunaris  asked:

♡ Satisfied.

Umm, this is not a headcanon. I’m sorry, I just wanted to write something about pomegranate seeds and this happened. 

(Being a Taurus of course the first thing I thought of was food.)

-

Sherlock didn’t make it habit to bring her breakfast in bed. If he had she would’ve thought he was hiding something (in the kitchen to be precise, like that one time he’d kept various pig parts in the refrigerator, after which she’d insisted they get a second refrigerator for the basement).

He only brought breakfast into her room while they were on a case, and he knew she had worked late and/or eaten very little the previous evening. Or he had a point to prove. It didn’t matter if she was awake for the delivery of the food or not, whether he was present when she woke. He always found a way to leave some sort of message with her first repast. Usually pertaining to where he’d gotten with the case overnight, or an address telling her where to meet him and when.

But her favorites were the scavenger hunts.

He never called them that. Only Joan did. But it was enough for her that he bothered to lay out multiple notes for her to find, knowing exactly what order she would get to them because he knew her routine so well. Once he’d even hidden the third note of a hunt in her sock drawer, knowing it was cold enough she would choose to wear heavier socks for their walk around the large, outdoor crime scene.

The notes usually accompanied the food. But one morning it was different. Her alarm went off precisely on time, she turned it off twice, and got up. The first note was on her nightstand, where her phone had been.

Come downstairs as soon as you are able. No need to dress.

Raising her eyebrows, she pulled the covers off and put her bare feet to the floor, inching them into her slippers. A crinkling against her right foot told her where the second note was.

Breakfast is in the library.

This gave Joan some trepidation. Was he hiding something in the kitchen again? Grabbing her red cardigan, she made her way quickly downstairs. Hopefully it wasn’t anything more than setting off a bomb he had to clean up, or even an unexpected guest. Anything was better than animal parts in the fridge. Or roosters.

Immediately she noticed he had a fire going in their fireplace. Granted the winter chill was still lingering this early in March, so she was grateful.

Second she saw Sherlock, still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, cross-legged on the floor, his brow creased as he intently picked apart something in his hands. Something which left a pinkish liquid all over his hands.

“Sherlock?” Joan approached him, not bothering to hide her confusion. He glanced up at her in acknowledgment, but then returned his focus to whatever he was holding. She noticed there was a plate and knife in front of him, and a dishtowel already stained with more of the pinkish substance.

“Is that my breakfast?” she said, barely making it a question. Studying the lines around his eyes, she knew she’d have to ease him into telling her what was wrong with the kitchen. Or what was in the kitchen that he didn’t want her stumbling onto quite yet.

“No,” Sherlock said, his tone distracted. He pointed a finger to a small bowl on the side table to his right. “That is. This will be mine.”

In the bowl she found the mysterious source of the pink juice coating Sherlock’s hands. Pomegranate seeds.

She popped a couple in her mouth and turned back to him. “Why are you picking them apart up here? You’re a mess.”

“I’m testing a theory,” he said, glancing at her again. A short, sidelong glance that made her more suspicious.

She ate another seed, looking down at him. A few beats of silence passed while a few more pink seeds dropped onto Sherlock’s plate.

“What theory?” she said, staring resolutely at his face even as he remained fully focused on dissecting his breakfast. She popped three more seeds in her mouth.

“Our victim was poisoned by a particular substance hidden in her food, yet no food was found in her stomach by the ME,” Sherlock began, picking up the last quarter of his pomegranate to get the last of the seeds.

Joan suppressed an eye roll and sat down in the chair to his right. He would reveal his plan to her in his own time, she knew. “Right, but we know the poison killed her in seconds. It was absorbed through her skin, she didn’t have to ingest it.”

Sherlock hummed in response. “Results came back on the residue found around the victim’s mouth and on her fingers. Pomegranate juice.”

Joan looked down at her bowl of pomegranate seeds. “But she didn’t ingest any seeds,” she said thoughtfully.

“Which leads to my theory,” Sherlock said, just before he picked up a few seeds and all but shoved them in his mouth. She suppressed a smile, knowing he hadn’t eaten anything since around 2pm yesterday. He wouldn’t touch the take away she’d brought in last night, too focused on their case.

Looking down at her own bowl of seeds, Joan didn’t catch Sherlock’s sudden movement until he was literally caging her in the chair with his arms on either side of her.

She stiffened, feeling his legs brush against hers as he leaned in. Her hands were occupied holding the bowl in her lap, and her mind scrambled in the process of debating if it was worth it upending the seeds everywhere to shove him off.

Before she could decide he was kissing her.

