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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
Oneword: Festival - the sequel
Sherlock sighed as the festival started to dwindle down, the attractions slowly shutting down one by one as the night grew later and later. Finally, the Ferris wheel came to a slow halt with the last two attendees at the bottom. The operator of the ride had been kind enough to let Sherlock remain on the ride, since it was not one of the ones in high demand, and his companion clearly needed the rest.
It had been a pleasant enough pause in his busy schedule, left to his own mental devices as John kept warm against his side, head draped over his shoulder with the softest of snores. Eventually as the temperature had dropped, Sherlock had carefully and protectively wrapped an arm around the doctor to pull him closer, centralizing their weight to keep the little car from rocking in the accelerating night wind.
With the gentlest of nudges, Sherlock had awoken John at the festival worker's request to leave at closing time. Despite all efforts, the veteran had still awoken with a start, glancin
Giveaway prompt: Dance
It was lucky for John that he had been raised with relatively good grammar, as he discovered one day when Sherlock had frustratedly rejected a client with a particularly bad case of cockney slang. "Why'd you do that?" he called from the kitchen, already brewing a pot to soothe the two of them.
"Do what?" Sherlock called back, snatching his violin from its case to pluck at it in agitation.
"Go all grammar-nazi whenever someone... I dunno, uses incorrect tenses?" A warm sizzle from the burner had already set John's associative reflexes to calming.
Sherlock paused with the violin poised at his chin, contemplating the question. "Just how Mummy raised us, I suppose," he admitted, "She had us go through the whole regimen of how the upper-class, educated young Englishman should behave. Etiquette, dance, hosting, grammar and the likes."
"Hold up," John poked his head out of the kitchen, one eyebrow quirked, "Did you say dance?" Sherlock only nodded, his expression grim. "You don't mean ballroo
It had been a particularly windy day, and Sherlock's hair had still not recovered its usual large curls. The detective had quickly tried to tame the black frizz before their meeting in the executive office of the insurance company, but had had little success. It was fortunate for their bank account, then, that their new employer didn't much care what Sherlock looked like, so long as he was able to prove that the fire had been deliberate insurance fraud.
It was about halfway down their trip from the top floor when the wind knocked out a transformer, and the power to the whole building suddenly died down. John glanced up and around in alarm at the emergency lights, quickly calming as he realized what had happened. He only hoped it wouldn't be long before the power returned, as the longer he spent in the confined space the longer it started to remind him of the hide-holes he'd had to crawl into in search of terrorists.
"Well," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light, "It's a good thing
If I had known that I could have a friend
More loyal than the royal Queen's brigade,
I would have made my selfishness an end
And for a quick delivery have prayed.
Before we met I thought it left to chance
That I would play the game of life alone
Abandoned had I all thoughts of romance
Until we made our partnership our home
But how, my doctor, shall we now progress?
No longer do I wish to tempt my fate-
Uncertainty my impulse does oppress,
What if my own decisions come too late?
If I'm the brain to your unfailing heart,
Then please, I beg you, tell me where to start.
Sherlock stood for a moment at the edge, swaying slightly as he peered down at the busy roads, more than three stories below the front of his shoes. Moriarty's body lay crumpled and empty behind him, but the genius criminal's master plan was still in motion. As much as Sherlock hated to cave in to the lies, he nearly stepped away from the edge to flee down the staircase.
The crowds below him continued about their busy day, oblivious to the turmoil in the darkly-clad man atop the roof of the hospital around which they all made their way. From so high up, Sherlock mused, they hardly looked like more than so many ants, crawling from food to queen and country. These were the people whose opinion he was so concerned with?
From the swarm emerged another little ant, paused in the middle of the well-defined pathways. The fair color of his hair, his shorter stature, the shape of his jacket, Sherlock could immediately identify the little insect as the only person in the world who really mattered
John couldn't help chuckling at the idea. The world's only consulting detective, stumped and frustrated by a simple game of Cluedo! He had treated the game like a real-life murder scene, insisting that the characters must have motives, and that the murderer must have left behind evidence. "There must be some way to investigate the crime scene," he had insisted, "Aren't there signs of empirical evidence on this board?"
Finally, as the night grew long and Sherlock's patience had worn thin, the inadequate playing board had found itself pinned to the mantle with a dull knife, its entertainment value thoroughly exhausted.
And for his insolence, John had found himself pinned beneath the self-proclaimed victor.
