John had hardly been able to recognize Sherlock when he returned. And not just because he'd been dead for so long, either. His face was gaunt, more-so than usual, he'd actually acquired a bit of a tan, his clothes were those of a casual student, and his loose, dark curls had been sheared off into a close-cropped crew cut. He hardly looked himself, and John wouldn't have realized at all who had approached him, had it not been for those telltale cheekbones.
Which soon earned themselves a good punch.
Giveaway prompt: Baking
"Sherlock," John called into the kitchen from his armchair, "Why do you suppose they call it Baker street?"
Without looking up from his focus on the water surface tension, diluting a meniscus in gradients, Sherlock called back, "It's named for the man who founded it, William Baker."
"Oh." John sighed a bit. How dull. "'Cause I was just thinking, you know, there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of baking that goes on around here, aside from down at Speedy's. Just seems a bit... contrary, don't you think?"
"Only if you consider every other mis-named street to be contrary," Sherlock chided as he carefully poked another drop of blood into his petri dish. "And in any case, those croissants you made the other morning were quite a culinary feat, probably the best this whole street has seen in years." John only just caught a hint of a smirk on the detective's lips.
John made up his mind to get hold of some of that organic honey again, and treat the entire street to a round of home-made honey bun
Giveaway prompt: Spider
John had never been too terribly fond of spiders, what with their gangly legs and little tiny fangs, and webs that stuck to your face if you didn't see them in time. Sure, everyone told him they ate other pests, but that didn't make them any better. The desert had been a pleasant reprieve from all sorts of creepy-crawlies, spiders included.
It was fitting, then, John decided, when Sherlock compared Moriarty to a spider; though John got the sense that Sherlock did it more-so out of a sense of admiration... For the cunning way in which the two creatures could set an intricate, invisible trap. John shuddered at the thought.
However, there was one instance where the image of a spider was calming, rather than disturbing- The five-legged pink spider which played upon the four-stringed web of Sherlock's violin. This spider was accompanied by beautiful music, and it posed no harm. The food it hunted was scones and biscuits, its legs would curl around evidence and swords and sometime
Giveaway prompt: Kiss
Sherlock glanced at the empty mug that John set on the end table with a muffled little thud, his heart already sinking a bit. The end of John's tea usually signified an oncoming end to his time spent on the couch with Sherlock, in a mindless, telly-induced domestic bliss. Before John could gather himself up to shuffle off into the kitchen, Sherlock caught him gently by the right arm, giving a gentle squeeze to his brachioradialis, which caused John to pause and cover Sherlock's hand with his left one. Ever since Sherlock's return, they'd been sharing these subtle platonic touches, which almost seemed to serve as another form of communication. (Far easier to learn than code phrases like "Vatican cameos," Sherlock admitted to himself) John usually would be the one to bring about the contact; Sherlock would only do so when it was very important. He wondered what was so important now, that made him reach out to prevent John's departure?
John smiled up at Sherlock, the subtle light of the s
Giveaway prompt: Terrified
Sherlock stood quietly in John's doorframe, the silhouette of the doctor's body illuminated only by the orange city lights glowing in from the window. Sherlock became increasingly concerned as the world-weary veteran tossed and turned in his sleep, muffled "No"s and "help"s occasionally escaping his lips as he thrashed about in the sheets. Sherlock could see the deep wrinkles in the sheet where John's fingers gripped it so tightly it seemed it might tear. Soon, the poor doctor was trembling and panting in his sleep, seemingly terrified by whatever his mind was haunting him with.
Sherlock could take it no longer, making the decision that John's comfort was far more important than his eight hours of sleep. He crossed the few feet between the door and the bed, and crawled in to curl his lanky limbs around John, wincing only a little as he was struck with an unconscious fist. A few moments of gentle stroking at his ribs, and a firm grip around the pelvis with his leg, and John's fitful nig
John stood, pinned into the corner of the lift with nowhere to go, as his best friend and flat-mate closed in on him with a devilish expression on his face (which John could barely even see in the dim emergency lighting). "Um, Sherlock..." John pressed his palms flat against the walls, as though searching (in vain) for somewhere to escape to. His pulse raced, and the small space in which they were enclosed seemed to become even smaller by the second.
Sherlock inched in closer, his gaze shifting toward John's left hand as he reached for it, gently tugging John away from the wall and into his arms. He wrapped his short friend in a tight hug and murmured into his hair, "Don't worry, John. Not it you don't want to."
John separated himself slightly to look up at Sherlock, gaining a very unflattering view up his nostrils, and smiled in spite of himself. He was about to lean in to continue Sherlock's train of thought, just as the generators finally kicked in and sent their lift back on its ro