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John was relaxing at home with the radio on, windows thrown open to welcome in the rare glimpse of sunlight and gentle breezes. It was far past time to air out the stench of stale, rotted watermelon that had settled into every surface of the flat. Strains of a Beatles song drifted around him as he stretched out on the couch and let himself relax after a hard day at the surgery. Sherlock wandered out from his bedroom and tossed aside the handfull of baseball cards he'd been dusting for prints. He instead grabbed a thick textbook from the pile near the door and threw himself into his chair to dig into it. John rested peacefully as the music lulled him to sleep, each page turn gently articulating a new turn of phrase.
It was days later that John learned just how amazing Sherlock's memory was, at least in the department of music. He had been fiddling about with his violin for the better part of the day, throwing in a sonata here and a fugue there, sometimes taking the lead part of a major
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
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
They're returning home from a crime scene, where Lestrade has been unusually obstinate, and Sherlock has stolen his handcuffs as payment. The brooding detective tosses them onto the seat of the taxi, between himself and John. The doctor chuckles softly and lifts them to inspect before handing them back to Sherlock, where they become a plaything, spinning around one long finger.
"It's funny, you know," John muses softly at Sherlock, who is surely going over the evidence and clues, fresh in his mind.
"Hrm? What is?" The pale, focused gaze out the window at the passing scenery doesn't shift, the conversation not even a distraction from his thoughts.
"You. For someone who solves crimes for a living, you've got the stickiest fingers of anyone I know." He considers for a moment before adding, "How DO you do that, anyway?"
Sherlock glances over at him as the street lights flash over his face. "The pickpocketing? It's only a slight of hand. I could teach you if you'd like."
John grins and agre
John could hardly remember the series of events which had brought him to the firm, posh couch in Mycroft's sitting room. He, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock were to stay in his brother's custody for the next two nights while their flat was fumigated for malaria-infested mosquitoes. Thank goodness the miniature plague had been contained from spreading into the streets of London, but it would be quite a hassle to make sure 221 Baker St. was safely habitable again.
In the meantime, Mycroft's two guestrooms and plentiful accommodations had been more than adequate to put the three guests up for a short time. Mrs. Hudson couldn't help herself from poking around with the servants, helping them in the kitchen, while John spent some time searching through heirlooms and other family possessions which Mycroft had inherited from their mother. The curious doctor now found himself perched on the unfamiliar couch, with a wide leather-bound book propped across his lap. Every other page was adorned with old
Sherlock burst into the lab at Bart's, his coat flaring out behind him in the rush of air from the doors. He quickly zeroed in on Molly, who was just tagging and bagging her last corpse of the day. "Molly," he called from across the room, striding closer as John struggled to keep up, "I need access to the storage from last Tuesday, immediately."
Molly shook her head as John paused to right a stool which Sherlock had knocked over in his pursuit of the small, mousy assistant. "Not happening, Sherlock. You know I can't grab cold cases on short notice." She packed up her work bag and shrugged into her coat, preparing to leave for the day.
Sherlock stood in her path, blocking her escape to the large double-doors. He loomed over her, casting a shadow over her face as he leaned in a little closer with an audible inhale. "Is that a new scent you're wearing? Evergreen, yes? I like it."
Molly bit her lip, furrowing her brow as she glanced up to meet his impossibly-pale eyes. She steeled herself
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
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
Morning LipsGood morning you." John said cheerfully as he walked out of the kitchen to see Sherlock slumped in his armchair, his feet dangling over the edge and his head propped up on his hand.
"Hummm?" Sherlock asked, raising his head just enough to look at John. "Oh, Good morn-"
John came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. Sherlock, shocked, sat up a little more and watched as John went over and sat down in the chair across from Sherlock. John smiled, noticing he was staring.
"You okay?" John asked beaming.
"You just..." Sherlock began, then stopped mid-sentence and touched his cheek with his fingertips, smiling. "Yeah." He said. "Yeah. Perfectly fine."
John smiled and started to unfold the newspaper. Sherlock stood, walked over to John, placed his hand on his shoulder and bent down, kissing him on the cheek back. John took a deep breath of contentment as Sherlock pulled his lips away and went into the kitchen.
-Oh Sherlock...- John thought, smiling and touching his cheek. -Today, your cheek
Human"John, please eat something." Mrs. Hudson said kindly, placing a hand on his back.
"I'm not hungry." He said softly.
"It's been three weeks since the The Fall. Starving yourself won't bring him back." Mrs. Hudson's eyes welled with tears and she swiped them away. Three weeks didn't heal the hurt fast enough. "Please just have some food." She went to the fridge and pulled out the ingredients for a sandwich.
John gripped his tea cup tighter. "I know it won't bring him back, I just don't feel like eating. He took my appetite with him." A lone tear fell to the table. "He took everything." His whisper was barely audible.
Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Oh dearest, you loved him so much."
John slammed his hand on the table and yelled, "I'm not--!" He lowered his voice. "I'm not gay."
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Then why do you keep denying like that? I love my best friend June more than life itself. She's my confident, my comfort, and my most prized possession. I love her, and I'm not afraid to
Letters From a Ghost An unopened, wrinkled envelope was placed in John's worn hands. "Read," the old man's voice was commanding, and John was too tired to argue. Had it been any other day, he would have run from the old man, seeking refuge in the empty apartment of Baker Street.