Giveaway prompt: Midnight
John awoke in the small bed-and-breakfast, his heart still pounding at the sounds of gunfire that his brain had conjured up. A quick glance at his watch (illuminated by the solid moonbeam from the window) told him that it was just a few minutes past midnight. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and his coat was missing from the rack near the door.
John frowned and stuffed his feet into his shoes unceremoniously, wrapping his jacket around his pajamas before heading out into the hall to search for Sherlock. A quick glance around told him that the mysterious detective must have made it all the way outside, so with a shudder of anticipation at the chill, John steeled himself and followed. He found with a pleasant surprise that it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared, and glanced back only once in longing at the thought of a warm bed before setting out.
He didn't have far to go. Just over the hill, at the side of the small pond, was the silhouette of a tall, lanky figure with a mess of curls,
Must Be MadTitle: Must Be Mad
Rating: Mild T (13+)
Summary: There are some things none of us understand. Things like falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Warnings: Slash. May trigger intense periods of crying over the cruelty of the BBC.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, the series finale would certainly not have involved John Watson's heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.
Notes: This is kind of part of a series of fics (Must Be Mad, More Than I Am, Lovers of the Lost, and Of Course, Of Course.) They can be read as a series, or as stand-alone stories
On Your Mind.I quickened my pace to keep up with Sherlock, who never really seemed to pay attention to the fact that I was almost exhausted by the time we came home. Of course, I'd never say anything about that, because there will, undoubtedly, be coming a mordant remark my way. I was quite a bit smaller than him, as he had very long legs and, well, he was tall. His long, black, familiar coat danced around his legs. We were walking back home from the crime scene of our last case, and since we didn't have money on us, neither of us, we decided to walk home. It was quite a long walk.
"Come on, John. You're a bit slow today. What's on your mind?" He called out to me, never slowing down. Well, I guess it can't hurt to say that he should slow down. I'll survive the attack of remarks. I took a deep breath and before I had spoken a word, he said.
"Am I going too fast? Does it bother you? I could slow down a bit, after all. I know we're not the same size."
That's new. He's never said anything like that bef
Sherlock and Green Eggs and Ham?It was St. Patrick's day, and everything was green. Green flags, green decorations, green shirts saying "kiss me I'm Irish", and a thousand other things, including food. Sherlock and John went out to eat as they always did, except that it was breakfast, which was unusual for them. But they did anyway because somehow making toast and coffee seemed like too much work today.
Sherlock fiddled with the green, shamrock speckled scarf John insisted him to wear as he sat waiting for their food. They both got eggs and ham, but knowing the festive Irish restaurant they were in something would be green on those plates. The coffee they got was green and the mugs were decorated with bright four-leaf clovers.
The waitress finally came around with their food and when she set the plates down in front of them, they looked down at their plates, shocked. There, on their plates was exactly what they ordered: two sunny-side up eggs and a slice of ham. But they were green, a bright green that made them look
Be with youThere are many people who wonder why such a friendly, ordinary and above all, sane man like John Watson willingly tags along with the arrogant, one-of-a-kind and insane Sherlock Holmes. John knows this, and he also knows no one will ever actually ask him. They're all curious, but too afraid to step up and just get it over with. Whether their fear has to do with the possibility of having to speak to Sherlock as well is not clear, though it is the most credible option. Either way, it doesn't bother John that all these people dare to do is look at him from a distance, eyes filled with questions they are unable to ask because they're cowards. It gives him a sense of importance, really, a powerful feeling he's admittedly growing quite fond of.
Of course, this does not go unnoticed by Sherlock. (Nothing ever does, unless it has to do with the latest winner of X Factor who everyone talks about and Sherlock walks away before anyone asks him about it. Ever since the solar system r
The Eye of the BeholderEventual S/J
John came home on a drizzly Wednesday afternoon to find Sherlock sitting on the couch browsing through one of his sketchbooks, the others lying open around him on the cushions and coffee table. John's sketchbooks, which, last he knew, he had tucked safely away in an artist's portfolio in the back of his closet.
"Oi!" John protested sourly, "I've asked you not to go through my things, Sherlock."
"These are very good, John," was Sherlock's answer, neatly sidestepping the fact that he'd burgled John's room, again.
