So, I'm starting a story which will include drabbles and ficlets. Some may be book-verse, and some may be show-verse. However, they will all most likely be written in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This first one I realize is so overused, but I couldn't think of anything with which to start except angst, and I wanted to start on lighthearted note. So, here goes.
"Help!" The cry echoed down the alley. However, no one was nearby, and it passed unheeded. The person in trouble glanced around but saw no sign of relief. His doom seemed inevitable. Even at the last, though, he called once more for help. Providentially, someone was walking by at this precise moment and heard this final, desperate shout. John Watson hurried towards the source of the distressed cry, only to find Sherlock Holmes surrounded by a crowd of adoring fangirls. When Holmes caught sight of his Boswell, his face betrayed his panic.
"Watson! Quick! I'm being attacked! Watson?" But Watson had collapsed in a heap, tears of laughter running down his cheeks.