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Being A Good PatientJohn's suspicions were right, Sherlock was more than awful he was as appalling as an elephant with earache in a particularly loud brass band, playing annoying music. He moaned and complained about every little thing.
He had so many injuries, it would take ages for anyone to fully recover, but he made it worse by getting up and wandering around. His shattered ribs were not properly fixed, because they needed to be weak in case his lung collapsed again, they could get easy access into his major organs, without causing more pain to Sherlock.
John had a special bleeper thing just for Sherlock because he buzzed it so many times; he was one of the main Healers helping Sherlock. John had few other patients as Sherlock was so demanding. To start with Sherlock was on a public ward, but many complaints were received about his behaviour, analysing other patients' lives and insulting them. Some even tried to start fights with him which John new to be very dangerous. It was decided that for the hea
Some AnswersThey appeared in the auror office. Sherlock walked off, taking long strides, his coat flowing behind him with a majestic superiority. John had to jog o keep up.
"Where are we going?" John asked.
"To do a spot of burglary, my favourite" said Sherlock, casting a swift look up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching. There was a solitary cleaner, staring at the two wizards. Her broom stopped brushing. She was about to speak, but John had already seen Sherlock's acute, piercing eyes quickly lock onto their target, they narrowed. Sherlock had stood up and frozen, like when a dog has a rabbit in its sights, and John knew that he was silently putting a charm on the witch. Sherlock's lips thinned and the witch turned and obediently walked off, her equipment floating behind her. Sherlock's body slackened.
"Rather difficult that one" he remarked "had an anti-jinx charm on her, quite a strong one, I think Lestrade has begun to tire of me just letting myself into his Office." Sherlo
The Plot ThickensSherlock didn't eat or sleep for a week. He survived on coffee. He sat looking at his cork board, pictures of the dead girl, Voldemort's Dark Mark, the dark man above the brothel and the dark mark on the dead girl's arm. He sat staring at them for ours, making comparisons.
He sat leaning forward, fingertips to his mouth- his 'classic' position, one morning. John walked in.
"Morning. Any breakfast?" he asked. Sherlock sat for a moment and took a sudden breath and sat up.
"Mrs Hudson brought some shopping up before." He waved towards the kitchen. As John went towards the kitchen Sherlock stretched and brought his hands to his head and ruffled his raven black, curly hair. He let out a long sigh. He looked out of the window which was half an arm's length away. A large black owl landed on the window sill. His big spherical, orange eyes stared at Sherlock, who stared coolly back with his pale blue ones.
"Jooohhnnnn" drawled Sherlock
"Yes?" came the voice of the busied John.
"Argon's here wit
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More