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Sherlock didn't mind John's bed. In fact, it was probably more comfortable than his own, if he cared to admit it. The doctor's firm mattress was an excellent support for the back, and the covers were kept remarkably straight and neat. (As was the rest of the room, to John's credit.)
However, there were times when Sherlock felt as though their relationship was a bit unbalanced in certain regards. While the withdrawn detective knew that John would never force or even insinuate starting something without Sherlock's interest and explicit permission, it still left Sherlock ill at ease sometimes... As though he had less control over the situation, because he was a guest in John's space.
It was a conscious effort, then, when he took the time to put his studies aside for a day and tend to more common duties. He threw the windows of his bedroom open to let in the cool, fresh air and evacuate the musty smell that had built up from his last experiment. He skittered about his room, tossing anythin
Life without Sherlock was much like life BEFORE Sherlock. Or at least, John had to keep telling himself that. If he really stopped to analyze the differences, he invariably found himself curled uncomfortably into his armchair, trying not to sob loudly enough to warrant a trip up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't that her visits didn't help, so much as he didn't want to exacerbate her hip. But yes, a hot cup of tea, a slow rub of the back, and a fond anecdote or two were usually enough to distract John from the detective-shaped hole presiding in the other armchair. As Mrs. Hudson was leaving after one such occasion, John blinked away his last tear and thanked her again for her company.
"Don't mention it, dear, I know what it's like to deal with heartache. You should have seen me after I found out my husband wasn't the man I thought he was." With a smile and a blown good-night kiss, the kindly little landlady carefully worked her way down the stairs, leaving John to stare pointedly
Peer prompt: Foolish
Sherlock sat on his newly-reclaimed armchair, nursing his bruised cheek with a bag of frozen peas. The swelling has gone down a bit, though it still throbs painfully. He idly wonders if he'll be able to make out individual knuckle-marks the following day. Molly stares at him with an obnoxious, motherly pout of worry. John glares at him unabashedly, a silent challenge directed at the tall blonde fugitive to avert his gaze to the floor and in doing so admit his wrongdoing.
"I cannot BELIEVE you," John growls, clenching and unclenching his fists in a muscle-recall of the previous five minutes. "Do you have ANY idea wha... how..." He trails off wordlessly, the anger proving too much to be expressed coherently.
"John," Sherlock leans forward in his chair, "If you'll let me explain,"
"Oh yes, fuck, explain!" John reels up out of his chair and paces about the room, turning back towards Sherlock only to throw additional anger in his direction. "Please, enlighten me with your superior fucking l
Sherlock was in a bit of a grump after the long drive from London to Oxfordshire, unaccustomed to having to spend that much time in a car for the sake of his new, unwinged partner. His pectorals ached with the effort of drawing his wings in close enough to fit into the small frame. The antsy detective leapt out of the car immediately upon their arrival, giving a good stretch and a few flaps before turning to John with a good-natured expression, as though he'd never snapped viciously at John and the taxi driver out of frustration.
After a quick lunch, the two were soon off, scouting out the town for the professor indicated by their client. Sherlock took to a spire on one of the tallest buildings, while John infiltrated the pedestrian crowd. The two kept a close ear on each other by bluetooth, and John tried not to stare up at Sherlock as a bank of grey, angry clouds rolled in. The light tinted his black wings to a stony grey, and from afar he seemed to be no more than one of the various
Peer prompt: Bang
Mrs. Hudson was pleased to see John making an attempt to move on with his life. He'd continued on at the surgery and gotten promoted, and had met a nice girl named Mary. The two got on fabulously, and it seemed to take John's mind off the gaping hole left in his life after Sherlock.
The maternal little old lady could see that John still thought often about his missing friend, and had slowly given up hope that the death had been somehow an elaborate hoax. The poor doctor's limp had returned in full, but he still enjoyed an occasional night out with Mary. It was a couple months in, however, when Mrs. Hudson heard shouting; a heated argument was going on between the two budding lovers, and the few words she could make out seemed to be "Sherlock" and "Never good enough" and "Don't understand."
Loud footsteps resounded down the stairs, clacking with the pointed heel of a woman's shoes as the front door out to the street slammed shut.
Mrs. Hudson considered going up to console John, but thou
John settled into the armchair across from Sherlock with a bit of a sigh. He had already written up their last case, replied to all the comments, checked his email, done the shopping, put away the clean dishes, and visited with Mrs. Husdon for a while. Now he found himself in the curious predicament of boredom. He steepled his fingers under his chin in an imitation of his friend, who was occupied with a thick textbook on pathology.
Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet John's and lifted an eyebrow, unamused. "And?"
John smiled wistfully and wished he'd learned an instrument as a child, so as to practice on it at times like these. He wondered if anything good was on the telly, but the prospects on a Saturday morning were grim. "Let's go somewhere," he whined, "I'm sick of just sitting around with nothing to do."
"YOU can go somewhere," Sherlock drawled, turning to a new page on influenza, "I'm busy." He read for a moment longer, skin burning under John's focused gaze, before adding,
John pressed the warm compress gently against the shallow cut, letting the fresh blood soak in and away from Sherlock's pale skin. The detective was hunched over his own knees, lower lip held between his teeth as he tried not to flinch away from the doctor's touch. The water matted down the topmost feathers, turning the deep blue a dark, iridescent black which sent shivers along the wing from the cool air.
