John rolled over and curled his arm around Sherlock's diminutive waist, burying his cheek against the smooth pectorals. "I still can't believe I was nominated for an Oscar," he grinned down towards Sherlock's navel, the buzz of the telly washing over them both as the sun struggled to rise.
Long, thin fingers combed through his hair, returning in the other direction with a gentle application of fingernail. "Believe it," Sherlock purred beneath him, wishing the birds would hold off on their infernal chirping for just one day.
John arched his neck to look up at his partner, one leg curled up over his. "I mean, it's a bloody Oscar! Where do you go from there? What's left to do?"
Sherlock smirked and leaned in to kiss and nibble gently at John's prolific nose. "Win, of course." He sincerely hoped John would win against him and of course, against Moriarty. He deserved the award the most. There would be plenty of chances for Sherlock to win in the future, but there wouldn't be any more for Jo
Mycroft was gone for the day, probably off to pester the Prime Minister about Bulgaria, Sherlock had mused. He sighed softly with a relaxed smile and leaned back into the armrest of his brother's overstuffed couch, propping his feet up just a few inches short of Mrs. Hudson's thigh. She was soaking under the the reading lamp in the corner, her glasses propped up on her nose as she shared a companionable silence with friend and tenant. The two of them spent the afternoon reading; Mrs. Hudson slowly fingered her way down each page of a Victorian romance novel as Sherlock leafed through the pathology indexes of the river-borne species in various parts of Africa.
The grandfather clock ticked steadily away from next to the kitchen, where John had just finished his lesson with the Holmes family culinary servants. He was just making note of the last few steps in a creole casserole recipe as he wandered into the sitting room to find Sherlock. One glance at the peaceful literary scene changed h
Sebastian scuffed his shoe against a mark on the granite floor, looking up as John emerged from the washroom. The sniper ran his eyes up and down along the doctor, checking for any last-minute fixups. He reached out and straightened John's tie a smidgen before clapping him on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, mate," he reassured his nervous friend, "If we can handle Afghanistan, you can handle one measly little hearing."
John chuckled, "Yeah, sure, but Afghanistan wasn't in front of a judge and audience!" He licked his lip, gaze falling somewhere past Seb's knee. "And somehow, it feels like more is at stake here. Silly, yeah? One man's honor, more important than an entire country?"
Sebastian only smiled grimly. "Depends on the man," he offered gently. It had been a rough few months, watching John work to undo everything that Jim had orchestrated. Almost everything, anyway. He couldn't undo the most important part.
Lestrade, flanked on both sides by very stern-looking lawyers, was ushered
Peer prompt: Corrupted
Greg took a bite out of his scone and chewed amicably as he walked, one hand holding the fresh pastry as the other kept aloft the borrowed umbrella. He mulled over what Mycroft was telling him, slowly processing the information and comparing it to the last five years of experience.
"Surely you must have noticed some odd behaviors or choices?" The tall, impeccably-dressed official nonchalantly hung on every word of the DI, keeping his sights on their surroundings- the traffic, his cameras, the agents he had posted every other block, the activities of the civilians around him- anything but his present company, whose impression had taken on an inappropriate level of significance.
Greg tilted his head and swallowed down the starchy treat. "Well, now that you mention it, it's a little strange how quickly the Chief seems to change his position- One week he's very loose about rules, doesn't care what you do as long as you get the job done. Next week it's all about protocol, and the results ca
"Come on," Hope snarled as he pushed John into the elevator. "There's no use fighting any more, you're going to get on the plane and you'll be in Hawaii with Sebastian by this time tomorrow. We've got to separate you from Sherlock and get you bonded to the right Sentinel."
"You can't. I won't," John snarled. He would have crossed his arms stubbornly if they hadn't been bound behind his back, roped securely into Hope's grasp.
"You'll do what I say, young man, and you'll like it too. Given enough time." The elderly Guide jammed his finger against the button for the basement again, and as they passed the first floor where John knew they were keeping Sherlock's unconscious body, he could feel his pulse accelerate and suddenly he was straining against his bonds again.
They passed down a second level below ground level, and John leaned in against the wall of the elevator in exhaustion. "Please," he begged, as though it would have a different effect on the heartless Guide this time, "I don't
John longed to hold on to Sherlock in some way as the two stepped over the threshold, a cold shield of magic washing over them in a protective cleansing as they approached the hallowed sanctuary of the Dali Lama. They'd been on this case for two weeks, and it had been rough on both the Adept and the ex-angel. Sherlock had tried every trick in his books, spent ages in the library, consorted with the black market and his favorite pooka, and had even stooped so low as to resorting to Mycroft's expertise- which still had turned up nothing, but had provided this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for further research.
Sod it, John thought with a shiver, as he took two larger strides and curled his fingers in at the strap on the back of Sherlock's coat. John knew Sherlock needed the stability and companionship right now, as he was venturing into new and powerful territory. They were about to consult with the most spiritually-powerful man in the known world, and even Sherlock's non-Sensitive hair
Greg and John exchanged glances briefly outside the door to the superintendant's office. Both men sported bloodshot eyes, Greg's dark and sunken in from stress and lack of sleep, John's sore and slightly crusty from the silent, private crying he'd only just managed to stifle for this appointment. A grave nod passed between them, and Greg pushed his way into the door, John following close behind.
A stern, bloated face greeted them with narrowed eyes, nearly hidden behind mountains of paperwork stacked on either side of the desk. Greg recognized the case files which he'd been requested to pull earlier that day... or had it been two days ago? The detective inspector found it remarkably harder to keep days apart when unconsciousness no longer helped to separate them. John eyed the names on the files wearily, recognizing the ones closer to the top as the cases he and Sherlock had helped with. The rest, judging by their dates, could only be the ones Sherlock had solved for the Yard before Jo
Sherlock had frozen in mid-stride as they paraded through one of the less busy streets of London, returning home after their repeat visit to the Art Gallery. He had been muttering softly as they walked, gesturing from hand to hand as he worked out the course of events they'd been following for the good part of a day. John kept a good meter or two of distance between himself and Sherlock, not wanting to give anything away with any facial expressions. He knew it was probably a hopeless cause, but why make it any easier on the genius? At least they were getting some sun. John gently nudged his elbow against each pole that passed between them, not paying as much attention as he might ordinarily.
When Sherlock suddenly stopped and spun on his heel, hurrying off back the way they'd just come, John was caught by surprise and reached out to grab the telephone pole he was about to nudge, using his momentum to swing around it and hurry after his partner. A sharp, hissing intake as John's palm dr
John clutched tightly with one hand on the side of the basket and one on the strong tether rope which stretched overhead. The roar of the flame in one ear, the whistling of the wind in the other, he could barely make out Sherlock's harried observations.
"The other balloons are following the same route," he called out over the winds, curls whipping about wildly, "We're just about to pass over the crash site, keep your eyes peeled!"
John kept his eyes firmly planted on the trees directly below the basket as they passed over them, trying to focus on the fresh air more than on the queasiness that was building up in his stomach. He reached over the side and dropped a sandbag when Sherlock shouted at him to do so, but then quickly clamped back on to the rope.
Suddenly, as they reached a new altitude, John's vision was flooded with butterflies, in fluttering shades of brown, orange, and white. The whole balloon was surrounded by them, and John found himself giggling as Sherlock waved his arms