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BBC SH - Unspoken TruthsThere is no terror comparable to a nightmare.
Certainly, terrible things happen in the waking world and they shatter your heart into glassy shards of pain. But after a while the feelings become too big to comprehend. You just feel numb. You tell yourself that you must be asleep, that none of this is real. A simple act of kindness from your brain in an attempt to deal with the dreadful reality. Shh, it says, it's alright, you may be asleep. You may wake up yet . . .
Of course you never do, but you can cling to that tiny little notion and use it as your lifeline until your heart settles enough to process the truth. You see that the horror is real. You waver but stand tall. Then you gently let go of the comfort of delusion and take your first step on the road to acceptance.
Nightmares have so such sense of mercy. Nightmares worm black tendrils deep into the heart of you and find the piece that hurts the most, curling around it and whispering treacherously that this is your reality now.
BBC Sherlock - StudentsDr. John Watson shook his head in bemusement as he entered the flat.
He could smell food, Carbonara if he wasn't mistaken. This could only mean one thing.
One of Sherlock's lesser known but more endearing habits was his tendency, when a case had been solved, to make up for his lack of eating and sleeping during his investigation. Running on the glee and adrenaline high of being proved right, he would go whipping around the kitchen like a whirlwind as he ate half his body-weight in food before crashing on the sofa and sleeping for about twenty hours solid. As the detective found the depression and boredom of inactivity began to sink in soon after, John had learned to savour the time while it lasted as soon after he knew Sherlock would be shooting holes in the walls again.
As John entered their front room, his eyes were automatically drawn to the sofa.
Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in an angular tangle of elbows, knees and lanky legs. He was snoring quietly, one hand resting on Glad
BBC SH - Early Morning EmailsIn the dark hours of the early London morning, a man sat in a small flat in front of his laptop.
His long, slender fingers fluttered nervously above the keys before settling.
A deep breath and he began to type.
To: firstname.lastname@example.org; email@example.com
A line was typed.
My dear John and Ophelia.
Dear John and Ophelia
An office chair was kicked impatiently away from the cheap IKEA desk and tall legs got up and started to pace angrily.
Then he remembered the landlord's complaints from the lady downstairs about last time he had paced all night.
He forced himself to slow; he couldn't afford to move again. There was always a chance someone could still recognise him. So far he had been lucky, best not to push it.
Slowly, he returned his chair to the desk and his body to the chair.
A moment's thought and then he began to type.
It's 3:47 and I'm wide awake. The flat smells of mothballs and dirt and it curdles in my mouth when
SH-The Ghost of Covent Garden4Ophelia tousled her still-damp hair as she sat outside her tutor's office at the university. She sighed glumly and tugged a lock of her hair forwards so she could double check the temporary black dye had not faded her previous purple colour too much.
"Ah, Ophelia. So sorry to keep you waiting." Her lecturer, a woman whose excessive thinness came from an inability to sit still rather than vanity, suddenly appeared carrying a stack of boxes.
"Let me." Ophelia grabbed the boxes so she could open her office door.
"Thanks, as I said, sorry to keep you." The woman said, apologetically.
"You wanted to see me about my assessment results." Ophelia's voice was wooden.
"Yes, for the performance." The woman picked up a scrap of paper and fidgeted awkwardly. "I'm sure we both what we're talking about."
Ophelia stared into the distance, nodding.
"Now, I don't want you to worry love. I've already spoken to the exam board and they've agreed to allow you to re-sit the performance assessment. It's hones
BBC SH - A Study In Starlight IIIt was the insistent sort of rain.
Not heavy per say. Just . . . There. Inside, it was nothing worse than a comforting sort of background noise. Outside, it was a persistent chilling percussion on your body which led to a pervasive sense of discomfort.
John wiped a drip off the screen of his phone, pondering. He was sat at a bus-shelter, trying to summon the courage to ring someone.
Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed dial.
It took a few rings before the person at the other end picked up.
"Hi Mum, it's me."
~Oh, hi John! Give me a moment; I'll put you on speaker.
-Is that John?
"Yeah, hi Dad."
-Are you alright?
John blew out a breath. "Not really."
"Just . . . I . . . Mum, Dad . . . How's Harry doing?" This last was asked with a slight tone of pleading in his voice.
There was a long, awkward silence.
"You still there?"
He heard his Dad sigh.
-She's in hospital again. We were just about to pick up the phone and r
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