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Right. Laurence Fox officially has the same voice as Benedict Cumberbatch. OK, not the actual same since that would involve a shared larynx as well as other impossible things, but so close that both times I've run across him on the soundtrack of my television while I've been very busy typing, I've perked up my ears and thought to myself, "Not Mr Cumberbatch, but pretty much, yeah, very nearly the same voice."

Mr Fox is apparently very busy being married to and producing babies with Billie Piper (who has the worst posture in the world when she is not playing a part) in the English countryside as opposed to filming constantly and making it big in America; otherwise, their larynx (it's like deer, roll with it) are inseparable.
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The Address is 221B Baker Street: October

Sherlock was, extremely thoughtfully mind you, making tea. He reached up for the box of tea bags and a sharp stab of pain from his presumably not-entirely-healed wound caused him to make a small noise. A small noise, it should be noted. John, however, apparently had the hearing of – well – something that could hear extraordinarily well; a dog, perhaps? Definitely an entry worthy of deletion until this moment.

In any case, Sherlock abruptly found himself no longer extremely thoughtfully making tea but sat down and fussed at.

It felt as if John had been fussing at him for days on end.

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Guilty Pleasure

I confess. Every single time I find Pretty Woman on television I turn it on regardless of how far along it has progressed. And I enjoy it. Every time.

I can only defend myself slightly by saying that after I've done so I pop in My Fair Lady to keep things balanced.

I cannot honestly say I then read Pygmalion as a follow up. That would be a bit too virtuous, canceling out my guilty pleasure in the first place. :-)
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So since The Move I've been vaguely annoyed that I'm so much further from an El stop. I like to be forced to walk but it was nice to be able to walk to a stop really quickly if I was suddenly inspired to do something.

But today on my way home I realized that I can now take the bus to work! It would have involved a transfer and been rather ridiculous time-wise from the old place, but now it's just a straight shot! I am so excited about this I cannot even tell you - do you realize what this is??? This is a guaranteed 90 minutes of reading on days when I do this instead of drive! I looooooove public transport and I soooooo missed taking the train to work, and now I can take the bus which is almost as good. This totally balances being further from the train.
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Thoughts about Love

So September reached new levels of potential slashiness, as pointed out by azriona in her lovely comment, and I was aware of this when I was writing it. I left all the potential in there. I didn't censor it even though I have no intention of following through.

My own personal view of J&S’s relationship is that they do love one another. I just don’t need them to have sex as a result. My post-Reichenbach John had a panic attack because Sherlock popped onto a roof without giving him any warning. Clearly this man cares about his friend and partner to the point of loving him. So I’m writing a love story minus the sex. They are brothers. They have chosen one another. Society doesn’t really have a category for this outside marriage – hence all the slash fic. As I believe I recall pargoletta pointing out in her review of Belgravia, they are in a relationship and the closest equivalent is probably Anne Shirley's concept of 'bosom friends' or 'kindred spirits'.
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The Address is 221B Baker Street - September

“You are absolutely not allowed to die on me, Sherlock. I refuse to play Benedick opposite anyone else.”

“Christ, John, I can hardly die with my doctor right beside me; unless you’re changing your own verdict and admitting to incompetence in that area?”

It was a decent attempt at condescending if not witty, but John could hear the pain in his partner’s voice and his worry ratcheted up a notch. A doctor he may have been, but they were stranded God knows where in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, they were on foot, it was swiftly getting dark, the temperature was already turning chill, and Sherlock was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much even a very good doctor experienced in dealing with battlefield conditions could do in their present circumstances. He wasn’t even happy allowing Sherlock to move, but leaving him lying on the ground applying pressure to his wound as he slowly bled to death didn’t seem a truly viable fucking alternative.
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Sexy times? Perhaps not so much...

Those of you on my flist who may run across this and don't do the sex thing in fic - I'm really sorry. I promise this isn't going to be a regular thing. Also, there is no actual dirty talk in this entry, just talk about how I'm attempting to type some dirty talk.

An hour before I'm obligated to post this thing I'm realizing a couple things. One: I should have stayed closer to my wheelhouse and knocked out a John/Sherlock piece despite my natural disinclination to go there. Two: I need to throw the practicalities out the window. Normally I'm big on covering my ass motivation-wise - explain how and why he went into that room, don't just pop in for no reason. This, however, is not sexy. I'm 1000 words in and they're still fully clothed. Spending the next 500 describing the disrobing isn't really the point. The motivation is that they would like to have sex now please and thank you. End fancy stuff. It's pornography. It exists to be titillating. I've done more than I needed to do by holding off on the porn for almost 1000 words.

I really should have quit when I typed in the joke and couldn't stop snickering...I do, however, feel I am being taught a valuable lesson in writing smut.