The tart sweetness of pomegranates filled her mouth as his mouth pressed down on hers. Her pulse ran wild and she responded against her better sense, leaning up into the kiss and opening to him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue gently meeting hers. There was another burst of sweetness on her tongue, and she realized he’d slipped pomegranate seeds into her mouth. Surprised, she leaned slightly away. He leaned back too. She opened her eyes, having no memory of closing them.

The pounding of her heart against her chest was accompanied by the realization they were both breathing hard. Unconsciously she chose to focus on his eyes. Dilated. As soft and dark as she had ever seen them. There was sweat on his brow from the nearby heat of the fire. His lips moist from the pomegranate juice and her equal fervor in returning his kiss. She blinked rapidly.

She felt his deep exhale against her skin as he pushed himself away. She caught a grin crossing his face, and was amazed to see a hint of sheepishness in his expression. But when he turned back to her, his eyes were sharp, his expression stoically energized again.

“The killer delivered their poison through a slip of the tongue, as it were,” he declared, licking some of the juice off of his fingers. He could not look at her, she noted. She licked her lips, setting aside her bowl of seeds distractedly, before rising.

“There was a placebo pill,” she said, looking up at him with determined control in her voice.

He stopped fidgeting and sucking on his right middle finger and looked at her. Almost tucking his head, his eyes moving surreptitiously. He was waiting for anger, and confused he wasn’t getting it from her.

“In the seeds you gave me…just now,” she said. Her heart was still pounding, her breathing a little unsteady. She swallowed. “The victim, she spit them out, but it was too late.”

He hummed, his shoulders straightening with renewed confidence. “Yes. We now know the victim was very intimate with her murderer. The Kiss of Death. Killer likely thought it was romantic.” There was the customary heaviness to the last word that delivered his derision, but Joan had already turned away to grab her phone.

“I’ll call Gregson,” she said, walking toward the door to the kitchen steps. At the top of the steps she stopped, half turning back toward the library. “Do you want coffee? I’m going to make some,” she said a bit louder, not wanting to look directly at him but wanting her voice to carry enough so he could hear her.

“Please,” he answered, and she gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before heading downstairs. She clutched her phone in one hand, holding her cardigan tightly closed with the other. If he noticed they had been shaking, he would know better than to mention it.  

stardust-rain  asked:

joan/sherlock, elementary school au!

If you don’t do your homework, you don’t get recess, so the new kid hasn’t had recess since he transferred because he had stood up on his second day in class and announced that homework was “busywork assigned by lazy-minded adults to break the spirits of children and make us as dull as them.”

When Ms. Hudson pulls Joan aside to assign Sherlock as Joan’s new study buddy, the teacher just sighs. “Do the best you can. You’re the only student we trust not to be distracted by him.”

Two weeks later, no one’s particular surprised when Johnny the hall monitor catches Sherlock into the principal’s office. The fact that Joan was the one picking the lock is a bit more alarming. When the assistant principal presses her on why, Joan kicks her feet against the chair and raises her little chin. “We’re investigating alleged wrongdoing,” she says, pronouncing ‘alleged’ the exact way you would if you’d only ever seen the word written down. Ah-leg-ed.

“What, kids?” says Assistant Principle Gregson wearily. “Someone stole your gum in class? Teacher took your pencil and never gave it back?”

“The principal is embezzling money from our afterschool programs and using the funds to pay off her debts with a local drug lord,” Sherlock replies.

“Oh,” says Assistant Principal Gregson.

Joan leans forward in her chair, and Assistant Principal has seen her win just about every academic award the county can offer a second grader, but he’s never seen her look as keen as she does now. “Ah-leg-ed-ly,” Joan says. “We thought the office maybe would have proof.”

The office does, in fact, have proof, which is the only reason that neither of them get in trouble. The same can’t be said for the principal. The same day that the police come into the school to arrest him, Sherlock for the first time gets to go out for recess. He and Joan had done their homework together the night before, in a blanket fort in her basement. Joan wouldn’t let Sherlock tell her about the suspicious death of the neighbor down his street until he finished his spelling. Ms. Hudson, in an attempt to encourage Sherlock to do literally any homework, was letting the two of them pick whichever words they wanted to study.

With a purple pen, Ms. Hudson adds another s to asault, crosses out the extra r in murrder, and wrote Well done! across the top of his worksheet. Out on the playground, Joan and Sherlock crouch beneath the jungle gym and listen to a sixth grader describe the circumstances of his missing backpack.

6

you stayed up waitin’, anticipatin’, and pacin’
but I was, chasing paper
caught up in the game