Sherlock Hooooolmes
IN THE HOUSE

dropping beats, dropping flows
putting knowledge in your cups
It’s science, bitches.
Do try and keep up.

Deducing and seducing
All over this crime scene
Make Lestrade get all hot
And Donovan cream
What’s that, little Sally
Did you really think I’d miss
Your dilated pupils
When I mock you like this?
The tremor in your thighs
When I’m working my flow
Your sneering facade
Yes, it’s really quite a show


you’ve got a fake limp
and an uneven tan
Fire your therapist
Iraq? Afghanistan?
It’s obvious to me
What lurks in your mind
Though I am endeared
Is it really all fine?
I could crush you like a bug
Or kill you with my brain
But I rather like your tea
And your own brand of strange

I have a nemesis
He’s a dangerous sort
Always prying and spying
Wants me to report
Twisted little bastard
Hijacking my dates
Loves deserted car parks
And hiding mistakes
I suspect I’d have to kill him
If he wasn’t my brother
Now, PISS OFF Mycroft
And word to our mother

Break it down

Yo yo yo
John Watson in the house
Bringing in the BADASS
Disguised as a mouse

Yeah, I’ve got the wooly jumper
And the unassuming air
But bet your fucking life
I could take you on a dare
I gots me nerves of steel
And convenient morality
Yeah, I was a soldier
Care to face your mortality?
I shoot cabbies through a window
Chase killers in the street
Since hooking up with Sherlock
I can also break a beat

You can’t predict my moves
Or know what I’ll do next
But hand me your phone
And I’ll teach you how to sext
I love it when you scream, baby
When you howl my name
If you see me shoot my love gun
You’ll never be the same
They call me Doctor Love
I’m the king of three continents
Make you feel so good
You forget all your consonants

(Source: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com)

(Or: prufrocking is a very bad influence)

The game, Anderson deduced, was definitely on, if the headband thrown at his general direction was any indication. It was ping-pong night at the pub- yesterday was darts, and the day before that were pints. Looking at the energetic ex-military doctor now, Anderson swore that the man developed a sort of inhuman metabolism. He and half of the Yarders who took him up against it were still feeling the effects of the bet.

“How far up is John?” he asked as he reached Lestrade, who was scribbling on a pad of paper with a look of a man possessed.

“Five points up on Sherlock,” answered Lestrade without looking up. He waved his arm vaguely to the left. “He’s lost his jacket and shirt; this round’s for his shoes.”

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There were advantages to having the ability to create jumpers out of thin air. For instance, during a chase on an ancient wooden pier, Sherlock not only managed to overdose the person they were chasing on cocaine produced from wood dust and his own hair, but fell into the bay as he was unable to resist having more than a bit of his own concoction. The jumper John wove around Sherlock’s twitching body had patterns shaped like anatomically-correct pancreases. He made the wool especially itchy, just to irritate the insensate detective in his arms, who was currently turning the pebbles embedded in his feet into meth.

(First of two Misfits!Sherlock fic I’m working on <— that is, what if BBCSherlock got powers from the freaky storm that gave us probation workers getting killed, nota cross-over fic. THIS IS NOT BETA’D. At all. There will be a bit of bad grammar, maybe some spelling errors, definitely some death-defying logic/genre-leaps. You have been forewarned.)

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Dirt and mud were washed off—- and a familiar, beautiful charcoal picture enveloped the television screen. To Sarah, to anyone else watching, it was a charcoal picture of a young, naked, handsome man with a violin tucked under his chin, his eyes focused on whoever the artist had been. To Sherlock… he saw himself—- he saw himself when he’d been a young man.