Allowing his irritation to squash the little surge of pleasure he felt at Sherlock's praise, John stalked over to look at the particular pieces he had chosen to lay open around him. Watching Sherlock's eyes skimming the pages, John had a sudden and inescapable feeling of nakedness. Few things could leave an artist in the clutches of a more desperate sort of panic than when someone decided to browse through one of their sketchbooks uninvited. His fingers itched t
I heard my name. Sherlock called me. I set down my cup of tea and my paper, and sprinted towards his room. When I opened the door, Sherlock was on the ground, apparently he stumbled out of bed.
"You okay?" I asked.
"HowdIgethere?" He asked.
I couldn't help but notice that he even looked amazing after being drugged, being brought here by the police, which was an awkward ride with cameras flashing, not the press, no, all the police officers that Sherlock had insulted, and yes, those were a lot. Then he had been sleeping for 9 hours, I suppose that's the longest he's ever slept. He never slept much. He was still wearing his black shirt, he looked kinda handsome, always did. I loved his shirts, they were so typically Sherlock. We hadn't bothered to change him into a normal T-shirt.
"Well, I don't suppose you remember much, as you weren't making a lot of sense, oh, I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone." I thought it'd be best if I didn't tell him about the oth
BlanketIt had been days since Sherlock had slept, but John didn't really worry. Of course he worried a little bit–with the protectiveness he felt for Sherlock and his doctor's instinct how could he not? But he knew that eventually Sherlock's body would shut down, (despite Sherlock's protests), and force him to rest. And so when John came home that night after a slow day at the clinic, the sight of Sherlock slumped in his usual armchair did not surprise him in the least, and it brought a smile to the tired doctor's weary face and a certain contentedness to his heart. He imagined it was how a parent must feel after watching their child struggle for days on end and then at long last find peace.
He saw Sherlock's bare feet and noticed that he wasn't wearing his coat and scarf either. So he went to his room, grabbed the blanket off the bed, and came back into the study. He knew he didn't have to worry about waking Sherlock up, so he took as much force as necessary to properly wrap the blanke
Valentine's DaySherlock Holmes :: finalproblem
I had never thought Sherlock Holmes to be a romantic, in any way. In fact, I thought him either the exact opposite, or, more likely, neither of the two more like an empty shell. I had thought him to be so cold and calculating that he couldn't even care less about other people in general, unless they were a stone-dead corpse on the floor of some long-forgotten house in the middle of nowhere, put there by an unknown killer just waiting to be caught.
Yes, Sherlock Holmes did not seem to be the kind of person to have a single romantic vein in his body.
So when Valentine's Day rolled around, he treated it like any other day, waking and demanding breakfast from Mrs. Hudson, as usual. She did make it for him, though she claimed it was only because it was Valentine's Day, and she was feeling generous.
He was quiet and brooding, due to his current predicament of lack-of-case, I assumed, and though I tried and failed several times
Sherlock- BoxJohn blinked at the box in the middle of the floor. It was fresh, new. The label on the side was addressed to Speedy's café, so John knew it wasn't originally meant to be in the flat. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't randomly leave a box in the middle of the floor, and John definitely hadn't had anything to do with it, so that left Sherlock.
As far as things Sherlock brought back to the apartment, a cardboard box was mundane, at best. That was part of what worried John. He moved to examine the box, speculating as to what could be inside.
The first thing that he noted was that it was upside down. The bottom of the box, which was now the top, was still sealed with packing tape. Closer examination showed that the tape across the top of the box (now tucked underneath) had been peeled off, so the only opening was at the bottom. This also meant that it had been opened, which reduced the fear that Sherlock was stealing a café's mail.
With a huff, John plopped down in his chair, staring at the b
Giveaway prompt: Spoon
John sighed when he saw Sherlock sprawled out over all three of the couch cushions, covered in no less than two blankets, his head propped on the arm rest as he stared, glassy-eyed with boredom at the talk-show program currently prattling away through the night. John hadn't been able to get back to sleep after his most recent nightmare (an afghani child, half his body blown away and bleeding profusely). He had sat in bed for a while, trying to forget the look of horror and pain which had remained burned in the backs of his eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city at night, and the muffled talking of the telly downstairs. After awhile, he had donned his slippers and shuffled down to the sitting room to join Sherlock for some company, to get the afterimage out of his head.
"Budge up," he'd mumbled, just loudly enough to be heard over the inane chatter, as he stood looming over Sherlock's head, arms crossed across his chest for warmth- a tee shirt was not quite warm enough in the cu
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