Watson’s gaydar just pinged.
Trying something different — more graphic — for saleability. And intend to do more in the future.
(Left to right: Holmes, Watson, Moriarty, and Moran.)
Like?
Now you know how it feels to be completely alone. Not only is your best friend dead, your love is dead. Feel my pain, as you have caused me a great amount of pain.
“
| — |
a note from Sebastian Moran to Dr Watson after Moran has murdered Mary Watson after the events of The Final Problem, from The Solved Problem by Luke Benjamen Kuhns in The Untold Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. So this is the one interesting thing that happened in this book. (via tiger-moran) |
“My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”
Sherlock Holmes - The Empty House
Sherlock Holmes/ A Game of Shadows. My favourite scene ever. The colouring, angles, EVERYTHING is perfect.
Fanfiction: 100 Prompts, #42: Eye
“An eye for an eye,” he muttered to himself as he aligned the sight of his air gun. The same one Moriarty had given him all that time ago. It was fitting that a bequest from his dead benefactor should be the item that would avenge him, at least in part.
He hadn’t been able to track down Holmes, the other half of the duo to blame for Moriarty’s death, but he now had Watson in the sight of his gun. Completely at his mercy. And he wouldn’t be missing this chance.
His only regret was that Watson would not know the purpose his death would serve. But he supposed the role of an assassin had always been thankless, unnoticed by rote, and why should that change now?
He took one last look to be sure of his aim.
Moran’s finger tightened on the trigger.
The drapes surrounding the window Watson stood at fluttered.
A body fell with the strike of the bullet, but when the curtain drew aside again, Watson still stood.
The doctor was shaking another figure violently, a woman who had suddenly appeared slumped against the broken window. His shaking dislodged her, leaving a smear of blood on the glass. Briefly Moran caught the profile of his unintended victim: the shapely features and blonde hair of a woman, most likely none other than Mrs. Mary Watson.
He swallowed thickly as he realized what he had done and who he had shot.
In the war, it had been different. Killing people was necessary, sometimes fun. But they were seldom women. It was always different with women.
With a little more force than was necessary Moran disassembled his gun and packed it away, leaving the rooftop he had shot from quickly. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. She had gone to her husband’s side at the wrong time, he had done nothing. Besides, this way Watson would suffer more. Wasn’t that what he had wanted to do? Cause suffering?
The guilt which had sprung up so unexpectedly and unwelcome was hard to stomach, but he forced it back down, covering it with lies like he always did with difficult truths.
This way he’ll suffer more for it, he repeated to himself. It doesn’t matter.
But she was innocent. She hadn’t deserved it. Just like Moriarty. Neither of them deserved to die, it was the doctor who should be bleeding—
Then why hadn’t he gone after him? Taken a second shot when he was off his guard?
Because in his heart of hearts, he knew he had done wrong.
And because he also knew he could always try again when he found Holmes.
