First lines of my last 10 fics

Thanks for the tag, @chriscalledmesweetie! 

I’m interpreting “line” as first “bit”, more or less. In reverse order of writing, then… 

A Room with a View (Benedict/Martin RPS): 

Karon adjusts Ben’s collar. “All right,” she says, with a touch of maternal fondness. “You’re all set. Do try not to gush too hard about Martin. Stay on topic.”

The Clouded Eye (Sherlock/John, Mary/Molly): 

She doesn’t really know when it started. The thing with Mary. Their friendship, she means, hastily self-correcting. It was before the wedding. That’s all she really remembers, that at some point before the wedding they started being friends. When, though?

Out of the Woods (Sherlock/John): 

The flirting starts about the same time that John starts laughing again.

The Book of Silence (John/Sherlock): 

I ask myself sometimes how I got to this point in my life.

Rosa Felicia (Rosie POV story): 

She shuts the front door behind her and the noise of Baker Street disappears. The front hall smells familiarly musty, and she smiles and starts up the stairs. If Father is home, he’ll have already deduced that it’s her, plus she did text to say she was coming.

In the Still of the Night (Sherlock/John):

It initially began as concern, though Sherlock wondered even then if the excuse weren’t a little thin.

The Bells of King’s College (John/Sherlock): 

PS. I know you two, and if I’m gone, I know what you could become, because I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high and the doctor who never came home from the war. Well, you listen to me: who you really are, it doesn’t matter. It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures…

Mary’s words go on, but somehow John stops listening.

Home for Christmas (Sherlock/John): 

They’re drinking tea in front of the fire one afternoon when Mrs Hudson comes up, her step a little heavier than usual to Sherlock’s ear.

Isosceles (John/Sherlock, Sherlock/OMC): 

It starts with an email on a Tuesday afternoon sometime in April.

And bonus, the opening snippet from my current work-in-progress, Rebuilding Rome: 

When the text comes, John closes
his eyes and sighs.

His next thought is Mrs Whitney. He
opens his eyes and dials her number (speed dial five, which is a sad commentary
on his life right there) and waits. When she answers, he speaks rapidly. “Yeah
hi, Kate, it’s John Watson. Seems I’ve got a case and I was wondering if you
could watch Rosie. I know it’s last minute…”

“No, that’s all right,” Mrs
Whitney’s voice says reassuringly. “I haven’t got anything on. You’ll bring her
over?”

“Yes, in about five minutes,” John
says, relief washing over him. “Thanks a ton.” He disconnects before she can
object, then opens his texts, typing <i>Ok, be there in about
thirty.</i> He presses send, then gets up and goes over to the playpen to
scoop his daughter up, ignoring her protestations. “Enough of that. I’ve got a
case,” he tells her, a bit shortly, not that she’s old enough to understand, at
a year and three months. He refuses to call it ‘fifteen months’ like the mums
at Rosie’s daycare, who insist on naming their children’s ages in months even
well into the double digits. He pops her into her buggy, then looks around for
the bag he always sends with her. Did he refill the goldfish crackers? No, it
turns out. He unscrews the lid of the plastic container and hastily dumps a
fresh supply of crackers inside, adds a few more nappies to the bag, then
retrieves several cartons of formula and a squeeze pack of pureed vegetables
from the fridge. Mrs Whitney will have all that, but at least this way he’ll
look a bit less like a deadbeat dad. That done, he pulls on his jacket, shoves
his feet into his shoes, gets his Sig from the drawer of the phone table near
the door, checks to make sure it’s loaded (it is), and stows it in the
waistband of his jeans.

He tries not to seem impatient
through the ritual exchange of his child for his freedom of movement, but it’s
difficult to hide. “Look, I’ve really got to get going,” he cuts in, belatedly
becoming aware (but not particularly caring) that he’s cut Kate off mid-stream.
“You’ll be all right?”

She blinks once or
twice. “Yes, of course,” she says mildly.

Tagging: any of you who write! :)