"You knew there was a storm coming." John sighed as he wrung out the washcloth and re-wet it, pressing it back against the cut. "You could have waited until it passed." He dabbed a bit of hydrogen peroxide into the cut and let it fizz.
Sherlock grunted softly, fingers clenched into a fist. "And miss the opportunity to catch Burke? Not likely. I'll gladly disregard minor danger when it comes to the work." He turned back to inspect John's work. "You know that."
John bit his tongue and reached for a bandage, trying to figure out how to apply it. The field of orni-anthro medic
John sat up straight in his armchair as Sherlock stomped up the stairs with a couple bags of groceries. The doctor had to remember to close his mouth as he watched the introvert bring the goods into the kitchen and store them properly in the refrigerator, even going so far as to dispose of the oldest experiments in the back, which had started to mould over the previous week.
John stammered for a second, then gave up on wording and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. Curling his arms around the detective's diminutive waist as the last item, a pint of milk, was shoved into the door, John let his chin rest on Sherlock's shoulder as he gave a firm squeeze of affection. "What brought this on?" He nosed gently behind Sherlock's ear, eliciting a soft rumble against his chest.
"Why, I'm certain I've no idea what you mean," Sherlock teased, "I was just being a responsible flat-mate, like usual." He curled his fingers in with John's, who leaned in against him gently until he was pinned against t
Greg tried to keep his head down as he stole glances around the restaurant. "I still can't believe you've brought me here," he hissed, "I've never even laid eyes on this part of town There aren't even any crimes here!" After a bit he stopped and nearly ducked under the table, his face burning beet red. "Shit, is that the Chief?"
Mycroft glanced in that direction. "Of course it is, Chief O'Brien frequents this facility on the weekends. Now if you'll concentrate," he sighs, tugging on Greg's elbow patch, "Our waiter will be interrogating us in three minutes and thirty seconds, and I'd prefer it if you were prepared to place an order."
Greg sighed in turn and turned his attention to the menu. He passed by Foie Gras, Filet Mignon, Schweinshaxe and Jägerschnitzel, and suddenly noticed that not a single entrée had a price included next to it. "Ah, Mycroft," he was about to ask, when the elder Holmes brother employed the apparent mind-reading ability that both brothers occasio
Beach SexJohn never thought of beach sex as pleasant. The idea always seemed so…uncomfortable. Because how was getting sand wedged everywhere–and he meant that quite literally– sensual and romantic? How was that worth pursuing?
But Sherlock was incredibly curious when it came to sex. Having no previous experience (and being the thorough man that he naturally was) he was determined to try anything and everything he could come up with. His energy knew no bounds. And so that day at dinner he had asked John if they could go to Kent and try the previously mentioned "coitus on the beach," as he had phrased it. John had dropped his fork in surprise and turned red with embarrassment. He then muttered something about sand, and stuffed a forkful of carrots in his mouth so that he didn't have to answer. Sherlock had been slightly disappointed at the answer, as John had never denied him any of his sexual demands before, and so he told John that if he would be willing to sleep on it and t
Dr. John H. Watson's Best FriendFrom the day I first met Sherlock, I knew my life would be different. Maybe it because he easily figured out who I was just from the way I looked and the condition of my phone, or the way his words flowed freely when he spoke of something that would make any normal person's head spin.
And In such a short time I understood him. I was someone he could deal with, and every time he spoke all I could make out was "Brilliant," or "Fascinating."
Because he truly was.
And to most people, he was just a freak or a fake genius.
But Sherlock wasn't just my roommate or colleague.
He was my best friend.
He was the man who changed my life.
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
Snog All The Doctors! Part 3Chapter Three
"Come along, Come along," the First Doctor said as he stepped outside his TARDIS. "We have much to see."
Barbara, Ian and Susan came outside and looked around. There were standing in the middle of a field and in the distance was a crystal castle with tall spires. The castle gleamed in the sunlight.
"Where are we, Grandfather?" Susan asked while Ian closed the TARDIS door.
"This is Marvello. And that is the palace of the ruler of Marvello. His name is Tyrenius and he's a personal friend of mine. The last time I saw him he asked me to come back sometime for a spot of tea. I think we should take him up on his invitation and relax for a change."
"Sounds good to me," Ian said.
They froze when a woman suddenly appeared in front of them. She was holding the spotter's guide in her hands and she made a face when she saw One.
"Ugh, it is true, I was hoping they put the wrong photo in here," River said.
"Who is that?" Barbara said to the Doctor.
"I haven't the faintest idea," One sa
Snog All The Doctors! Part 1Chapter One
River was sitting in her cell at Stormcage reading a book. It was a slow day and River was trying to relieve the boredom. She knew she could escape at any time but even that didn't interest her so she spend the day napping, eating and trying to lose herself in a good book.
As she turned the page, her ears pricked up when she heard a familiar wheezing sound. She grinned and closed the book. Standing up, she turned and faced the bars of her prison, watching while the TARDIS fully materialized.
"My love, you read my mind," River said softly as she moved closer to the bars.
The door opened and River smiled when she saw her husband. The smile fell off her face when she noticed he looked angry.
"You don't look happy to see me, sweetie," she said to him while Amy and Rory stepped out of the TARDIS.
"I'm not," the Doctor said, stepping up to the bars.
"River, what did you do?" Amy said as she and Rory came up to the bars.
"I did nothing," River said, confused.
"Oh? Because anything
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
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