But it wasn't any other day. It was the third anniversary of Sherlock's suicide, and John just didn't have to strength to argue with this bent, haggard, and shriveled old man.
John Watson. Dr. John H. Watson John.
(the writing looked familiar; familiar to the point that tears formed in John's eyes)
Tickle"John, go away," Sherlock frowned. I chuckled and pinched him again. He made an unamused noise. It made me smile and I pinched him again. "John, go away I'm thinking."
"You're no fun Sherlock," I frowned. I nudged him. He opened his eyes and glared at me. He was sprawled across the lounge, his hands in a prayer position. I sat on the ground next to him, enjoying annoying him.
"Now's not the time for fun John, it's the time for thinking," Sherlock said.
"What do you need to be thinking about? You've solved all of the cases," I replied.
"I need to stimulate my mind," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. A few minutes passed before I pinched him again.
"John! Please!" he cried out, his eyes flying open and giving me a third degree stare.
"Come on, you need to have some fun," I smiled. Sherlock grumbled something. He closed his eyes again and went back to thinking. "Hey Sherlock, are you ticklish?"
"What?" Sherlock asked, not looking at me.
"Are you ticklish?" I asked again.
"Don't be absurd J
Iced Mint"John? What do I smell like?" They were both lying face up on John's bed, with Sherlock's head nestled between John's neck, and John's right arm resting against Sherlock's chest.
"Icy." It was the first word that popped into his mind. "You always smell clean. Hang on." John sat up and rolled over so that he was on top of Sherlock, and he nuzzled his neck, taking in a deep breath and Sherlock gave a few small but deep laughs at the sensation.
"Mmmm…" John sighed out in delight. He took in another breath and smiled. He loved that smell–it was unlike anything he'd ever smelled, and he had never really truly understood the meaning of "intoxicating" until he had smelled Sherlock. Come to think of it, there were a lot of things he found intoxicating about Sherlock Holmes. The way his body seemed to be sculpted of marble. His black as night hair that always had a few perfectly formed ringlets. His iridescent eyes. The way his voice deepened when he wanted something. The
Need You Now
Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reachin' for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the time
John laid in his bed at 221B Baker Street with red, crying eyes. Even after nearly 7 months of knowing Sherlock wasn't coming back, he still couldn't get over the fact that he was gone.
All the pictures of him and Sherlock were scattered across the floor like leaves in the wind. A small movement was felt inside of him and he rubbed his swollen stomach, containing one piece of the man that left them behind.
It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now
Said I wouldn't call but I lost all control and I need you now
And I don't know how I can do without
I just need you now
He hadn't known he was expecting for three months after Sherlock was gone. But after being sick a lot, Mrs. Hudson whisked him off to the the doctor where he found out. Naturally he was surprised, but didn't g
Enjoy The SilenceMiracle
I walked slowly into the flat, and looked around. I cursed the sun shining through the window. It wasn't supposed to shine on funeral days. The dust motes sparkled as they passed through the sunbeams.
I sighed and closed the door behind me and hung my jacket. I hobbled over to my chair and sat. The quiet, the lonely and bitter quiet. Resting my head on my hand, I looked over at his chair. Indented in the seat where he would squat (that's why we can't have nice things, Sherlock!), I imagined him there now, his long fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed, deep in thought.
'Shhh..' he would say. 'Quiet John.'
I would just hum and watch him. How he would balance himself on that chair and be perfectly still. No shaking, barely breathing, like he wasn't real at all.
Then, he would suddenly open his eyes...oh those mysterious eyes. I caught myself on severa
Mycroft and John's chat session.
A knock at the door. John opened the door with numerous bullet holes in it. Behind it was Mycroft Holmes, who's face was tense and taught, he didn't want to upset John as he had an idea of how distraught he was. John slowly let him in and gulped dryly. He couldn't talk a lot about Sherlock. Not now, his wounds were still bleeding sorrowfully. Instead, he nodded in acknowledgement to Mycroft and left to enter the kitchen.
"How-how are you feeling I mean do you do you miss him?"
The teacups stopped clattering briefly in the kitchen. John wanted to shout 'Well how do you bloody think I feel!?' but he didn't. He just gripped the teacup he was holding and inhaled deeply before replying:
"Yeah erm, it's getting better. Slowly. Maybe maybe I'll heal soon," he stopped briefly and then muttered more to himself "Or maybe he'll come back,"
"John. I must say that even if you never want to hear this Sherlock won't c
Sherlock are you busy?
No. Aren't you?
No. Light day.
So you can text me while you're working, but I can't text you?
You do text me.
Yes, but it bothers you.
You act like it does.
That's because it should bother me.
I don't follow.
I have question for you.
I know what you meant.
Good. What's your question?
What should we call ourselves now that we're together?
John and Sherlock.
Or perhaps Johnlock. If you're the sort for couple names. Frankly I think they're ridiculous.
I mean with other people. How should I introduce you?
As a genius.
Right. Sorry. As your boyfriend then.
But that's so common. Everyone has a boyfriend.
You know what I mean. It just doesn't fit us. To pedestrian.
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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