itooshi-san

Tête-à-tête Whenever Charles Xavier feels like teasing someone, he visits Logan. It's not that he doesn't like the man - on the contrary, he believes they have managed to create some sort of a friendship between them, although he is quite sure the other mutant would instantly claw his way through Charles' flesh without as much as a blink if he ever mentioned it out loud. No, Wolverine is not an expressive kind of a man, but he isn't made of stone either. Adamantium, yes. But not stone. Or, so Xavier hopes. He wheels his way through the mansion, reaching out with his mind to locate its other inhabitants. The quiet murmur of th

Lestrade had a bad feeling about the whole  "I-will-catch-the-criminal-you-sit-and-watch" business that Sherlock came up with. Not that he didn't trust him. They knew each other too long to even consider a lack of mutual reliance. It came to him naturally now, trusting Sherlock Holmes, just like breathing or sleeping. And yet, he still had a feeling something was terribly wrong. Lestrade knew Sherlock would give him "The Look" if the Detective Inspector told him about it, as Holmes never believed in "feelings" or "lucky streaks", demanding a scientific explanation for everything. They were so different. Lestrade, a good few years o

John is late. Sherlock rubs his face vigorously for a few seconds and sighs with frustration. He needs caffeine. Or rather, his brain needs it to function properly after five hours and forty six minutes of wasting valuable time for such a dull occupation as sleeping. Sleeping is boring. BORING. The detective sighs again, louder this time, glancing at his wrist watch every few seconds, his ears listening to any sounds of John coming back from the store on the other side of the road. Usually it took the doctor ten minutes and eleven seconds (more or less) to reach the shop, buy the groceries and get back home. Usually, by the time Sherlock f

His hands were shaking. For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes' hands were shaking and he could do nothing to stop them. Up until now, his body never betrayed his emotions. Always sure of himself, almost cold-blooded... He was Sherlock Holmes. He did not need feelings, they were of no significance to his work. Not so long ago, John called him a machine. A brain without a heart. And yet, his hands would not stop shaking. The waiting room at Bart's was empty except Sherlock, who sat with his back straight, hands on his knees, steel-like eyes glued to the wall on the other side of the white, lifeless room. He looked lost in thoughts. B

"Fuck" John groaned deeply. Wet, sticky, red stain on his white shirt was getting bigger with every second, and he could do nothing to stop it. "Fuck' He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. He lived through the war in Afghanistan. He lived through Sherlock Holmes' ideas of chasing criminals and killing boredom with experiments on human body parts. And now he was dying in a darkened alley. Alone. He knew he was an easy target for a snitch, mainly because of his limping. The cane in his hand seemed to scream "Weakness" and the man who attacked him obviously knew it too. Killed by a single shot in the guts. You and your bloody lu